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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 287,743Chapter 52
Ned
He ate his breakfast in his solar that morning. He had a lot to think about and as he ate he looked at the map as the plans and, well, he brooded.
There was so much to do and he was starting to wonder about how much time he had left to do it. The Others had to be aware that he knew that they had awoken, that the North and the First Men had become aware of the threat.
But there were still the other threats in the South and to the Southwest that had to be dealt with. The Ironborn concerned him. He had been quietly investigating what was going on down there and what he was starting to see was deeply worrying.
Balon Greyjoy had been rebuilding his fleet under his bloody nose. How? He had his suspicions. Too many parts of the Western shores of the North were barren and had few settlements, so it would have been easy to sneak their longships in and harvest timber without anyone knowing. He had thought that he had been keeping a good eye on them. He had been wrong.
At lease Howland had sent men to garrison Moat Cailin and to restore the more easily repaired parts. He had sent ravens to order more men and supplies there. At the very least it could be a waypoint for any forces coming from the South. At worst it could be held against the Ironborn should they be stupid enough to attack.
There were times, in his darker moments, when he wondered if Stannis Baratheon had been right about the Iron Islands. Balon Greyjoy should have been removed from power and his head placed upon a spike and someone better, someone smarter, placed in charge. The Reader perhaps, or even one of the lesser lords. It would have freed up Theon from the poisoned chalice that would one day await him as the Lord of the Iron Islands.
Theon… was a different man now. He wasn't a boy. He was grave and thought a great deal before he spoke about weighty matters, and he prayed every day in the Godswood. And he was teaching Bran archery. The lad had a gift for teaching, something that he had shown no signs of before.
His gaze wandered South to the Westerlands and his lips tightened for a moment. The Old Lion was another threat. A proud man and a man who did not like to be proved wrong about anything. Did he suspect that his grandchildren were not the progeny of Robert Baratheon? If so, did he care? Or was he too set on having Joffrey take his seat on that damn Iron Throne?
And who to the South knew about the Others? Whose ears had heard the Call? He wondered. Word had come from Lord Manderly that a shipload of men and supplies had arrived from the Stormlands, bound for Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. Volunteers for the Wall, they had told the rather startled lord of the city. Moreover, volunteers with swords, timber, food and coin. Did Renly Baratheon know about them? Did Robert? How far South had the Call gone?
The door creaked a little and he looked to see that Cat had entered and was looking at him fondly. "Good morning my love," she said with a smile. "Breakfast in your Solar? Arya was asking after you."
He smiled at her and then gestured at the map. "Too much thinking to do," he sighed. "Too much needs to be done."
She closed the door behind her and then walked over and sat in the chair next to him and looked at the map. "So much relies on us, doesn't it?"
"Aye," he said wryly. "So very much. We need to watch the North but also make sure that the things that happened in the South don't vex us. What Robb saw is invaluable. We know that Balon Greyjoy is eyeing the North in revenge for his defeat now. We know that the Lannisters will fight to support Joffrey should he ever become King. And we know that Robert and Jon are in danger. Oh and we also know that Renly's a fool." He shook his head. "If only I'd known what I know now when I'd gone South to King's Landing in that other future."
Cat turned a little pale. "I do not like to think about that future," she said faintly. "You dead, Robb trying his best to fight a war, Sansa a prisoner, Arya missing, Bran unable to walk, our home here lost…"
He was on his feet in an instant, crouching next to her. "It will not happen now, Cat. We've seen to that. The North is mobilising for the Long Night and the South is starting to respond. We need to talk to Robert, and right soon, but what happened in that other future will not happen again." He smiled at her and then kissed her gently on the lips. "I swear it. It will not happen, that future saw."
Cat smiled a little tremulously at him. Then she sighed. "Ned, the vault we found. Do you really think that they were Starks who were also wargs?"
"I do," he said softly. "Luwin has been translating the runes on the tombs. They were wargs."
"Then what are the chances that any of our children are wargs? Or you, or Benjen?"
Ah. And that was something that he was wondering himself. "Cat, I don't know. I wish I could tell you that I knew, but that would be a lie. When the direwolves are born… well, we will have to see what happens. The fact that the mother is here and seems so… compliant… is, well, astonishing.
"Cat, I know that much of this must be alien to you and I am sorry. But this is something that is buried deep in the history of my family. I barely understand it myself, and I am supposed to be the Stark in Winterfell." He shook his head. "But this is something that is a part of me – and our children. The Old Gods have spoken. I know that you worship the Seven, and they must their own role to play, but this is the North Cat. The Old Gods have given us a second chance and we must take it."
She smiled at him again. "I know it. Ned… I saw Luwin this morning. I wanted him to confirm something. I am with child again."
He stared at her, his heart soaring within him. "Truly?"
"Truly."
He whooped with joy and hugged her, before fearing that he was being too rough with her. "I am sorry, I shouldn't have done that, the baby-"
"Is not due for some time and I am not made from glass, Ned!" Cat's eyes were warm and amused and also contained a challenge.
"Another child… yet another departure from the future that Robb saw. With every step away from that we tread a new path. And that both reassures me and frightens me Cat. We have gone from one war with rules that we understand to another war that was last fought by our ancestors – and with rules that are clouded by time." He caught her look of sudden understanding. "We face an enemy that we have never fought before, with powers that we do not understand. An enemy that can make the dead walk.
"I have ordered the walls of Winterfell checked for any damage, I have ordered that the Broken Tower be inspected for repair – and I have a plan for that anyway."
She looked at him sharply, but at that moment someone knocked at the door. "Who is it?" Ned called.
"Luwin, my Lord. I have messages."
"Come in," Ned sighed as he stood and watched as the Maester bustled in. "Who are they from?"
"A raven from Dragonstone first, my Lord," Luwin said as he handed it over. "From his Grace the King."
Neds felt his eyebrows fly upwards. "What was Robert doing in Dragonstone?" Then he looked at the message – and if his eyebrows could have gone up any further then they would have. "'Ned, am writing in haste from Dragonstone, travelling from Storm's End to King's Landing. Have found the sword of the Durrandons in Storm's End. I'm sending my son Edric to foster with you at Winterfell. Treat him right, please, he's a good lad. There's a storm coming. Don't know what or where, but stand ready. Robert, King, etc, etc.'"
He lowered the letter and felt a fierce exultation fill his heart. "Robert's Durrandon blood sings true! Although where he found the sword of Durran Godsgrief is a mystery to me." He paused. "And he's sending his bastard son Edric here."
"We will have to keep an eye on him," Cat sighed. "And given what we know about Joffrey's true parentage it will be more important than ever to keep him alive. Cersei Lannister will not take it kindly either."
"I care not a whit for what Cersei Lannister thinks of us. I trust her about as much I trusted Aerys Targaryen – not at all. She is dangerous and false. The problem is that Robert is not aware of her true nature. We must deal with her at some point – and defang her brother and their father at the same time." He looked up and saw that the other two were staring at him. "I have given this matter some thought. In the meantime – you have another message for me Luwin?"
"Aye my Lord," the older man said with a slight shake of his shoulders as he seemed to settle himself. "From the Redfort, in reply from your message." And he held out a thick package.
Ned took it and opened it. Inside was a sheath of papers, secured with a ribbon with a wax seal, with the personal seal of Lord Redfort pressed into it. "Ah. The answer to my letter. Thank you Luwin. Cat – we have some reading to do. We might soon know the answer to the question of if Domeric's suit to marry our daughter can be granted or denied."
Willas
He came awake slowly. He felt hungry, and so very, very, thirsty. He also felt weak, as if he had been ill. He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. He was… in his bed? How had he gotten there? Why was his head so fuzzy? Then he frowned. His leg didn't hurt. How odd.
Licking his lips made him realise how dry and cracked they were and he sat up slowly.
As he did he realised that he was not alone. Margaery was asleep in a chair next to his bed and by the main window that looked out over Highgarden Grandmother was embroidering with a scowl on her face.
"What happened?" He croaked through a throat that seemed drier than the Bone Road.
Grandmother looked up from her embroidery. "Aha," she said caustically. "The sleeper awakens!"
Margaery came awake abruptly. Her hair looked dishevelled and her eyes were red, making him think that she had been crying. "Willas! You're awake!"
"I need a drink," he croaked, looking around. Then he saw a goblet to one side and reached out with a shaking hand. He very nearly dropped it, but Margaery took it from him and then brought it to his lips. He wanted to scold her for treating him like a child but at the very sight of what looked like watered wine he desired nothing more than to drink every drop within. He almost choked on it at first, but by all the Gods it felt good to drink it. And he did drink every drop.
"Is there any food in here?" The question came out in an almost normal voice and at the very thought of food his stomach growled.
"Here," Grandmother said as she crossed the room, clutching a plate of what looked like honeycakes in one hand whilst her cane clacked on the floor. "Eat these." She placed the tray on the bed in front of him and then pulled up a chair as he grabbed one and ate it in two bites. "You seem yourself again. Good."
Willas grabbed the second honeycake and then peered at her. "What do you mean?"
Grandmother leant back in her chair and then eyed him critically. "You've been asleep for some time, boy. And this has not been the first time that you've woken up since you found that room with the statue."
The room with the statue… he cast his mind back. "Garth Greenhand!"
"Aye, Garth Greenhand. In a room that no-one had ever known of. But you found it."
He frowned again and then ran a hand over his beard. "It all seems… fuzzy. Indistinct." Then he frowned at her again. "What did you mean, that wasn't the first time I'd been awake? The last thing I remember is being in that room."
Grandmother swapped a look with Margaery. His sister looked worried. His grandmother looked slightly puzzled.
"Willas," Margery said hesitantly, "Two days after you collapsed you woke up, shouting orders. Orders to men long dead."
"You sounded as if you were ordering men whilst in battle," Grandmother said quietly. "And the names you were shouting… well, they were to the sons of Mern the Ninth. You seemed to be on the Field of Fire. You seemed very distressed, shouted something about dragons, drank two cups of wine, ate a plate of food and then fell asleep again. Oh and you pinched the bottom of the maid who brought you your food."
He stared at her, baffled. "I did?"
"Oh yes. With hindsight, it was all most amusing. And then seven days after that you awoke again, used the privy, dictated three letters to men long since dead, including Loren Lannister, about mobilising men against Aegon Targaryen, ate three honeycakes and drank a goblet of watered wine, pinched the bottom of the same maid and then collapsed." She leant forwards. "So, as you can imagine I am very happy to see you in your right mind again."
He eyed her bemusedly as he swallowed the last of the honeycakes. "I don't understand."
"Willas," Margaery said tearfully, "We thought that you would never wake up again."
He looked at her and smiled. "And yet I have." He paused. "I feel as weak as a new-born kitten though."
"You are awake at least, which is good. And apparently in your right mind. The Maester was worried. As was I."
"I told you not to worry yourself, child," Grandmother harrumphed. "I always thought that your brother would awake. That Maester is a ninnyhammer."
Margaery looked at her. "Grandmother, you were worried too."
"I was not. I never worry. I muse."
His sister shot him an amused look and then reached out and grabbed Grandmother's embroidery. "Then explain this." She passed it over to Willas, who looked at it and then snorted with amusement. Grandmother had embroidered a picture of a man in Maester's robes being chased by an angry thorn bush. "You were worried."
Grandmother snatched it back. "I may have been slightly concerned. Now – how do you feel?"
Willas considered this question carefully. His stomach no longer felt as if it had a kitten loose in it. "Still weak, but no longer as hungry. And my leg no longer hurts."
"Try standing." It wasn't a request from Grandmother, it was more like a command. He blinked at her and then moved to the end of the bed. Pulling the sheets aside he could see that he had been dressed in a robe (who by?) that preserved his modesty – and then he stared at his leg. His bad leg. Which no longer looked as if the bone had been broken and reset. It looked… fine. It didn't hurt.
He slowly stood. Tested his weight a little and then took a cautious step forwards. He was weak and wobbly on his feet – but his leg didn't hurt at all. "It doesn't hurt," he whispered. "It really doesn't." He looked around at the other two and saw their sudden smiles. Then he remembered the statue. "I need my clothes. I have to see what I discovered."
"Good," Grandmother muttered. "You can make better sense of it than your fat fool of a father." She sounded even more acerbic than she usually did when talking about Father and Willas looked at Margaery, who pulled a slight face in response.
Grandmother, naturally, noticed this. "Oh stop that. I gave birth to him and I have every right to call him an idiot. How any child of mine could have the brains of piece of wood is beyond me. Your father has not reacted well to that room. He's been going around telling people that he always suspected that there was something there in order to make himself appear less clueless. He's almost ordered it bricked up three times."
Willas frowned as he walked over to his dressing screen and then pulled off his robe. "Why?"
"Because he's afraid of what it represents. It's a symbol of the Gardener Kings – and your father never forgets that House Tyrell were merely the Stewards of Highgarden and not the kings of it. You have the blood of the Gardeners in your veins, children, but there are others who claim that their claim is stronger. The Florents, Rowans, and Oakhearts. And all have sent messages to your fool of a father in the wake of the finding of that statue. He thinks that this is all some new gambit of the Game of Thrones, or The Reach's equivalent. Games that he is truly terrible at playing." She paused. "Are you getting dressed boy?"
"I think," He said deliberately after sniffing at himself, "That I need to bathe first. I smell."
He did indeed and he put his robe back on and ordered a bath to be drawn at once, whilst a clearly much happier Margaery and Grandmother vanished outside. As he waited he drank another cup of watered wine and ate a plate of bread and ham that he ordered. He noticed that the maid who brought the food eyed him carefully with a suspicion of a blush and he wondered if that was the maid that Grandmother had mentioned. It seemed that even possessed he had good taste and he smiled warmly at her and saw the blush grow more than a little.
The bath did him a lot of good and he dressed quickly afterwards and strode out. It was odd to walk without a cane for the first time in years and he found the hand that usually grasped it feel oddly empty. Perhaps he should start wearing a sword again.
Grandmother was sitting on a bench outside, basking in the sun and as he approached she looked at him. "So," She said eventually, "Want to see what mischief you have wrought?"
He looked at her. "Yes." A simple, short answer, but all that needed to be said on this.
She looked at him almost approvingly. And then she took him to the room. There was the statue that he so dimly remembered, and the little stream that now bubbled cheerfully up and out of the room. Someone had left fresh flowers at the foot of the stone figure and he peered at the face of his distant ancestor. Garth Greenhand. There were other statues of him elsewhere in Highgarden, but this one seemed different. Clearer, somehow.
"'Make the Garden bloom again'… what does that mean?"
Grandmother shrugged. "I know not. But many want to talk to you about what it could mean. Your father wants to ignore the whole thing."
"No," Willas snapped abruptly. "We cannot. This means something. And… what help needs to be sent to Winterfell?"
"You remember that part do you? Good." Grandmother most assuredly sounded approving now. "No cheese in your ears or in your brain, unlike your fool of a father."
He thought hard. There was no shame in admitting that he needed more information. "We need to access the archives Grandmother, see what the Gardener Kings used to send North, if anything. We need more information than we have at the moment. And this is not a matter that can be dismissed. This is not a gambit in the Game of Thrones, nor a conspiracy by the other houses. This is a relic of the past with a message for us."
"Your father will disagree and tell you that it's all mummery."
He felt his expression harden into something that looked rather like the look on Grandmother's face at the moment. "Father is wrong."
Grandmother smiled at him. "I taught you well."
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