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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 55
Tyrion
The moment he finally saw the gatehouse of Winterfell he sighed at the thought of what lay within. Good food. A bed. A bath. Oh and maidservants, preferably ones with large breasts and sultry smiles. He thought for a moment about sending everyone on ahead and finding a good brothel, but then changed his mind at once. No. He had his duty to do first.
As they rode to the gate he had Emmon shake out the banner that had been furled since The Twins, and he smiled a little as the red and gold cloth shook and boomed in the breeze from the West. He heard shouts from the gatehouse and then the gates opened.
As they entered he looked around with quick glances. The Wintertown outside the fortress had shown great signs of being worked on and renewed, rebuilt even in places. And Winterfell itself seemed to be a hive of activity, with men and women working on so many things. Blacksmiths were busy, as was a small brick kiln not too far away. All most interesting. Yes, they were preparing for something. War or winter? Or perhaps both?
He drew rein as he saw what looked like a Maester walking towards him, with a young man with the auburn hair of a Tully. And that young man stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of Tyrion and his eyes widened as if he had not just recognised him but knew him somehow. And then he seemed to shake his head a little and strode ahead of the Maester.
"You are Tyrion Lannister." The young Stark – who else could it be with hair that colour – sounded like a man trying to make a grim voice lighter and Tyrion blinked a little at the thought of it. What was going on here?
"I see that my fame has preceded me!" He smiled and then noted that whilst the Stark boy smiled for a moment with his mouth, he did not smile with his eyes. "I am indeed Tyrion Lannister."
"Robb Stark. This is Maester Luwin. Word did not reach us of your coming."
"It did not?" Oh. Damn Father. "Your pardon. Your father sent word to the major houses that they send any word back about the legend that is the Others. So I was sent by my father from Casterly Rock with what we had on this topic." He heard the beginning of a throat being cleared behind him and then forestalled it. "And I have also had the high and signal honour of escorting the Lady-"
But he was interrupted by an astonished voice from one side. "Dacey? Cousin Dacey? What are you doing here?"
Everyone looked over to see an astonished-looking Lord Eddard Stark as he stared at Dacey Surestone. Then he beamed at her and hurried over. "I have not seen you for years! How is your father? Why did he send you here?"
Tyrion watched her closely and then winced as many emotions seemed to flash over her face. Anger, confusion, bemusement – and then astonishment and horror. He had heard her muttering a few times on the road to Winterfell, practising a great tirade against her cousin for abandoning her. And how it seems that he had forestalled her by being… well, oblivious to her recent ordeal.
"Lord Stark," she said eventually in a shaking voice. "My father is dead."
He went pale at that. "No – surely not! He was hale and hearty when I saw him last!"
"He may have been then, but he... he died. Many weeks ago. I was told that word had been sent to Winterfell on this. When I heard nothing back I thought… I thought that…" Her face crumpled with anguish for a moment and then in an instant Lord Stark was at the side of her horse.
"Oh by the Gods Dacey, I knew not a thing. No word of his passing came here, I swear it. I am so sorry. You must have thought that we had abandoned you, when nothing like that had happened." And then he seemed to catch himself. "Lord Tyrion, please accept the hospitality of Winterfell, for you and your men. Quarters will be provided for them, and a meal and ale. Maester Luwin – please take charge of the books that Lord Tyrion has brought. Robb, can you go or send someone to your mother and have them tell her to meet us in my solar? Then join us too. You too Lord Tyrion." Then he looked at his younger relative. "Dacey, welcome to Winterfell, cousin."
As everyone dismounted and servants rushed about to collect horses and take down saddlebags Tyrion looked at Dacey Surestone worriedly. She seemed as if she was about to fly into a thousand jagged pieces – but then she seemed to rally herself, shaking her head a little and then dismounting herself.
Tyrion sighed and was in the process of dismounting himself when he froze. Over to one side there was what looked a building containing a set of kennels and in the doorway sat a giant wolf that was staring at him intently. He opened his mouth to say something but then discovered that a combination of terror and fascination had strangled his vocal chords. "…"
Lord Stark caught his look of shock and then looked at the kennels. "Mind her not. She's interested in everything."
Dacey Surestone had also frozen in place at the sight of the creature – and then a huge smile lit up her face, making her appear beautiful for a long moment. "Ned! You have a direwolf!"
"I have. It has been an… interesting few weeks." Then he flushed a little. "Your pardon. You have lost your father. Come."
Tyrion kept an eye on that direwolf as he walked towards the door of the keep. He still couldn't believe that it was there. Weren't direwolves supposed to be extinct South of the Wall? Then he pulled a slight face. Might as well add it to the list of odd things that had happened.
By the time that they reached Lord Stark's study he was starting to wonder what else was going on. He'd counted men in the liveries of at least three of the important Houses of the North – Umber, Reed and Bolton. The latter had been confined to one young man with a harp who might have been Domeric Bolton – he'd seen him once from a distance at the Redfort when he had been there on a visit on behalf of Father.
And then when he got to the Solar he came damn near to tripping over his own feet. Parts of the room were covered in books and records, whilst one wall had a great map of the North that had very disturbing implications if it meant what he thought it did. Were there really that many settlements North of the Wall?
As they sat and Lord Stark passed him bread and salt – and more importantly a goblet of rather good wine – Tyrion watched as Dacey Surestone sat down and for the first time since he had met her she seemed to relax a little.
Boots rang in the corridor, along with softer feet, and Robb Stark entered with some who can only have been his mother. She was a Tully to her fingertips and from the way that she warmly embraced Dacey the two had met before. Then she turned to Tyrion and he noticed that there was something at the back of her eyes as she greeted him. There was caution there. And unease. What was going on? Why did they seem to dislike Lannisters so much?
"My thanks Lord Stark," he said after another sip of wine, before noticing that an elderly balding man with the chains and robes of a Maester had also entered, closing the door him. "I should perhaps briefly mention my role in your cousin being here. I met the Lady Dacey in an inn about three days ride South of here. A badly run inn that had a thief and a scoundrel in charge of it. Food appalling, drink worse, filth everywhere. Things going missing. Coin especially. He was cheating your cousin and I suspect that he had designs on her."
Dacey closed her eyes and nodded wordlessly, whilst Lord Stark stared at them both and then turned a very nasty shade of red. "Where is this piece of filth?" He asked the question in a commendably level voice.
"Dead," Tyrion said with considerable satisfaction. "He made the mistake of trying to cheat a most formidable woman who was staying there with her merchant husband. A punch was thrown, knocking the landlord out and sadly it was later discovered that he fallen head-first into a full bucket and drowned. The inn has been taken over and improved enormously And I offered to escort the Lady Dacey here. To Winterfell."
Lord Stark settled a little, the anger leaving his face. "Then you have my most grateful thanks Lord Tyrion. Dacey – how did you come to be there though?"
She sighed. "Father died during a visit by cousin Willem – Ser Willem Bootle. He was Father's heir, although we he was there at the time still escapes me as-"
"One moment Dacey," Lord Stark interrupted. "But I don't understand. Bootle was not your father's heir. Your father came to me a year ago and told me that in the event of his death, Ser Willem Bootle was not to be allowed anywhere near Surestone."
"Word had reached us from the Riverlands, via my brother Edmure, that Ser Willem was a spendthrift, an idiot and a neer-do-well," Lady Stark said with a frown. "We told your father this."
Dacey looked at them both, obviously baffled. "He said nothing to me. When word came of Ser Willem's visit he just looked grim and said that it would be an awkward time for us as he had bad news to pass on. But he never said… wait, if Bootle was not the heir to Surestone, who was?"
"You, Dacey," Lord Stark said gently. "Your father came to me and said that Bootle would be removed from the succession as being unfit – and that he was always unfit as there should always be a Surestone in Surestone, as was the tradition. You should have inherited, as Maege Mormont did at Bear Island after her brother disgraced himself. Your father made that very clear to me and also left me a copy of his will and testament, signed in front of me and witnessed duly by me."
"Why did he not tell me? And why did Bootle say otherwise?" Dacey Surestone sounded angry and confused.
Tyrion broke in, a horrible suspicion crystallising in his own mind. "What exactly happened when Bootle arrived?"
"Father took him to his solar and they spoke for a long time. I saw Bootle afterwards and he looked very angry. That night Father took ill."
"And what was the nature of this illness?" Tyrion asked, feeling angry with himself for not asking this before.
"It took on the nature of an apoplexy. He could not speak and could barely open his eyes. He… he died the next day. And as he lay sick and dying Ser Willem Bootle announced that as the heir everyone had to obey his orders. And after Father was dead… Bootle said that he would send word to Winterfell, dismissed the Maester, all but looted my home and went off with it South." There was a numb horror in her voice. Yes, she suspected too.
"Poison perhaps?" Tyrion said the words softly and grimly and the room went still as they all seemed to think the same dark thoughts. "Maester… Luwin, was it? Yes. Arrowbinder perhaps? Or Hearts Forlorn?"
The Maester pursed his lips a little in thought. "Either might bring on the appearance of an apoplexy before killing. And both are known in the Riverlands." He shook his head a little. "And both are cruel ways to kill a man. The Maester at Surestone was… Grantle by name, I think? A very young man and also inexperienced."
Oddly enough Dacey Surestone now looked very like a female version of Lord Stark, whilst Robb Stark was pale with fury. And equally oddly he exchanged a peculiar look with his father that ended with the younger Stark shaking his head a little in some kind of message.
"Maester Luwin," Lord Stark said in a voice as implacable as the mountains of the North, "I need to send a raven to my Goodfather at Riverrun as soon as possible. I must demand the arrest and trial of Ser Willem Bootle on charges of murder and thievery. He robbed my cousin of her birthright!"
"I will prepare a raven at once My Lord," Luwin said formally. "My swiftest one to Riverrun."
"And I shall have some words to add to my father," Lady Stark said, shaking her head. "This is terrible. My poor Dacey – we will get you back Surestone. And the things that this Bootle stole."
Benjen
He was being watched. He'd know that for some time now, perhaps a day or so. The question was who was watching him? Wildlings? Perhaps not. He'd seen two groups in the past few days. Both had gone out of their way to avoid him – albeit with some hard stares and hands on sword pommels. But this new watcher was... different. More mysterious.
He gave a mental shrug as he rode Wanderer through the forest. Whoever they were he so far sensed no ill-will towards him. It was all most odd.
Wanderer plodded on and he looked about keenly. He almost liked the Haunted Forest, there was a refreshing simplicity about the place. It was… clean. He knew that he was foolish to go on alone though. However, Alek had fallen badly after his horse had shied at a raven that had flown almost straight at its head and he'd broken his arm badly. Too badly to continue and in fact too badly to get back to the Wall safely. He was a good man, Alek, a good woodsman, so he'd sent him back with Royce.
Royce worried him, and he knew that the man worried the Old Bear as well. He may have been a Royce of Runestone and therefore of the First Men, but he was too arrogant at times, to sure that he knew right and men of lower rank knew wrong. True, he had changed since he had heard the Call and apparently could sometimes he almost civil to the lower born Brothers of the Night's Watch, but Benjen still worried about him. He needed to learn that The Wall demanded certain changes to his way of thinking.
He stopped at noon and kindled a small fire, using it to cook a haunch of the rabbit that he'd killed three days before and left to hang from the back of his saddle wrapped in an old piece of cloth. As he ate he plotted his course in his head. North, parallel with the river. He'd avoided Craster's Keep – that man set his teeth on edge every time he saw him these days, there was something no right with him – and instead he wanted to head for the hills that led to the First of the First Men. A ranging patrol had vanished near there two months before. Perhaps they had been killed by wights?
The thought of wights and the Others made him shift uneasily for a moment. This seemed almost mad – but he had heard the Call so clearly on the way back to Castle Black. It had shaken him to realise that Ned was right.
As he finished the last of the rabbit and then carefully doused the fire he felt those watching eyes on him again. Yes, someone was there. Closer this time. Who were they? And were they living – or dead?
Straightening up he walked over to Wanderer and then mounted him. As he checked his reins and settled himself in the saddle he looked about of the corner of his eyes. No, nothing. No-one. Odd. Were they gone?
He clicked his tongue and rode on, still North. Every now and then he could see the hills ahead, with the Fist of the First Men somewhere amongst them. That place fascinated him. The name alone was a mystery. Why a fist? Why had it been so important to the First Men? He's once heard an old Black Brother mention a rumour that the Fist had once been a very important place for the Rangers – but that he did not know why. Benjen had explored the place himself a number of times, but had never found anything of significance.
An hour or so later he pricked an ear. Someone or something had snorted off to his left, a long way away. After a few minutes he heard another snort, closer now. He paused and then drew his sword carefully. A bear perhaps? Or a direwolf? He could hear the sound of heavy paws crunching on wet snow and damp twigs. What was there?
And then he saw a figure looming out of the trees to one side and he stopped Wandered dead in his tracks and stared at him. It was a man. Mounted on an elk, with huge horns. Whoever he was, the man was dressed in black robes, with a hood over his face and scarf wrapped around it. A great bow was at his back, and a quiver filled with long arrows with white fletches at his hip. The moment that he laid eyes on Benjen he nudged the elk to a halt with his feet.
There was a long moment of silence as the figure stared at Benjen. Finally it spoke: "Brother." Whoever he was, he spoke in a dry, unused voice that contained an odd note. "You are a Brother of the Rangers, I see. Well met."
Benjen stared at him. Well, this was no wight. But then again – what was he? "Well met. I am Benjen, First Ranger, son of Rickard."
The figure nodded in recognition. "There have been times when I have seen you at a distance. Well met, First Ranger. I am… I am called Coldhands."
An odd name. Benjen frowned a little. Who was this man, and why had he called him 'Brother'? "Are you linked to the Night's Watch? You called me Brother."
Coldhands sighed and then ran a hand over his breast for a moment. "I once served on the Wall. A long time ago. A long time indeed. I was… different then. Until I was sent on a greater mission. That… is a tale for another time. What brings a lone Ranger close to the old stronghold North of the Wall?"
Benjen stared at him and assessed. This was most peculiar. A Black Brother sent on a 'greater mission'? When? And by who? He mulled it over for another moment and then decided that it was time to take a risk.
"The Others have returned. We need proof – of wights at least. I am hunting for proof of a wight."
"Proof of a wight…" Coldhands mumbled. "They have indeed come. But how did you know?"
"A Call was issued. 'The Others come. The Stark call for aid. You are needed.'"
Whoever this Coldhands fellow was, he seemed so shocked that he just stared at Benjen for a long moment, before raising a trembling black-gloved hand to the scarf around his mouth and muttering something that Benjen did not catch. And then he turned the elk and gestured to him to follow as he urged the elk to start walking again. "Come. Follow."
Benjen watched him go for a moment in bewilderment and then kicked Wanderer into moving on again, to follow Coldhands. "Where? Where do we go to?"
"The Overlook. I was wondering when the Rangers would return to it."
He frowned. "The Overlook?"
"The… place of watching. Do you not know of it?"
"No!"
"Then follow and learn!"
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