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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 61
Robb
He peered at the ledger, running his finger down the carefully written entries. Then he paused, looked at the names on the letter from King's Landing and then smiled tightly. "And there's another. A warehouse company in White harbour. Apparently owned by a 'Barrowman' – another of Baelish's false names. Fach, the man had his fingers everywhere!"
"Indeed, my Lord. And here is yet another, also in White Harbour. A victualling company in a shipyard. Lord Manderly will not be pleased, although he will be happy to own it." Luwin leant back tiredly. "It seems that the late Lord Baelish will not be missed."
"You speak truly Maester Luwin." He paused. "Lord Bolton will also not be pleased. The Dreadfort has been dealing with a store company owned by a man called 'Smallkeep'. Yet another false name belonging to Littlefinger."
There was little warning other then the most cursory of knocks and then the door sprang open and Arya arrived. She had been running and she looked both excited and a little scared. "Arya? What's wrong?"
She caught her breath. "Robb! Where's… Father?"
"Talking to Mother. An old friend of hers has died. Well – was executed."
She looked extremely interested in that and started to ask a question, before catching herself and then waving her hands about. "Never mind that… Jon was in the… Godswood and his eyes went… all fiery and the Old… Gods spoke through his mouth!"
Robb came to his feet in an instant, Luwin next to him. "What? What happened?"
She turned to the door and then bounced a little in anticipation, before they finally heard the hurried footsteps – and then in came Jon with – of all the people – Tyrion Lannister next to him. The latter looked shaken.
"Where's Father?" Jon asked, looking about the Solar.
"Here," said Father as he walked in with a red-eyed Mother. Then he froze. "What has happened."
"I was going to pray in the Godswood with Jon, but I could see that he was talking to the Imp here-"
"Arya!" Mother said, scandalised. "Lord Tyrion is our guest! Apologise!"
"Sorry, Lord Tyrion, and then Jon knelt to pray and I was going to join him when all of a sudden he said "TYRION LANNISTER" in a voice like doom and then he turned around and his eyes were red! Red fire! Just like Father on the night that Edric Stark took him over and got the Direwolf! And then he said that the Imp-"
"ARYA!"
"Sorry, Lord Tyrion, was descended from Lann the Clever, son of the faithless Casterly, and that he had to go to the Nightfort to help a wandering man through a gate when the time was right and then his eyes went out, no, I mean the fire went out and he was Jon again!"
There was a short silence that was then broken by Tyrion Lannister: "I am most impressed, Lord Stark, by your daughter's ability to say all that without apparently breathing in at any point."
Robb shot an amused look at the little Lannister and then looked at Jon, who was blushing.
"Jon," said Father intently, "Is this true?"
"I don't know, Father," Jon said with an uncomfortable look on his face. "One moment I was kneeling before the Heart Tree and the next I was on my feet and Arya and Lord Tyrion were staring at me."
"Oh, it's true, Lord Stark," said Tyrion Lannister and he wandered over to a side table and then helped himself to a cup of wine. "Every word of it. Your Old Gods – or perhaps given the fact that they talked to me that should be our Old Gods – talked to me. Told me to go, indeed, to the Nightfort. Not entirely sure why, but they seemed very intent." He hopped up into a chair, drank what looked like half the wine in one gulp and then looked at Father. "So – I gather that this has happened before?"
"The night of the Direwolf," said Father reluctantly. "And I have no memories from that night either."
Tyrion Lannister swirled the remaining wine in his cup around and then looked at Father with surprisingly keen eyes. "Your Old Gods said that Lann the Clever – Lann Casterly much to my surprise as the full name of Lann has long been a mystery – was faithful to the Stark in Winterfell. I am guessing that our two Houses were once much closer."
"They were," Luwin said softly. "The oldest of the records say that Casterly Rock would send dragonglass – obsidian – to Winterfell whenever it was found."
"But no more." Tyrion Lannister drank the rest of the wine. "Lord Stark, I was convinced before, somewhat reluctantly, that the Others had returned. I am now fully convinced. The Old Gods are speaking. Perhaps we should listen very carefully to what they are saying."
Robb looked around the room. Arya was serious now, whilst Jon was pale – as were Father, Mother and Luwin. It was Robb who broke the silence. "Why the Nightfort?"
The short man spread his hands. "I am to help a wandering man through a gate there. At some unspecified time, although apparently I will know when." He peered at the map. "Well, my plan was always to visit the Wall. Given how long the Nightfort has been abandoned, I am guessing that it won't be as hospitable a place as Castle Black."
"It's the oldest of the castles," Luwin muttered, "With a black reputation. Some say that it's cursed."
"Of course it's cursed," Tyrion Lannister sighed. "That's my lot in life. Cursed with too big a brain, cursed with too short a pair of legs, cursed with too large a… erm, let me end that sentence there."
He hopped down to pour himself more wine – and then he paused. "Five days ago I had a dream, Lord Stark. A passing odd one. I was leading men South, into The Reach. The Bone Road was closed, Dorne had abandoned us, King Robert was missing and no word had come from Winterfell in a long time. The dead were marching from Casterly Rock, which had fallen to them and the Iron Islands were also gone." And then he turned white as a sheet. "There was a Lord Greyjoy there – an older version of the boy I saw training your son Bran! Older and far more tired! Why did I suddenly only remember that detail of the dream until now? Surely it was just a dream?"
"Theon Greyjoy can tell you something about dreams," Father said grimly. "He was marked by a dream. That dream of yours could be important, Lord Tyrion. Try and remember as much of it as possible. The son or Lord Reed is here. He's a Greenseer and might see something in you."
The Lannister man stared oddly at Father and then finally poured himself more wine. "I think I also need to word a very careful letter to my father. He will not believe any of this, so I must till the grounds with just the right words." He drank a little. "I genuinely don't know what to say in that letter."
Jaime
The garden of the Red Keep was a beautiful place, Jaime thought as he wandered through the rose beds with Cersei on his arm. There were times when he could almost imagine what things would be like in a perfect world.
"That fat fool could have killed you!" Cersei spat the words with a venom unique to her as her finger traced the line of the cut. A Maester had cleaned the wound carefully and then sewn it shut with as fine a needle and thread as possible. There would be a fine line for a while afterwards he had been told, but with luck no permanent scar.
He raised a languid eyebrow at his sister. The touch of her finger left him burning inside, but they were in a public place and there were certain niceties to be observed. "The fat king can be blamed for many things, my dear sister, but this was not his fault." He pulled out the corroded cross section of sword that he had been keeping in his pocket. "See?"
She took it and transferred her glare to the piece of metal. After a moment she frowned. "Odd. It was rusty inside?"
"It seems so. Peculiar because I never even suspected it. Seven Hells, I killed a bandit three weeks ago on the road with it. Felt fine in my hands then. Sounded fine as well." He shrugged. "I'll get a new one from the Street of Steel."
"I know you will," she smirked at him. "But from the Red Keep. I have a master smith here ready for you. You'll need to attend to give them your measurements for your height and reach, but it will be better than your old one. Less rusty. And every time you plunge it into someone, you'll think of me."
There was something hot and rough in her low voice and he quivered with need for her for a long moment. Then he rubbed a finger under his nose and under the cover of it whispered: "Tonight?"
"Tonight," she whispered back. "The tower."
He smiled at her and then pocketed the piece of sword as they sat on a bench. "Father will be angry with the man who wrought this," he said wryly. "Most angry." Then he sobered. "I still don't understand it though."
"Pay it no mind, it's just a sword," Cersei said with a shrug and he was about to tell her off for such words when a scream of utter horror pierced the air. It was long and horrible and filled with such an unutterable pain that Jaime came to his feet in a trice, his hand on the sword he'd borrowed from the armoury, looking for a threat.
Another scream, one that was somehow even louder and more heartbreaking, and then he heard booted feet running past. He peered over a rosebush and watched as a man in Arryn colours dashed past, panting. "You!" Jaime called. "What's going on?"
The man skidded to a halt and looked back, obviously annoyed, only to swallow and nod respectfully as he saw Jaime. "Your pardon Ser Jaime. Lady Arryn has just caught sight of the head of the traitor Baelish on its spike. She did not know that he was dead apparently." He nodded again and then ran on, leaving Jaime looking at his receding back with bemusement.
"Well," he said to Cersei softly, "It seems that Lysa Arryn is rather behind the times. She didn't know that Littlefinger was dead."
"She had more than a soft spot for him in her heart," Cersei smirked a little. "Such a shame."
But Jaime frowned. "She mourns him. No-one else did." Then he shook his head. Ah well. He eyed his sister. And then he hungered for night to fall.
Benjen
When morning came he rolled his blanket back up, covered it with the oilskin cloth and then put it back in his bag. Breakfast was a rather stale roll and a few dried currants that he'd soaked in water from the spring in the lower part of the Overlook. He was memorising as much as possible about the place for the future. This was a place that the Night's Watch desperately needed. Why had it been forgotten about?
Perhaps there was a clue in the solar, or at least that was what he'd named it in his head. The place was cluttered and untidy and he'd only had time to look through it once the previous day before the light had faded – and with all that dust in there he didn't want to walk in with a lighted brand and set fire to anything.
The chair looked as if it was about fall apart, but the desk itself was huge and old. It was also weirwood, which hardened with age. He leafed through everything slowly. There were two huge ledgers, closed and fastened with metal binders, and another book that looked badly battered by the years.
He started with the ledgers. The paper was very old and yellowed and he had to handle the pages with care, but he could see to his fascination that was a series of accounts of patrols and sightings. The ink was old and faded and in some places the entries were in the Old Tongue. As he went from entry to entry over the crackling pages a theme started to emerge; one of neglect. Fewer and fewer men were sent to Overlook, none seemed to know what the place was for, other than to be used to watch for Wildlings. One phrase stood out. "Ye traditional weapons." What traditional weapons? Apparently a final set of caches had been buried at the Fist of the First Men. Where? It didn't say.
Then there was the other phrase. The Wanderer – was that Coldhands? – had been seen here and there, The Wanderer had been given fresh supplies, The Wanderer had been asked about the disappearance of the Children of the Forest… wait, what? The Rangers had once had dealings with the Children? He pored over the book more carefully. From what he could tell there had been isolated sightings here and there until… he blanched. Four or five hundred years before the arrival of Aegon (how old was this book? Was it a copy of a copy of a copy?). But if The Wanderer was Coldhands… then how old was he? What was he?
The last entries in the book were in the thin, spidery scrawl of an old man – and they spoke of neglect and abandonment. Few rangers knew about the place, pestilence of some sort had broken out back at the Wall, supplies were few. The last entry read simply: "My watch is done." He ran a finger over the words with sadness and then frowned.
He went back to his saddlebags and hunted through them for his own small bound book. He used it to record eventful happenings North of the Wall whenever he could and he had a metal quill that his father had bought him a long time ago and a pot of ink. Opening the latter he peered into it, grunted with satisfaction at the sight that it was still liquid and then returned to the book. Selecting a new page he carefully wrote out a new entry: "I, Benjen Stark, First Ranger of the Nights Watch, did restart the occupation and usage of Overlook, paying homage to the memories of those who came before me." Then he carefully dated it. It felt right to have done it.
Closing the journal he looked about. The second book was one of more formal accounts and supplies and he closed that after a few moments of silent pondering. Then he turned to the third one.
This was very different. It looked as if it had been hastily assembled out of whatever paper and parchment was around and… the first pages made no sense. All that was on it was a set of smearing scrawls, like the first attempt of a child to write. It was in charcoal and whoever had written it had smeared the page badly. He kept turning the pages. More scrawls, but with a hint of actual letters here and there. He went on a few pages and then stopped and stared at the page in front of him. No. Impossible? He flipped to the last page with writing on it. By now it was clear. Just the same two lines, but this time it was readable.
Benjen closed the book and replaced it. "Ned needs to know about this," he said quietly. "And soon."
It was then that the little cages caught his eye. They were set into recesses on the stone wall to one side and there were five of them. Oh and there was a sixth, much larger one. He eyed them carefully. These must be the cages that Coldhands had mentioned and he pulled one out of its recess, and gently blew the dust off it, before clearing the more stubborn dust off the runes carved along one side of it. 'Cageproof', or possibly, 'Cage certain,' he wasn't sure which. The wording was old and archaic.
Then he looked at the larger one. Ah. Big enough to contain a head. Yes, that might be one way to convince someone like Tywin bloody Lannister, although the thought of riding through the Seven Kingdoms with a severed head that appeared to be alive gave him a shudder of horror. He pulled the cages out and then lined them up along the desk. Very well then. He had the tools for the job. Now he just needed to find some wights.
He strode back into the larger room, replacing his things in his saddlebags and then meticulously readied himself. His sword was already sharp, but he carefully honed it again, just to make sure, along with the short sword that he also carried as a reserve. And then he thought carefully about every legend he'd ever heard about wights. Fire apparently killed them, as even if you sliced them into pieces those pieces would still move about. Which was the whole point of the cages.
Hearing footsteps he tensed a little and then relaxed as Coldhands appeared in the door to the stairs. The other man nodded. "Brother, I have found wights. Six of them. We must be wary."
Benjen looked at him. "Three to one are poor odds."
Coldhands shrugged. "I've fought at worse odds. Besides, we have weapons here." He walked into one of the rooms off to one side and pulled out an ancient looking bag, from which he pulled out some clay bottles that had been stoppered. "Oil. Wights do not react well to fire."
Benjen nodded and then shouldered his saddlebags. "Will we be returning here? The cages are on the desk."
"We shall. One last thing. If, when we are fighting the wights, it gets even colder than it already is – run. The cold means that one of the Others is approaching and unless you have dragonglass on you then you will die if you try to fight it." Coldhands said the last words with a terrible intensity and Benjen nodded carefully.
They trotted down the stairs to the cave that also served as a stable, where Wanderer whickered at him in greeting. He gave him a small handful of oats, checked that his steed didn't need water and then quickly saddled him. As Coldhands led the way out of the cave on his elk he pointed at the gates. "These should be closed at night. No night patrols, Brother, not now. It's too dangerous. When the doors are closed then this place is safe. It's warded."
"I understand," Benjen said quietly. "No night patrols and the gates to be closed." And then they were outside.
Coldhands led then on a wide, swinging path, first East and then straight dead North. At one point he slowed and seemed to sniff the air. "The Free People are moving South," he said quietly. "The Giants too. Things are moving faster than I feared."
Benjen looked sideways at him for a moment. "I read the ledgers," he said carefully. "There was talk in them of the Children of the Forest. Are they all gone now?"
His question resulted in a long moment of silence from Coldhands, before a sigh emerged from the man. "I cannot tell you." He shook his head. "There are things about which I cannot speak, Brother. The Three-Eyed Crow could tell you, but that is for another day."
Benjen absorbed this in silence as they rode along, now travelling down a long wooded valley. Coldhands had not said that they were gone, just that he could not speak of them. Perhaps some still lived? That was less of a surprise than he would have thought just a few months ago. A flash of red to one side caught his eye and he looked over to see a Heart Tree to one side, a very old one. Who had carved the face on that one? When? Had it been done by one of the First Men or a Child?
As they rode out of the valley Coldhands raised a closed fist and brought his elk to a halt. "Tether your steed to a tree, Brother. We go on from here on foot. We want no warning to reach them."
Benjen nodded again and then slipped off Wanderer, before leading the horse to the nearest tree that he could find with a low branch to tie the reins to. His heart was beating a little faster and he shifted his grip on his sword a little.
The other man tethered his elk and then pulled out the clay jars, along with an old cloak and a pair of brands, which he carefully lit. "I hope that you can throw," he said as he handed over one of the brands and two of the jars. "I will call out when and where. Once you do I suggest you use your sword to sever hands and arms. Heads too if you can."
"I shall," he replied. "Lead on."
Coldhands led him down a snowy way until a clump of trees appeared around a corner at the end of the valley. "There."
Benjen peered at the trees. "I can't see anyone."
"They are on the ground, covered in snow. Be ready." And with that Coldhands started to stamp on the ground heavily as they approached the trees.
Benjen was about to ask when he was doing, but then he caught sight of slight movement up ahead. A mound of snow was... stirring? Yes, there was someone there. Several others were also stirring and then snow cascaded down and six figures were suddenly emerging from the snow. He stared at them as they slowly turned to face them and then started to shuffle through the snow towards them. Three were not long dead – he could see blood and terrible wounds on them – and they were wildlings, a man, a woman and most heartbreakingly a child of about 10. All quite dead. Two others had been dead for longer, judging by the rags and the skeletal faces. And then there was the one in front. The one dressed in black. He had been a member of the Night's Watch once. The colour of what remained of the hair and the sword that was strapped to his back… it was old Ser Willem Glover, who taken the Black ten years before – and then vanished without trace on a ranging three years ago.
"A Brother of ours," Coldhands said sadly. "I will take care of him. Throw your jars at the older wights. We need the fresher ones. Better proof." And with that he threw his first jar straight at the wight that had once been Willem Glover. It smashed at once and oil splashed all down the wight – and then the brand was thrown straight after the jar and dear old Ser Willem Glover, or the silent thing that had once been his sworn Brother, went up in flames.
The terrible thing was that a live man would have screamed, but instead the wight never made a sound as it kept on walking. The clothes burned, the hair burned, the face burned, but the wight didn't make a sound as it kept walking forwards – right up until the moment it stopped walking and fell over. Benjen swallowed and then threw his own first jar. And missed.
He cursed and threw the second one against the leading one of the older wights. If he had been unlucky before then he got lucky with the second throw, because not only did he hit his target but he spattered both wights so that when he threw his own brand by some freakish chance they both caught fire.
It was the silence that once again struck him as, other than the roar of the flames, there wasn't a sound in the valley. It wasn't like any other fight he'd ever been in. No shouts of defiance, no bellows of pain – no, no screams of pain. As the two older wights staggered and then fell, Coldhands drew his own sword and then swept forwards towards the three surviving wights. Benjen also drew his sword and followed him, being careful to stay out of his sword reach.
The female wight came at him, arms out stretched, a crude metal dagger in one hand. That was the hand that he targeted and he chopped it off her hand at the wrist, and then severed her left arm at the shoulder. That jarred more than a bit – his sword was ordinary steel, not Valaryian steel like Ice – and he knew he'd feel it later, especially when he kicked the wight in the stomach, so that it staggered back, and then chopped her head clean off. To his horror the body still kept staggering forwards – until he severed a leg with a grunt.
It was then that he sensed the child wight, which was coming straight for him. A girl, she had once been, and a pretty one. Well, pretty no more. Her lower jaw was gone and her throat was a red ruin. He swallowed and then hardened his head. A roll of his wrists brought the sword around in a double-handed sweep and her head fell from her shoulders. He reversed the sweep and felt the blade crunch into her spine – and then stick. He cursed, tugged at it and then was lucky enough to free it. Another blow and the child wight law in two more pieces in the snow.
Panting he looked around. Coldhands was watching him, with the severed pieces of the other wight on the ground around him. Seeing his look the other man nodded. "Well done, Brother. Never easy, to face your first wight. But you need to beware what they can do – see?" he pointed with his sword and Benjen looked down – and then cursed and jumped back. A hand was on the ground by his foot, reaching for something to grab. And the other pieces of the wights around him were still moving.
Coldhands spread out the old cloak and then started to wrap various pieces up. A hand here and there, the head of the female wight and then three more hands. And then he threw the remaining pieces onto the smouldering remains of the wights that had been killed with the oil, before throwing the other clay jars onto what was now a pyre.
"Farewell, Ser Willem Glover. And now your watch is done," Benjen muttered as he looked at the burning remains of the wight that he had once knew. "I knew him, Coldhands. I knew him."
"Then he has been avenged," Coldhands replied, before looking around. "We must leave this place. If we tarry we will be in danger."
His skin prickled with fear. "An Other?"
"Not close, but approaching. Back to the Overlook."
Wanderer shifted uneasily as they approached, but the elk just looked at Coldhands and then submitted to being mounted. And then they were off again, at a quick trot, away from the smudge of dirty black smoke behind them in the sky. As they went Benjen considered what had just happened. He was the first member of the Night's Watch to battle a wight and survive in… centuries at least. He had to get back to tell the rest of them at the Wall and pass on what he now knew, he just had to. Fire was the weapon of choice against them. What would dragonglass – sorry, obsidian – do? Perhaps fire arrows? Catapults on the wall? More oil – but that had its own dangers, both to the wall and in the handling of it. Where would they get the oil? Fish oil? Rendered fat? Arrows on their own would not work. And his Brothers in the Night's Watch needed to know that.
Before he knew it they were back at the Overlook, and as they threaded their way down the valley he looked at the sun as it shone down through a murky sky. If he started back now, then he could make it to the Wall in a few days, riding hard and risking Wanderer.
Perhaps it would be worth it. On the other hand perhaps he should be more careful with his horse. If he exhausted Wanderer on his way South then this would all have been for nothing.
As they arrived back at the Overlook and dismounted Coldhands turned to him. "You should start for the Wall as soon as you can. The Other will not miss those wights, but he might think that Free Folk killed them and seek them out."
Benjen nodded as he thought about it. "I'll avoid Craster's Keep then."
Coldhands stared at him sharply. "He must be avoided at all costs. That place is no longer safe. He cannot be trusted. He worships the Others."
His stomach turned over. "What?"
"He worships the Others, he is accursed. He gives his sons to the Others, so that they leave him alone."
Oh, this was not good. Craster was friendly to the Night's Watch and especially the Rangers. Damn it. "Then I shall pass word to avoid him," he replied grimly. "Or kill him."
Coldhands nodded and then led the way back up the stairs with the slightly squirming bundled cloak in his hands. When they reached the main room he looked at Benjen. "Bring the cages please. I will keep the… pieces… separate."
He nodded and strode into the study, where he stacked up the various cages and then brought them through. He could see that Coldhands had started with the hands, which were clenching and unclenching in an effort to…. what? Get free? Crush something? Kill them?
Coldhands took one of the small cages from him and then opened it carefully at the top. To Benjen's surprise the hinges did not squeal and he peered at the cage. What kind of metal was it? He couldn't tell. Coldhands then dropped one of the hands into the cage and then closed it quickly, before moving on to the others. He finished with the head, something that made Benjen shudder. The eyes were open and glared at them both through cloudy films, whilst the mouth opened and closed.
"The cages will slow the rot to a crawl, but not stop it completely," Coldhands said quietly as he then packed the cages into a saddlebag. "But they will convince any doubters."
"Some will doubt the very idea, but aye, you are right," he replied as he took the saddlebag from Coldhands. Then he paused. "My thanks for all your help."
From the crinkling around the black eyes the other man smiled. "It was my pleasure to help a Brother of the Night's Watch. Especially the First Ranger." He paused. "Which reminds me."
Benjen watched as Coldhands strode off into one of the rooms and then returned with a small wooden box. "The last ranger who was here. His name was Jojen Blackwood, son of Eddard Blackwood. He was a good man. Get him safely home please Brother."
He felt his throat constrict in sorrow for a moment. "I shall." And then it was his turn to pause. "I… I read the ledgers. Updated the book. Rangers will return here."
This pleased Coldhands, who nodded with looked like every happiness. "Good. Good."
"And… I read the other book."
Coldhands bowed his head slightly. "Ah. The book. Writing it…. helped me to focus after…. After what was done to me to help me. Then you have questions."
"Yes… but I know there is no time. I will say this. When first we met I told you that my name was Benjen, son of Rickard. I did not say of what house. My full name is Benjen Stark."
Coldhand's eyes widened and then went to his face. "Yes," he said after a long moment. "I think I see it in your face. A long time has passed since I last met a Stark. Long indeed." And then he rubbed his gauntleted hands together, as if he was nervous. "Tell me… does Winterfell still stand?"
"Aye, it does. Winterfell endures, as it always has."
"Then the crypts are maintained?"
"Always."
"Then when you return there, find out the tomb of Edwyle Stark and tell him that his son Rickon still holds his mission above all else. I…. have a duty, you see. I cannot say more, other than I have a mission that I must one day complete. A burden I must share with my successor. And then my watch will be done."
There was a tone in his voice that made Benjen's eyes mist up for a moment, a weariness but also an absolute determination. Whatever was keeping this man – and he was a man, he was no wight even if he should have been long dead by now – going, then it was important. He knew that.
Benjen drew himself up. "Farewell Rickon Stark. You have a namesake in Winterfell, my brother's boy."
"Farewell Benjen Stark. We will meet again, I sense it. Because you know, as well as I, that Winter is Coming."
He nodded and then he turned and passed through the door to the stable. The Wall called him. And he needed to forget the desperate scrawl on the pages of that third book. It ended: "My name is Rickon Stark. My hands are cold, but my heart is still mine." But it started: "Name Rickon Stark. Hands cold. Coldhands."
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