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Robb Returns by The Dark Scribbler
 Books » A song of Ice and Fire Rated: K+, English, Fantasy & Adventure, Eddard S./Ned, Robb S., Theon G., Domeric B., Words: 627k+, Favs: 6k+, Follows: 6k+, Published: Jul 16, 2015 Updated: Sep 287,742Chapter 28
Robert
There was a storm coming. There was always a bloody storm coming, that was why his ancestors had name the fucking place Storm's End.
He looked out over the ramparts of the massive curtain wall at the horizon, before looking back at the Great Tower with a scowl. He hadn't the faintest bloody idea why he was here, in this, the seat of his ancestors. All he knew was that he'd woken up in the middle of the night with a sudden need to head off to his family seat. And on the sea journey South that call had gotten worse and had then been joined by another call, this time to go off in the opposite direction.
He turned back to the sea and scowled again. What the hell was wrong with him? Why was he dithering around like an old woman? What was here to make him come in the first place? He didn't know.
The first day had been bad enough. He and Renly had burst in on an astonished Ser Cortnay Penrose, the Castellan that his brother had appointed and whom Robert had to admit wasn't doing a bad job. Robert had spent just long enough to bath and break his fast, before raging around the castle, inspecting it with his brother and Barristan Selmy right behind him, both a bit bewildered.
He knew that he was looking for something. The problem was that he hadn't the faintest bloody idea what it was, where it was, or how to find it. He just knew that it was here somewhere.
The second day was worse, as he continued to rage around the castle, with many people doing their damnedest to avoid him, even young Edric who he had noticed peering around walls trying to catch a look at his father. He liked the boy, but he had no time for him just now, no time for anything. He had to work out why he was here.
And now it was the third day and he was still nowhere near working out why he was fucking here. He scratched at his beard again and then frowned. Sod the beard, he needed to get it shaved off completely. And then he looked at his belly in disgust. He was fat. When had he gotten fat? How had he gotten fat? Was it all that bloody city and that damn chair?
He set his chin. Right then. A shave and then a sparring session? With who? He needed to lose this damn fat. So he turned and clattered down the nearest steps off the wall and down to the green of the grassy expanse that lay to the West of the Great Tower. And then he paused and frowned. There was a little sapling growing out of the grass, its leaves poking up tentatively into the sky.
Robert walked up to it and then bent over to look at it. By the Seven, it was a Weirwood tree. He looked about the place. What the hell was a Weirwood tree doing growing here? And then he thought about it. His ancestor Durran had built this place, possibly with the help of Brann the Builder. So there must have been a Godswood here once. Hundreds of bloody years ago. Where the hell had this thing come from?
"Your Grace?" Selmy asked behind him and he pointed at the delicate little thing.
"A Weirwood sapling," he muttered. "I don't remember ever seeing any of those before?"
The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard looked over at it. "Perhaps it came from a seed dropped by a bird? Weirwood trees have small seeds."
"Perhaps," Robert mused. The little sapling reminded him of the North and of Lyanna. There were times when he could barely remember what she looked like and he made a vow to visit her grave soon. There would be a statue of her by it, a reminder of what she looked like. She wouldn't have let him get fat, not his she-wolf.
"Oh," said a fussy voice to one side and he looked up to see the Septon, a thin streak of piss whose name escaped him, bustling up to them and sneering at the sapling. "Another one of those things. If your Grace will allow me, I shall remove it."
As he reached down Robert placed a large hand on his arm. "Wait. You said it was another one? There have been more of these?"
The Septon blinked at him. "Why, yes your Grace. There have been several of them. They started growing about ten days ago."
Robert looked down at the sapling. That was about the time that he had left King's Landing. "Odd," he growled, before looking at the Septon. "Leave it. 'Tis but a tree."
This seemed to aggrieve the Septon, given the violence of the gabbling that followed. "But your Grace! It's a pagan symbol! The Seven will frown on the presence of such a thing here!"
"Then why," Robert said through gritted teeth, "Do the Seven still permit Weirwood trees in the North?"
The Septon seemed to do his best to look censorious. It was not a good look for a man who appeared to have no chin and a very large nose. "The pagans of the North, your Grace," he started to say, "Are uncouth and-"
Given that the tale of how Robert had gained the throne must have been told in Storm's End more times than he'd had whores, the man must have been mad. Robert grabbed by his robes and hoisted him into the air.
"My beloved Lyanna came from the North, you little piece of filth!" Robert roared at the man as he shook him like a rat. "And my friend Ned is the Warden of the North and the finest man I've ever known! Uncouth!? I'll uncouth you right in the face, you bastard!"
The Septon was squealing what appeared to be a combination of apology, cry for help and appeal to the Seven and Robert glared at him, before giving him one last shake and then dropping him on his arse – away from the sapling. The man cowered before him, before noticing that they had an audience, whereupon he shakily stood.
Robert loomed over him and narrowed his eyes. "If anything happens to that Weirwood plantling," he ground out, "I will know exactly who to blame – you. And I will personally spread your nose clean over your face. Now bugger off."
Visibly glad to still be alive the Septon gave a ghastly attempt at a grin and then vanished like the little fart that he was.
Robert watched him go and then stomped off back to the Great Keep, where he had that shave. And then, once his face was bare, he waved a hand at Renly. "Come on, grab some practice swords. I worry that all that time in the Reach is making you soft."
"Robert," his youngest brother said with a laugh, "I joust."
"I know, but I worry that you forget that real war consists of men on foot clattering away at each other until one falls over and leaks his guts out. So – we will spar."
And spar they did. Renly wasn't as bad as he had feared, but not as good as he obviously thought he was and Robert beat him down twice before finally breaking his practice sword.
"You're…. getting… soft," Robert panted as he stood over his brother and then offered him his hand.
"Robert," Renly replied as he pulled himself up, "What's going on? Why are we here? What are we looking for? And what's this talk of war?"
"You can't feel it then?"
"Feel what?"
Robert clenched and unclenched his hand. "I don't know. And that holds for all your questions. Something pulled me here, Renly. I don't know what. And there is a war coming. I can feel it on my blood and in my bones. I just don't know who we'll be fighting. You really don't feel it?"
Renly frowned and then pulled a face. "I have felt… restless this past ten days. As if I need to look over my shoulder." Then he paused and nodded slightly. "We have an audience."
He turned to look and then saw young Edric watching them, his mouth open with wonder. He was carrying… a little warhammer? He smiled slightly and then beckoned his bastard son over. "Come here and let me have a look at that boy."
Edric approached, looking nervous. "I am sorry your Grace, but I saw you practicing and I-"
"You were curious, lad. Don't worry, it's in your blood." He reached out and gently took up the little warhammer. "A good first weapon. Penrose training you with it?"
The boy nodded eagerly. "Ser Cortnay has been instructing me with it, your Grace."
"I'm your father, lad, you can call me that instead of all this 'your Grace' stuff," Robert rumbled, before handing it back. "Come on then. Let's see you use it."
And the boy did know how to use it. He had the makings of good warrior, blessed with good reflexes and a quick mind. He learnt fast, picking up Robert's barked instructions and warnings and not having his head turned by any praise. They ended the session when Edric was dropping with exhaustion, as Robert nodded at Ser Cortnay as the yawning lad was led away by a smiling guard.
"You've done well," he smiled. "He's a good lad."
"He is that, your Grace," the red-bearded man said with a smile. "He's clever and knows when to ask questions and when to stop and listen."
"Looks like me too," he said with a grin and then he paused as his stomach rumbled. "Supper calls. Ale too."
He ate just enough and drank just enough that evening, because all of a sudden he was so tired that he almost fell asleep in his chair. It was a good tiredness, a tiredness in every limb that came from exercise and he fell into bed and was asleep in an instant.
The storm came that night, the kind of storm he remembered from his childhood. But the dreams had him first, the dreams that this time he remembered. He dreamt of Lyanna for the first time in years and this time she was just as he remembered her. She seemed to be trying to tell him something, shouting against a great wind that seemed to snatch her words away. She looked terrified, as if she was pleading him for something, but he couldn't get close to make her words out. There were Weirwood trees there too, at first far behind them, but then suddenly they rushed towards them and then they were in them, the trunks around them. He lost her then, as if she had been snatched away and he screamed with frustration and ran through the ghostly wood around him. There was snow on the ground all of a sudden and his breath smoked as he panted. And then he entered a clearing and a… thing with white hair and bright blue eyes that shone like stars stared at him with some surprise.
He came awake with a shout and then blinked muzzily about him. And then there was a boom of thunder right above him and the room shook slightly. Yes, the storm had come. He lay back in bed, his chest heaving as he panted. What had that dream been about? What had she been trying to tell him? And what had been that thing?
More thunder and then a strange, irrational feeling came over him. Suddenly he was terrified for that little Weirwood sapling. There was thunder and lightning and torrential rain outside and would it survive?
So he stood and dressed hurriedly before darting out of his room and then out into the night. The rain was falling hard and yet more lightning cracked across the sky, followed by the boom of thunder. He hurried across the wet grass – and then he saw the other figure, the one cloaked and hooded from the rain and also heading towards the sapling. He eyed the figure and then he sped up. There was a horrible intent in the way that figure was stalking.
He was right. The figure ahead was peering at the ground – and then it stopped dead and tilted its head at something, before raising a foot. But Robert hurled himself forwards before the other man could get a chance to stamp on the sapling, grabbing the bastard and pulling him off to one side.
The other man left out a shout of shock and Robert snarled in fury as he recognised the voice. Sure enough the hood fell down to reveal the Septon, who snarled at him – and then recognised him and by the smell of it pissed himself in terror. Robert's fist came back and down and he felt the Septon's nose break with a wet crack as he smeared it across the other man's face. Blood spurted all over the place and then as the other man squealed in anguish Robert brought his bloodied fist around again and caught him on the side of the head, knocking him senseless.
"You leave Lyanna's fucking tree alone!" Robert screamed as the thunder boomed around them, in what he later admitted to himself was a deeply nonsensical statement.
And then he straightened up and searched the ground carefully. The last thing he wanted was to step on the thing. No, there it was, still upright. A bit bloody perhaps from the Septon's nose, but intact and none the worse from the weather. He nodded and then knelt by it, before touching the little leaves gently and-
It was dark down here. No, black. Pitch black. Water was falling somewhere, dripping slowly down. Where was he? Underground. Yes. And… he was being watched. Who was there, in that darkness? That deep, smothering darkness? He quivered. It was here. What he sought was here and-
"Your Grace! Are you well?"
He looked up, startled. The rain was slowing and the Septon was stirring. Barristan Selmy was next to him, looking worried. "Selmy? What's wrong?"
"I should say the same thing to you, your Grace. You were motionless. What happened?"
He could see Renly approaching and also Penrose and young Edric, the latter yawning as if he was about to fall asleep in an instant again. Robert looked down at the Septon. "I woke up – odd dreams," he said thickly. "I was… worried for some reason. Came out and found this bastard about to stamp on the Weirwood tree. He was probably going to blame it on the storm. I got to him first and then swatted him. Penrose, get some guards to throw him in the nearest cell. Septon or not, I want him gone."
"I never liked him," Renly muttered. "Man always thought that the way to piety was to point out everyone else's flaws." They all watched as the guards arrived and dragged the suddenly awake and piteously squealing man away.
"Something… happened when I touched the Weirwood tree," Robert said slowly. "I was underground suddenly." Young Edric's head whipped around as his son stared at him, his face very white.
Robert looked back at him. "Edric," he said seriously, "Has that happened to you too?"
His bastard son nodded, slowly. "The first time I saw it. I touched the leaf and…. I was somewhere dark. There was water dripping. And… I did not imagine it, I swear, but I thought that I was being watched."
He smiled. Yes, this lad was his son. Then he paused. "Penrose, bring me maps, plans, everything you have on the catacombs of Storm's End. I have been searching for something. I think that it lies not up here but beneath us."
An hour later if he had thought that he had known every inch of the tunnels beneath Storm's End before he knew even more now. And there was indeed a tunnel that led in the direction of the where the old Godswood must have been – the Long Passage. But there was a problem.
"There's nothing bloody down here," he said disgustedly as he and Renly stood at the end of it and stared at a stone wall. "Although I remember a lot of crates of old pickled herring here once, when I hid as a child. Plus there are a lot fewer rats."
"We ate most of them," Renly muttered quietly. "Robert, during the siege Stannis had the entire castle searched from end to end for food. He found nothing down here."
"Aye, but what's the point of the Long Passage, anyway? It doesn't lead anywhere! There are no side passages, or bricked up entrances to rooms… what was it for?"
This bought him a shrug from his brother. "Who knows? Perhaps it was stopped before it was completed."
"No, there's something down here, I know it." Footsteps sound behind them and they turned to see Edric and Penrose coming towards them, the latter counting under his breath. When they reached them the Castellan looked at them both, his eyes shining. "Your Grace, I have paced it out – the end of this passage is not under the place where the tree grows, it is short of it by at least sixty feet."
"I was right," Robert cried, exulted. "There is something down here!" He turned to the wall. "It must be behind here."
"Your Grace," Edric piped up to one side. "The walls to each side are laid stone on stone. The wall at the end is laid stone on mortar on stone. They are similar stones but different build."
He squinted at the wall. "Well spotted lad," he said and ruffled the boy's hair affectionately. "Need a knife. Let's take a look."
"Edric's right," Renly mused as he pulled a knife out and poked at the mortar. "And shoddy mortar at that. This was built in a hurry."
"Then it can be demolished in a hurry," Robert muttered as he grabbed a knife proffered by Penrose and started to scrape the mortar away. Although the Castellan offered to get men to do this Robert and his brother, the latter now at last filled with excitement, shrugged off the offer of help and instead worked on breaking down the wall. As the mortar was removed (and young Edric was also helping) the chance came for Robert to get a grip on one stone and pull as hard as he could.
Fat or not he still had some strength. He could feel the sinews strain and the muscles burn, but the first stone came out of the wall with a screeching groan and he tossed it to one side. And where that stone had been was a void, black as night.
"Wait, your Grace," Selmy said urgently behind them. "Test the air first with a torch. It might be foul."
That was good counsel and he nodded at the old Kingsguard respectfully before placing the proffered torch near the hole. It dipped and flickered for a moment and he nodded. "Let's clear the rest of this thing carefully. Stone by stone."
Men were called and he and Renley worked at taking the wall down and handing each stone back, so that they could be passed back down the corridor. By the time they were finished the wall was gone and in its place was the continuation of the corridor – albeit covered in dust.
Robert swallowed as he took a tentative step into it. Who knew who had last walked down there? Not he – nor any man alive, he would wager good coin on that. And then his eyes widened as he saw that the passageway ended in a great stone door, with a massive lintel over the top, etched with runes.
"Those are the runes of the First Men," he breathed as he looked at them. "Fetch Maester Jurne."
Maester Jurne was, it turned out, not far away as he had just awoken and was afire with curiosity at the new discovery. The man arrived almost at a dead run, and then stared up at the runes, his hands shaking as he held his torch up and traced the shapes out. When he was finished he stepped back, white as a sheet.
"Well?" Robert barked. "What do they say?"
"Your Grace," the older man quavered, before he rallied. "Your Grace, your ancestors lie within. The inscription reads: 'House Durrandon sleeps here, awaiting the call to fight the Long Night.'"
Robert looked at the stone door for a long moment. And then he walked up to it and with a trembling hand of his own he pushed at the right hand side of it. It resisted him at first and then he felt it give a little. So he pushed harder. Whoever had built it had done a bloody good job, because it pivoted slowly on the left hand side. Once it was open he retreated back into the corridor and then waved his torch at the entrance. Nothing happened to the flame, so he shrugged and then walked in slowly.
It was a great room, with a stone ceiling supported by great pillars cut from the living rock. He frowned at that and that stared at the walls. Sheer rock as well. "What is this place? How old is this place?" he muttered.
"Robert," said a stunned Renly to one side. "Look."
And then he saw the tombs. They were everywhere – cut into the sides of the walls with inscriptions saying who they were, some in stone coffins that marched in lines parallel to the walls and some even buried in slots cut in the floor.
"I always wondered where the Durrandons were buried," he breathed as he looked about. Then he frowned. "But why were they hidden?"
"Edric, stay back," Penrose called out, but as Robert looked he could see that the boy was walking forwards anyway. From the light of the torch he carried he could see that Edric's face was blank of all thought. He passed down the line of tombs and then stood before an alcove that lay at the far end, dark and mysterious.
When the lad reached the alcove he turned and faced him. "Father," he said in a strange voice, as if others were speaking through him, "It is here. This is the place you seek. The Old Gods are strong here. The dead have not forgotten them." And then he quietly folded up and collapsed.
He darted forwards at the same time as Penrose and Renly, but being closer he got there first. His son was unhurt, but seemed to be asleep and he passed him gently to the Castellan. "Get my son to bed," he told the man quietly. "He has had a long day already."
And then he turned to the alcove. Silence fell after Penrose's feet had passed away and he could hear the sound of water dripping somewhere. He shivered slightly. Yes, this was the place. He walked forwards slowly, Renly by him, and as they approached he could see the alcove better by their torchlight. There was a statue there, a man dressed in archaic armour with a huge greatsword or archaic design in his hands. More runes were carved into the wall by the statue. "Jurne!"
The Maester stumbled forwards, tongue-tied by everything around him and then he stopped and stared at the inscription. "Erm… oh. Your Grace. It says: 'The Long Night will come again. The Durrandons must always stand against it. Ours is the fury, ours is the storm. Because the Others will come again.'"
"The House motto," Robert muttered. "'Ours in the fury'. So this is where it comes from." And then he paused. The statue and the sword seemed to be different.
"But the Others are a Northern myth," Renly objected, although his voice wobbled up and down more than a bit.
"Are you sure about that brother?" Robert muttered. And then he passed his torch over. "Here, hold this."
"Why?"
"That sword. It's that sword." He stepped forwards and then laid a reverent hand on the hilt where it met the hands of the statue. As he pulled it, it moved and he placed both hands around the grip. And then he felt a tremor run though him – and then the eyes of the statue seemed to open to reveal orbs of red fire, before a voice seemed to roar in his head: "Storm King!"
He shook like a leaf but retained his grip. He sensed Renly stumbling backwards and Selmy letting out a cry of alarm and then darting forwards. "Hold," he said thickly. "I am Robert, descendant of the Durrandons. I am king."
The eyes looked at him. "Then go North Storm King! Go North!" The eyes closed, the sword fell into his hands and then he found himself falling backwards, to be caught by Jurne and Barristan Selmy. "Bugger me," Robert said and then he passed out.
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