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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 287,744Chapter 49
Arya
Something was going on with Jon, she could feel it. True, there were all the other things, like GreatJon Umber being in Winterfell, whom she liked very much, especially when he told rude jokes without thinking and made Mother close her eyes in despair whenever she saw Arya taking notes on them.
And then there had been Father the other night, who had apparently rode out in the middle of the night with his eyes on fire. When he had come back the next day his eyes then returned normal but there had been a direwolf by his side. A direwolf! It was all so exciting!
She paused as she crossed the courtyard that led to the crypts. No, Mother was nowhere to be seen, which was good. She didn't want to be told how to embroider bits of cloth, she wanted to be out with Bran and Domeric, learning how to ride. A scowl crossed her face. She almost liked Domeric. He may be someone who played the harp a lot, but he was also someone who could ride a horse like a hero of legend and also use a sword.
No-one in sight, still, so she darted across the courtyard and into the doorway that led to the stairs down.
No, everyone was being odd these days. Everyone apart from her of course. And Rickon.
Robb spent half his time muttering over books and the other half drilling in fighting techniques like a veteran. Something had changed in him, he seemed harder in some ways. Theon was gaunt-eyed and seemed to have changed in other ways. He seemed less prickly and proud and more helpful. He certainly seemed to like helping with the archery lessons.
Sansa – she rolled her eyes and almost lost her footing as she went down the steps – well she was busy mooning over Domeric. And Bran was still sulking more than a bit over not being allowed to climb the wall of Winterfell. Father had made him swear not to. Had made him swear in Ice, which was odd.
And then there was Jon. Who seemed burdened by something, something that he wasn't telling anyone. Not even her! And who often disappeared into the crypts when he thought that no-one was watching. Like now. She came to the end of the stairs, orientated herself and then padded along as quietly as she could. There were torches up ahead and she kept to the shadows.
There he was. He was placing flowers at the foot of one of the statues. And then he sat down and stared up at the face of the statue and she heard him mutter something too softly for her to make out. Wait, she knew that statue. It was Aunt Lyanna, who had died long before she'd been born.
She scowled again. Time for some answers. "Why are you here?"
Jon actually started with surprise and she smirked a little at her skills at creeping. "Arya?"
"Jon." She walked up to him and then crossed her arms and directed her best glare at him. "In the crypts again, I see."
He eyed her a little warily. "Very observant of you."
"Why are you down here? What's wrong?" She put all of her annoyance and frustration into her voice. "You're not brooding again are you? I thought Mother was being nicer to you these days?"
He just looked at her and then smiled a little. "Brooding a little, perhaps."
Horror roiled her. No. There could be only one reason for his brooding and Mother cheering up. "No," she said fiercely, "You're not going to! I say so, so there!"
He blinked at her. "Not going to what?"
"Leave Winterfell and join the Night's Watch! I… I… forbid it!" And she stamped her foot to show her resolve.
When Jon just smiled at her this made her even more bewildered – and angry. "Jon Snow-"
"Peace!" Jon said as he threw up his hand in surrender. "I am not joining the Night's Watch, I swear it on our ancestors." And then something odd happened to his face, a mixture of emotions washing over it. "And soon my name will not be Jon Snow anymore."
She stared at him as if he was mad. "What?"
He looked around and then finally back at her. "Keep this to yourself, Arya, but Father has written to King Robert about me."
Puzzled she sat down by him and crossed her legs. "About what?"
"About my name," Jon said gently. "Father has asked that I be legitimised."
She stared at him, hope warring with bafflement. "You mean… you would be…"
"Jon Stark." He said the words with a smile, but there was something in his eyes that she did not understand. "I will be a Stark of Winterfell."
Arya rolled her eyes at him. "Silly. You've always been a Stark."
That odd look came into his eyes again. "Some would disagree," he said bitterly.
"Mother's wrong about that," she replied carefully. Then she scowled. "And about me and embroidery. Stupid thing. I'd much rather learn to ride with Bran and use the bow."
"I know you would," Jon said with a grin. "You're a better archer than Bran is already." He shook his head. "The Old Gods help the man you marry."
She stuck her tongue out at him. "Long time ahead of me before that," she muttered. "And besides, who says that I have to marry?"
"You're a Stark of Winterfell," Jon reminded her gently. "Father might allow you to choose, but you will have to marry eventually." And then he looked back at the statue of Aunt Lyanna. "Although Fate takes us along odd paths."
She nodded a little and then frowned. "Why are you here again? And why the flowers?"
He gestured at the statue. "It's her birthday," he said quietly. "Did you know that?"
Arya looked at the statue to Father's only and beloved sister. She'd heard the tales, listened to the stories, felt the sadness in Father's voice when he spoke of his sister and his eldest brother and his own father, none of whom she had ever met. Heard the tale of the Great Rebellion that resulted from the actions of the Mad King and his mad son. And she knew that Father had loved Aunt Lyanna very much.
"I didn't know that," she told him with some sorrow in her voice. "I really didn't."
"I thought that someone should remember," Jon replied. "Father comes here on the anniversary of when she died. But not, I think, on her birthday. I think that it pains him a great deal to think of her."
They sat there in the crypts for a long moment, before Arya finally nodded and stood up. "I'm hungry, and it must be almost noon. You'll come up, won't you?"
"I will, little sister."
She looked at him again, her head tilted slightly to one side. "You haven't called me that in weeks."
That thoughtful, almost booding look came and went on his face for a moment. "I had a lot on my mind." And then he smiled a smile that didn't completely reach his eyes.
She smiled back and then walked back towards the stairs. Her brother was keeping a secret. She liked a challenge.
But then, as she walked along she saw a door where there had never been one before. "Jon?"
"What is it?"
"Where does this door go? I've never seen it before."
"What door?" He stood and paced over to her, before staring in bafflement at the door. It was made from stone, or so it looked like, and it was open the merest crack. Arya walked over to it hesitantly and then peered at the surface of it. Reaching out she brushed a thick layer of dust off it, to reveal a carving of a direwolf superimposed on a man's face.
"We need to tell Father," they both whispered at the same time in awe.
Daenerys
It was all so exciting. So many people who spoke as they did in Westeros! So many beautiful horses! So many women and children! She felt as if she was in a small corner of the land she was exiled from.
She didn't remember Dragonstone, she'd been just a baby when she had been spirited away from the island with Viserys. But she remembered dear old Ser Willem Darry, with his accent. The men and women around her had a similar accent – not exactly the same, but like enough to make her think that if she closed her eyes a moment she might be back across the Narrow Sea. It was almost intoxicating.
She'd bound her hair back and found a cloak with a cowl. It was a bit too large for her and some might find it a bit too hot in the sun, but not her. She was too excited.
They were going home and she envied them a little. The more she thought about it the more she did not know – not truly know – where she would call home. She missed the house with the red door of her youth. Unlike Viserys she did not miss King's Landing, because she had never been there.
Neither had most of the Company of the Rose – to Westeros that is – and yet they were so keen to go home. The more she thought about the less that she understand it. Mind you, she didn't understand some of the food either. She was staring at some now. It looked like a cooked tube of pastry the length of her hand with minced pork and green flecks in it.
"It's a sausage roll," said a voice to one side and she looked over to see a tall man with thinning hair looking at her. He was dressed like many of the men around them, like a man of Westeros, but whereas there was excitement in their eyes there was a tiredness in his, leavened with a look of distracted thought. "They tend to vary in quality, but that one looks quite tasty."
"Ah," she said cautiously. Then she pointed at a different food, a pastry half-moon with the round edges crimped. "And that?"
"A pasty. It's a Northern delicacy."
"Why is one side crimped like that?"
"It was made for miners and those that work on buildings. They often had dirty hands and needed something that could eat that had a rim – they'd eat the main part but not the rim."
"I see," she said and then looked about the square again.
She could tell that the other man was looking at her carefully and had now joined her in looking about. A moment later she heard a woman's voice call out gaily: "There you are!", and then a woman with dark hair and laughing eyes, dressed like an Essosi, strode up to her with a basket filled with food. "I wondered where you had got to. You shouldn't stray too far, the Maester said that you are still recovering! Now then, Ser Jorah and I will take you back up the hill to the Magister's place. You've had quite the visit, little sister, we can't risk you getting any sicker."
She opened her mouth to protest that she had no idea what the woman was talking about, when all of a sudden the woman linked her arm through hers with a deft speed and then half-pulled, half-encouraged her along. As she did she babbled endlessly about the pretty dress that she had seen, about how the Company of the Rose was going home, about how pale she was after being so ill and how the Maester had said that her hair would soon return to its natural blonde colour. The man who had talked to her – Ser Jorah – walked next to them.
She could see that she was being led along the road that indeed led to the Magister's mansion and she wanted to protest again that she did not know them, but some instinct was suddenly screaming in her ears that she should go with them, that she was not safe. Ser Jorah would occasionally make a comment and once said that he had spoken to Lord Krats and that the leader of the Company of the Rose had agreed that he should escort her back up the hill.
Only then did she see the men who stopped following them abruptly, hands on daggers and suspicion in their eyes. They all looked at one man, who shook his head, and then they dispersed.
Once they were far enough away from the square and the crowd only then did the woman gently unhook their arms and smile at her a little more coolly.
"That might have been eventful," Ser Jorah rumbled as they strode up the hill. "Daenerys Targaryen I presume? You were being followed by men who suspected that you were not what you seemed."
She looked at the two with some suspicion of her own. "How did you know who I am?"
"You should have tied your hair back with a better tie," the woman said, and she realised that some of her hair had indeed escaped its bond and was peeking out from the hood. "And the cloak you are wearing is of very rich material. Too expensive for anyone but a noble. The more you walked about the more that you were suspected."
She found herself drooping a little. "My thanks, I thought that I had been so careful. And you are?"
"Leera of Myr. This is Ser Jorah Mormont."
"Mormont… you serve with the Company of the Rose?"
He smiled a little and then shook his head. "Nay. I am of the North but not of the Company there. I was trying to find out why they are being drawn home."
"Why are they going home?"
He paused a moment. "'Tis a complicated story to explain. Let me just say that they have good reason. A call has gone out. The North pulls the First Men."
She stared at him a moment. "A pull to the North? A slight tug?"
He looked at her oddly. "In my case a violent yank, but how should you… ah. Of course. You have Blackwood blood in you. You feel it a little."
"Why did you go there?" Leera broke in. "That was dangerous for you!"
Dany shrugged a little. "I wanted to talk to people who were from Westeros. See what they sounded like, looked like. I know that that they are exiles, but so am I and I… don't remember home." She was babbling and then she straightened up. "I was not in any danger, not really."
The other two stared at her and then at each other. "Lady Daenerys-"
"Princess Daenerys."
"…You were in danger. The men of the North – even those far removed from it – do not love Targaryens. The Company of the Rose came to Essos because they would not bend the knee to Aegon Targaryen. And these days they hate them even more. Especially since the Mad King killed the Starks in his throne room."
She stared at him. "I do not know what you are talking about. What 'Mad King'? Which Starks?"
This time the other two stopped in their tracks and stared at her, before exchanging a long gaze. "Does she jest?" Leera asked with what sounded like astonishment in her voice.
"Jest about what?" She was in danger of losing her temper. "Tell me – what 'Mad King'?"
"Your father." Ser Jorah said the words and as he did a chill of shock went through her. "In his last months all of Westeros called him the Mad King. For his crimes."
"Even in Myr we heard about them." Leera muttered, looking a little ill.
"My father was not mad!" Dany protested. "The people loved him! He was betrayed and murdered by the Usurper!"
"The people? The people called him King Scab at first. The Iron Throne was made from dragon-melted swords, but those swords are still sharp in places and your father kept nicking himself on them. King Scab – who saw traitors everywhere, and as the years passed then the more traitors he saw and the madder he became."
She opened her mouth to protest, but he raised a finger in the air and then pointed at her. "Do you know why the North rose as one man to follow Ned Stark, the second son of Lord Rickard Stark? Even though he was the second son?"
She shook her head, bewildered.
"Because your father killed his father and elder brother."
"I don't understand," she whispered. "Why?"
Ser Jorah and Leera stared at her as if she was mad. "You do not know?"
"All I know is what my brother told me. That my father was let down by fools and weak-willed men on his council That he was betrayed. He, he mentioned once that Lord Stark – the elder Stark – had been a traitor, but he never mentioned him again."
Ser Jorah was now pale with what seemed to be shock, whilst Leera was clutching at his arm. "What do you know of your brother, Rhaegar?" He asked the words thickly, as if he could not trust his mouth.
"That he was knightly and noble."
"He kidnapped Lyanna Stark, the daughter of Lord Stark and the sister to Brandon and Eddard Stark. Willingly or not on her part, we do not know. But they both vanished and her brother, Brandon Stark, rode to King's Landing to demand to know where they were. Your father did not like that. He threw Brandon Stark in a cell, calling him traitor. Then he wrote to Lord Rickard Stark, demanding ransom for his son and commanding him to come to King's Landing as well." He said the words stonily and dread flickered in her heart.
"What happened?"
"Your father announced that Rickard Stark was also a traitor. Lord Stark demanded a trial by combat. Your father granted his wish. When, fully armoured, he arrived in the throne room of the Red Keep your father announced that he had chosen a champion to fight him. Fire."
She blinked. "I have never heard of a Lord Fyre. And I thought that all the Blackfyres were dead."
There was pity in the look he now directed at her. "Not a man. Fire as in the element. Lord Stark was suspended in his armour from the rafters and Aerys had his pyromancers build a fire beneath him, which was then lit. And as Rickard Stark burnt to death Brandon Stark watched it all, with a sword just out of reach and a special collar around his neck. The more struggled to reach the sword the more the collar tightened. Your father's orders, all of it. And that is why the North will never follow a Targaryen. And that started the Rebellion."
Dany's stomach turned over and she felt her skin go cold and clammy. "No," she choked eventually. "No." Leera looked at her and gasped, but it was too late. She darted to one side of the road and then fell to her knees and voided her stomach. "No," she said again when she was able to, through a burning throat and a haze of tears. "I… I don't believe it. I can't."
The Northman was standing to one side and looking abashed. "I am sorry," he said hesitantly. "I should have found a less blunt way to tell you. But you had to know. I am sure that your brother has his own version."
Leera reached into her basket and pulled out a stone jar with a cork sealing it. She pulled it open and handed it to her. She took it with a shaking hand and drank from it. It was some kind of water flavoured with lemon and sugar and it was delicious. "Thank you," she said huskily, before standing again. "And… and I do not believe you."
Ser Jorah and Leera looked at her and then looked at each other, before shrugging. "Ask anyone you like about the events of the Rebellion."
"Apart from your brother." Leera said flatly.
They walked back the hill in silence, Dany on rather shaky legs. As they reached the mansion she could see that the doors were open and then Magister Motapis was watching them. He had a look of carefully hidden irritation at her. "Princess," he rumbled, "I was about to send people out to search for you. But I see that this good Ser has found you."
"She was in the square where the Company of the Rose were assembled. Leera here saw her and also saw that there were some there who were viewing her with some suspicion. So we – with the approval of Lord Krats, the leader of the Company – got her out of there with a small stratagem. It worked."
"My thanks." The Magister said and then he looked at her more closely. "Princess, you seem…. Upset."
"I…" Her thoughts were in a jumble. "I did not think that I was in any danger. I know that I was wrong now. Your pardon Magister. Ser Jorah, Leera… my thanks." And then she walked to her room. She had a great deal to think about. And she wanted to be sick again, at the thought of her father and the… things that he had allegedly done.
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