7,568It's been a bad month. Sebastian the cat has kidney disease and we are dealing with things and possibly preparing for the worst whilst trying to be positive here. And we here in London have been dealing with a heatwave that by our standards (90+F, 34+C) has been horrible, so I am badly short on sleep. But here this is.
Jon Stark
There wasn't a Maester in Barrowtown, but there were various people who could patch people up and he had to admit that they had done a fairly good job on Father and himself. The stitches itched a bit, days later, but he was pleased with himself afterwards. Barrowtown had rejoiced, free of the mysterious fog, free of the fear of the voices in the fog.
Before they'd left on the way South Father had taken Lord and Lady Dustin – who had been tip-toeing around each other like two cats around a patch of sunlight – into Lady Dustin's solar and then talked to them for just short of an hour. Whatever had been said in that room he did not know, but he did note that the two were standing closer together at the gate to see them off than they had ever been before, by his estimation at least.
Father had only grunted "Gods, I wish Cat was here to knock their heads further together," and then acknowledged the cheers of the crowd before saying just one word more: "Ride!"
And now here they were, sailing South down the Barrow River. Apparently Asha Greyjoy's ship would join them when the river joined the sea and then they would separate into their respective parties and sail off.
If there was one thing that he was already grateful for on this trip, it was that it had driven home how little he ever wanted to be King of anything. Stannis Baratheon would occasionally have messages delivered via message pouches by riders from nearby holdfasts in the few places where they could dock. And by all the Gods many of those messages were, in the words of the Hand of the King, "Nothing but dross" – messages from all kinds of Lords for favours or about minor matters. And some of them were so minor that he wanted to laugh in astonishment.
But, as Father put it, great matters were made from a thousand small things. And he never wanted to deal with that many small things. He was going to be very happy with a castle of his own here in the North. If, that is, he survived the war on the Wall.
And if he survived this bloody voyage, because he was increasingly sure that Ygritte Redhair was trying to drive him raving mad. She seemed to be as inconstant as the wind, blowing at him from one direction and then another. She went from laughing at him with Asha Greyjoy, to making comments about his arse that made his cheeks flame, to just giving him challenging looks. He had no idea at times what to do.
So now, after a particularly annoying bout of giggling by Ygritte and Asha about him, he stomped away from them both, up along the deck and then stood by the mainmast and fumed quietly, with Ghost watching him. Far ahead of him Father was talking quietly with Lord Stannis.
"You shouldn't let them get to you that much."
He turned to one side and saw that Theon Greymist was sitting to one side, Mist next to him, both staring at the shore as it passed by. "I thought you were in your cabin."
"I'm here. Staring and thinking."
"What about?"
The former Ironborn pulled a face. "Within a week I'll be face to face with my father again. The father whose legacy and heritage I've renounced. I've been rehearsing what to say to him. He'll be angry, he'll shout about me becoming a Greenlander, he'll tell me I'm a disgrace to the name of House Greyjoy, before giving me orders about going back to the King and demanding I take it all back…" He shrugged. "I'll just tell him that what's done is done. I am of the North now. A Greenlander." He ran his hand affectionately over the top of Mist's head, smiling a little as the direwolf tried to lick his hand. Yes, he had changed.
"We'll be with you," Jon muttered. "And the Hand of the King. Your father will try in vain to order you about."
A complex look flashed across Theon's face, a combination of dread, fear, resolve and determination. "If he orders that Mist be harmed I'll kill him myself." There was a long moment of silence – and then Theon looked at him wryly. "Father won't be happy with my choice of a wife. But damn what he says."
Jon looked back at him. "You are sure about this? I mean… Theon, she's…" He could not finished the sentence.
"She's a whore," Theon said with a grim smile, before shrugging. "I love her. She loves me. I don't care what people will say. I have a chance to be happy and I mean to take it. You know what's coming at the Wall. I might not survive the War. But I'll do my best to found a House Greymist on the Stony Shore and build the North a fleet for its Western approaches. And maybe in a hundred years my descendants will just be known as a bit less Ironborn and a bit more Northern." He shrugged. "It's my decision. And you need to be happy too. Marry that Ginger of yours."
"She's a Wildling! Or rather Free Folk, you know… It's not that easy Theon. I'm a Stark now. And I don't know what she wants. She drives me mad sometimes." He looked at the prow of the boat, where Stannis Baratheon had finished his talk with Father and was now walking back along the other side of the ship.
"She wants you," Theon grinned. "So don't be so daft. Stop brooding, you daft bugger. Take a chance and be happy." He sighed and then looked at the shore again.
Jon left him there, obviously thinking again about the talk with Balon Greyjoy that was to come, and then strode up to Father, who was standing near the bowsprit as the wind ruffled his hair. "Father."
"Jon." Father looked at him and then looked back along the length of the ship at the others. "How goes things?"
"Theon is set on marrying Ros, no matter what anyone else says, Asha Greyjoy has been telling the Captain that if he reset his sails a bit this 'lubbersome scow', whatever that means, might move faster and Ygritte is… being herself."
Father actually laughed at this and then shook his head. "You'll come to understand women, in time." He tilted his head. "I did. Eventually. As for Theon… I understand what he's doing. He's changed a lot. He had to. We accept him, and that's the important bit. As for Ygritte… well, she's a challenge."
He looked at Father, confused. "I thought that you'd be against me pursuing her. I mean… I'm a Stark now and she's… she's a Wildling."
Father's face stilled for a moment and then he turned to look downriver. "What do you see?"
Confused he also looked in the same direction. "I don't understand. The river?"
"Alright… what don't you see?"
Now he was really confused. "I'm sorry Father, but… what?"
And now Father sigh a little. "How many towns have we sailed past? Villages? Docks? How many boats have we seen? Not big ships like this, rowing boats or coracles?"
Jon looked at the river. "Not many," he conceded. "Why?"
"The North is huge, Jon. But its population is not. The people are brave and hardy and now how to farm here – but aren't numerous, not compared to the South. Life here is hard. We've had pestilence and hard Winters. And the hardest Winter of all since ancient times is coming." Father turned to him and Jon swallowed at the intent look on his face. "And we have been given a chance to increase the population of the North by many thousands. Not through the Call. But by letting the Wildlings past the gates on the Wall."
Understanding blossomed. "You want to add the Wildlings to the North?"
"I do." Father placed a hand on his shoulder. "I talked to Mance Rayder a lot before we left Winterfell. He thinks the same way that I do on this. We do not know how long this war on the Wall, this Second Long Night, will last. Rayder led more than a hundred thousand South of the Wall, and the exact number is still climbing. Those who live beyond the Wall find life South of it easier than where they lived before. They grew crops North of the Wall in some places – think of what they can do in the Gift, the New Gift and South of there!"
He thought about this for a long moment and then nodded reluctantly – before a thought occurred to him. "But… won't they want to return to their homes afterwards?"
"Will they?" Father tilted his head. "If they have good lives South of the Wall, why should they? Yes, there are some who will refuse to bend the knee, and they will be able to return to North of the Wall after this war is over. But there are others who have agreed already to obey our laws, the laws of the North, whilst they live amongst us. And they will get used to that. They'll settle in areas and grow crops and build houses to live in during the coming Winter… and they'll get used to that. Being safe. Warmer climes then they've been used to. Now that we know what went wrong, between the Wildlings and the Night's Watch – aye, and the North as a whole – we can mend things. Make things better. We and they share the same blood – the blood of the First Men. We should be allies, not enemies. That's my goal. I've talked this over with Robb and Rayder. And now you know my intentions. So – we need to make the Wildlings think that we no longer regard them as scum. It'll take time. Effort. Marriage alliances. All kinds of things."
He stood there for a long moment, feeling stunned. "You… you would not look amiss at a marriage between a Stark and a Wildling?"
Father smiled at him. "No, and I would be a hypocrite if I did. At least one Lord Stark in the past has been half-Wildling. The Pack does what it can do to survive. And I will do everything that I can to let the North survive the Winter that comes – and then thrive after that."
"You're planning for after the war – before the war has been fought?"
And now Father looked at him in a truly intent manner. "Always have a plan. A lord who does not plan is no lord, not here in the North or anywhere! You must always have a vision for your people – and then let them know that you have such a plan. They will know then that you are thinking of them, of their well-being. And they know that you know that you are planning for victory."
Jon nodded slowly. "I understand Father."
"Good. Because Winter is coming." And with that they both looked downstream.
Robb
Temptation was a terrible thing. Grey Wind's reaction to having a piece of bacon or a lamb chop dangled before his eyes was to try and lunge for it as fast as possible. He had to exercise more patience than that himself. He knew how badly he had handled things in that world that was now no more. Marrying Jayne Westerling had been the path of honour but not the path of political sense. Had he loved her, truly? With all his heart? He could not say. He had told himself he had, but how real had that been? And the cost… Seeing Lord Westerling again, even if the man had been perfectly respectful, dutiful even, had been a wrench back to those last moments in the dark hall at The Twins.
And now here he was, free to marry anyone he wanted – up to a point. He knew that he had to take this matter more carefully than before, that he had to make a match that would strengthen the North as it faced this moment of peril. A second Long Night. The danger from north of the Wall that he had never known existed in that other time. A danger every bit as deadly as the long arm of Tywin Lannister – more so in fact.
He couldn't marry Val. It would be a terrible mistake, he was sure of it – too many Lords in the North would look askance at it. She was a Wildling and even if the Wildlings were now allied to the North, even if Father's great plan to bind them to the North worked in the long term, there were still too many memories of Wildling raids, of theft, of murders, kidnappings and rapes. No, many lords in the North expected him to marry someone safe and Northern, like Dacey Mormont or one of the Karstark girls. Others even hoped that he might marry someone like Margaery Tyrell, allying the North firmly to the huge harvests of The Reach. He'd never met the girl, but a lot of people talked of bounteous harvests a great deal when they spoke of her, so it might have also been a reference to her chest. He wasn't sure.
Val instead was merely the goodsister to Mance Rayder, the sort-of former King Beyond the Wall and the man who was probably going to head up House Rayder when the King reached the Wall and made sure that the Wildlings were behaving themselves. She was beautiful, brave, extremely capable, clever – she knew that was all but a hostage in Winterfell – and above all she was lethal with that knife of hers. Some men had been a bit free with their language around her. She'd smilingly promised to geld the first man who tried his luck too far. From the way that she'd handled that dagger Robb and everyone else had believed her.
She was also easy to talk to, careful in her judgements, respectful of the North and… something else, something that he could not put his finger on. Conversations with her were something to be remembered afterwards, treasured even, because she always got to the heart of the matter.
And now here he was, after saying goodbye to her just moments before, walking down a corridor and resisting, no, fighting the urge to go back and talk to her again. He sighed. Grey Wind was hunting again with the other Direwolves and that was something else that he needed to think about – with every day that passed his connection with his Direwolf grew stronger and deeper, as if a key had been turned in his mind. He needed to-
Someone let out a noise that he knew at once was the sound of someone dying very quickly and violently not too far away and he turned on the spot, his hand going to the long knife that he always made sure he had on him at all times. Then there was a horrible cracking noise, a choking gurgle, the sound of a body hitting first stonework and then the floor – and then as he stared down the corridor in the direction of all of this something was flung into view from a side corridor. It hit the floor with a dreadful wet noise. It was a severed lower jaw of a human being. And then Robb heard the beginning of what sounded like a shout of alarm. A female voice. Cut short with an 'Urk' of shock.
He darted down the corridor quickly to the junction and then looked at a scene of horror. The Mountain was standing there, looking as if he had dressed in a hurry. At his feet lay the dreadful remains of the two Lannister guardsmen that he knew had been detached to watch the unstable brute of a man at all times. Both of their heads were horribly mangled and one had lost his lower jaw. But that was not what drew his horrified attention. The Mountain was holding Val by the throat in what looked like a grip of iron – her face was going red and she was scrabbling for her dagger.
"CLEGANE!" Robb roared the word with fury and not a little fear – the man looked as if he was deranged. Not that the roar disturbed him – the Mountain reached out with his free hand, grabbed the front of Val's bodice and ripped downwards, tearing the cloth off her. Her dagger was in her hand now and she stabbed desperately at the Mountain's arm. Blood flew as she sliced a truly wicked cut – but Gregor Clegane did not utter a word. Val's eyes met Robb's and he could tell that she was terrified.
"CLEGANE!" He bellowed the word again and then darted down the corridor, his eyes searching for a better weapon. The guards had had knives as well, not that they had done them much good and he wished, desperately, for a sword. Perhaps if he leapt on Clegane's back and held his knife to his neck? He prepared to throw himself at the huge man – and then with a jerk and a speed that he hadn't thought the man had, the Mountain released Val and her torn bodice and whirled to face him.
He realised then what had terrified Val, who had slumped to the ground, taking in air with great whooping gulps. The Mountain's eyes were jet black, every part of them, and his face was blank of all emotion. The huge man looked at him impassively – and then he lunged at him. Robb slashed at one upraised hand and then ducked under the other, but it was horribly close and he knew that if the Mountain got a hold of him he was as good as dead. He dodged, slashed and then hurled himself back as one huge fist passed through the spot where his head had been a heartbeat before.
This was a desperate fight for time and life and he wished that he had the breath to spend on a scream for help, but he needed every gasp of terrified air that he could snatch. He slashed again at a lunging hand, drawing a lot of blood, and then danced back again.
And then, suddenly, the Mountain shuddered and looked down and he could see that the half-naked Val had plunged her knife into the back of the man's knee, before scrabbling back as fast as she could, searching for another knife from one of the dead guards. The Mountain looked at her and then turned to confront Robb again – who used the opportunity to drive his knife into the right eyeball of the Mountain, driving it home with the heel of his other hand.
The Mountain stood there and quivered for a long moment – too long. Robb's spirits had soared for a moment, before plummeting as the Mountain jerked forwards yet again to try and punch him. He was clumsier then before, but how in the name of the Old Gods could a man with a dagger in his head and another embedded in his knee still be walking and fighting? He fell back, until he heard a weak call of "Robb!" and then looked down as one of the dead guards' knives clattered at his feet, thrown by Val. He dived down to get it and then staggered as a great fist grazed his forehead. It was just a near miss but it still came close to dazing him and he reeled back, the knife barely in his hand.
There was a wall now behind him and he gripped the knife more firmly and prepared to sell his life dearly. At least he was leading the man – or whatever he was – away from Val. His head was ringing and he shook it to try and clear it as the Mountain brought up another massive fist. But then, before it could be swung at him there was a crunching noise and then the bloodied tip of a sword emerged from the chest of Gregor Clegane. The huge man froze, looked down slowly and only then did he slump down to his knees, revealing the form of a panting Sandor Clegane, who looked as if he had run quickly. Far behind him, holding her hands to her face, was the maid that he had seen flirting with the Hound.
The Mountain looked at him – and then his remaining eye flashed between black and blue. "You fucking great idiot," the Mountain suddenly said in words of almost amused despair that sounded nothing like his normal voice, "That's the wrong bloody Stark."
Robb stared at him – and then he rammed his borrowed knife straight into that eye and twisted it as hard as he could. The Mountain jerked again, drool dribbling from his mouth – and then Robb nodded at the Hound, who pulled his sword free and then, with one mighty swing, hacked the head of his brother off his shoulders.
As the head bounced wetly on the floor Robb nodded in gratitude at the Hound. "My thanks, Clegane." And then he pulled off his jerkin and staggered over to Val, giving it to her so that she could cover her exposed breasts. "Are you alright?"
"You saved my life," she said hoarsely. "I owe you a great debt." She stared at the body of the Mountain. "He was possessed."
Robb nodded, his attention torn between Val and the Hound, who was on his knees now as he stared at the body of his monstrous brother. And then Val reached at his face, pulling it around. "Burn his body," she hissed vehemently. "Burn it. Something dark had him." She paused, her eyes searching his face, searching for words. So he did what he had wanted to do for some time. He kissed her passionately. Yes, he was being a fool again.
