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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 58
Apologies for the delay on this again. My wife's post op recovery has been better than we thought, but I am knackered.
Jaime
He had to face facts. It was hard to admit this, as it flew in the face of years of silent contempt and quiet japes. But it had to be done. Robert Baratheon was starting to worry him.
The Fat King was sparring with Selmy at the moment, the first with Stormbreaker and the second with his own beloved sword. He could tell that Selmy wasn't quite giving it his all – but then neither was he letting the Fat King up easy. Selmy was still as brilliant as ever, more than Jaime liked to admit. But Baratheon… well, he never made the same mistake twice. His normal weapon was the war hammer, a devastating weapon in its own right, but a different one from Stormbreaker. It needed a different grip, a different stance, a different way of controlling the impetus. And Baratheon was absorbing every lesson and learning.
Selmy won the bout, but only just and as the two men leant, panting, on their swords he explained to Baratheon just what exactly it was that he had done wrong in a low voice. The Fat King listened carefully, absorbing every word with a frown of concentration, his feet moving slightly as he seemed to relive what he had done – and what he had done wrong.
Jaime sighed slightly and then looked over his shoulder to the North. He wondered idly what young Dayne was doing now – and what he had done in that 'Godswood' that didn't even contain a Weirwood tree. Word had it that he had left it pale and trembling. That said, word also had it that Petyr Baelish had faked his own death, that Robert Baratheon was the bastard son of Aerys Targaryen and that it was possible to balance an egg on its end on the equinox. Frankly you couldn't really trust the word on the street at times.
"Selmy, you look done in," Baratheon panted finally, before stretching and hefting that big damn sword of his. "And don't deny that you have a cold. I can hear you sniffling."
Ser Barristan smiled slightly. "I may not be entirely at my best, I must admit Your Grace. But you asked me to teach you, and teach you I shall."
"Aye, but not at the expense of you falling over. KIngslayer! Can you take over from Ser Barristan?"
He smirked slightly as he stood. "But of course Your Grace. I shall endeavour to complete your education with the sword. Ser Barristan – where shall I start?"
"Footwork, Ser Jaime. His Grace needs to work on his footwork. And also his swing, but you know my mantra."
The smirk grew a little. "Aye. 'Place your feet right and you can slay giants'. Very well – Your Grace?"
The Fat King worked his shoulders up and down for a long moment and then sent a tight grin his way. "Very well then, Kingslayer. Let's see what you're made of then?"
More than you are, fatso, Jaime thought with a smirk, before drawing his sword and stepping forwards. There was a moment of silence and then he started to watch the King's eyes. The key to any fight – even a mere sparring match like this, with both men pulling their strokes before any actual damage could be done – was the eyes. You watched the eyes of your opponent. They gave away the moment before they played a stroke.
He watched those blue eyes carefully. They were narrowed already, studying him back. And then Baratheon showed that he was truly formidable, because his eyes didn't even flicker as he swung Stormbreaker. Jaime parried it with an internal curse. The bloody man knew all about that eye thing. Had probably used that against him.
Another parry, one that staggered him slightly – and then he swung against his King, forcing him back a step. There was a slightly feral grin on the face of Baratheon now, one that scared him just a little bit. The swords clashed again and he felt a frown steal over his face. His sword sounded wrong all of a sudden, as if it was balanced wrongly – which was insane. He could tell by the way that Ser Barristan had looked up suddenly to one side that he too had heard that discordant note of steel against whatever the Seven Hells Stormbreaker was made from.
Baratheon swung again, a blow over his shoulder and he swung his own sword up to meet it – and then the world twisted and turned around his head. As the two swords met Stormbreaker seemed to boom almost – and his own sword shattered like a piece of Myrish glass. Shards flew everywhere and one brushed his cheek, leaving first a cold feeling and then burning pain.
Both men staggered as their impetus took them away from each other, but Baratheon controlled his rush in time whilst Jaime did not. One of his feet seemed to get tangled with the other and to his humiliation he ended up sprawled on the floor, still clutching his broken sword.
There was a moment of shocked silence and then Baratheon turned to face him. "By all the Gods! Are you alright there Kingslayer?" He stepped forwards and reached out with one massive hand. Jaime took it and then was jerked to his feet in one powerful pull. "What happened?"
Jaime looked at his sword, or what was left of it. It had shattered at a point about a foot above the hilt. He'd never seen anything like it. "I don't know," he said dazedly. "It broke."
"Well, you're bleeding – someone fetch a Maester!" Baratheon shouted, and it was then that he felt the trickle of blood running down his face.
As someone placed a stool behind him and as he sank down onto it he looked at what remained of the sword. So much for best Westerlands steel. If Father heard about this then he'd probably kill the smith who had forged it.
"Well so much for your sword," Baratheon rumbled. "That's peculiar."
"Most peculiar, Your Grace," Ser Barristan said. "Most odd." The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard was squatting amidst the shards on the floor, his fingers running over the pieces carefully. He held one up. "Corrosion."
Jaime took the proffered piece and stared at it. The inside of the blade was… rusted? He gaped at it. "That… that isn't possible. How can it be corroded from the inside? I inspected it once a day. Honed it too. I never saw any sign of corrosion."
"I know you did," Ser Barristan said, confusion in his own voice. "I watched you do it on so many days."
"I would never have missed any such rust – and how could it only be on the inside?"
"I know not," the Lord Commander rumbled. "And yet it happened. Passing odd indeed."
More than passing odd, Jaime thought as a Maester hurried towards him with a clean cloth and a bowl of water. He might have a scar after this. What would Cersei say? And then he saw the thoughtful look in Ser Barristan's eyes as he looked at the corroded inside of his sword. And for the briefest moment he felt some indefinable emotion.
Benjen
He'd been up by the Fist of the First Men before, but not that much in the hills to the North of it. He'd asked the enigmatic man leading him about just why it was called the Fist of the First Men, but all he'd gotten in reply had been that the place had seen battles – but that it was no longer safe. "The walls are weak and the caches are too well hidden," Coldhands had told him. "And the Others know it too well. That's the reason why Overlook was built." And that had been all he'd say.
They were riding now along the bottom of a valley between two hills, and up ahead he could see a great cliff. He'd seen this valley before, but he'd never gone into it, as there was no way out of it if attacked. As he rode he frowned at the ground. There was what appeared to be a path here and there, but it looked long-neglected.
As they approached the cliff he looked at it, puzzled. There was no way through there, surely? And then Coldhands guided his elk around one crag and then another and then a crack in the cliff emerged, one wide enough to admit the antlers of the elk. As they passed into it and the light started to fade they turned a corner and suddenly they were in a cave, with old gates to one side with runes carved into them. Light was shining down from an opening far above them and he could see that one wall had iron rings hammered into the rock. It was a stable?
Coldhands tied his elk up and then pulled his saddlebags off and as Benjen did the same with Wanderer the other man used what looked like a very old and well-used tinderbox to light a pair of brands that had been one of many carefully piled up to one side.
"I always keep a supply ready," Coldhands said quietly. "Just in case." He waited until Benjen was finished with Wanderer and then he held one of the brands out. "Here."
Benjen took it and then followed the other man as he walked over to an opening in the cave that turned out to be a roughly carved passage that curved leftwards and slightly upwards, until they came to an old stone door that was open. On the other side were stairs that spiralled upwards, carved out of the living rock.
"The Overlook," Coldhands said as he entered. "Once a base of Rangers of the Night's Watch."
Benjen stared about him in bewilderment. He had never heard of this place at all. "This a goodly place to have North of the Wall. Why did it come to be abandoned?"
"I know not, Brother," Coldhands muttered. "The last Ranger to come here spoke of pestilence among the Night's Watch and fading memories of the things that were important. He died here. I burnt his body and his ashes wait to be taken back to the Wall. He was a Blackwood."
He nodded. "I shall take them back with me."
Silence fell as they passed on upwards and after a while Benjen realised that he had lost count of the number of steps they had taken. And then suddenly he saw light up ahead and then another doorway.
Beyond that was another cave – or was it? Three of the walls were carved stone but the other was a wall of well-worked stones, with holes at irregular intervals along it. Some kind of crystal, clear as glass in places, was in the holes. There were doorways off to one side and he could see what looked like stripped wooden cots in them. There was another room off to one side and he could see what seemed to be a great wooden desk, blackened with age. The place was warmer than he had first thought.
"There is a warm spring beneath. Another passage leads there. And the 'windows' overlook the approaches to the Fist of the First Men. I have seen the Others there sometimes of late. They know it too well. You must warn your Brothers on the Wall."
He looked around again. "I wish I had known of this place before."
"I come here sometimes to…. to remember." Coldhands' voice seemed to quaver for an instant. "Once this place was very different."
Benjen looked at the other man, his mind filled with questions. Who was he? Come to that, what was he – how old could he be? He was about to ask one of many questions when Coldhands raised a hand. "You must wait here for a day. Let me scout the area out. If there are wights nearby then I shall find out where. You will need proof. And there are some means to provide it in the office of the First Ranger. There are cages for hands, forged by the First Men. I must go." And with that he left.
Benjen listened to the receding footsteps and then sighed a little. Well now – he should probably look at this office. Office of the First Ranger, eh? When had that been? When had anyone been here from the Wall last, in years? Perhaps there would be records, or at least some mention.
But first he walked over to the wall and those openings. He could see clear across the valley, right to the foot of the Fist of the First Men. This was a valuable place, somewhere that the Rangers needed to use again. This was a place of deep history.
He turned back to the other room. He needed more answers.
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