Kapitel 3: Chapter 3
From the roof of a tall tower, the young Bran Stark watched the horizon. The sun was shining, the sky was clear, and on the distant green moorlands Bran could see the winding line of the Kingsroad. Then, far in the distance, moving shapes appeared, still blurry and unclear. They drew closer, and as Bran narrowed his eyes he could make them out; mounted men, horse drawn carriages and great wains, and many fluttering banners. As the column drew closer, his young eyes made out the sigil that flew upon the foremost standards: The black crowned stag upon the yellow field of House Baratheon. The shapes became men as the company approached Winterfell, proceeding at a brisk trot along the Kingsroad that wound like a snake across the rocky moorlands that surrounded the castle. Behind the royal banner came a strong cavalry of armed men on horseback, then the carriages and wains surrounded by the men-at-arms on foot.
The boy's face lit up with excitement, and he straightened up from his spot behind a merlon of the parapet. Turning around, he ran nimbly across the roof, balancing perfectly, before dropping off the opposite edge and hanging by his fingertips. Bran deftly lowered himself from his perch to another jutting rock of the tower's walls, and then down by the sill of an arrow slit, using his feet and hands equally to support himself. He dropped down onto the battlements of the curtain wall, and hopped from merlon to merlon before jumping down onto the walkway of the wall. Running to the next tower, he jumped off and hung from the edge, his foot reaching down for the stone he knew was there to support him. From protruding stone to stone of the tower's wall, Bran climbed down towards the thatched roof of the stables.
"Brandon!" cried a stern voice he knew only too well. Bran glanced over his shoulder to see his mother, standing with the robed Maester Luwin behind her, and his direwolf sitting on the ground staring at him.
"I saw the King! He's got hundreds of people!" Bran said as he climbed further down.
"How many times do I have to tell you? No climbing!" Catelyn Stark scolded her son.
"But he's coming right now, down our road!" Bran exclaimed, and he scurried across the roof and dropped down to climb from a wooden beam to the ground. As he landed agilely on the ground, he turned around to find his mother leaning towards him, looking stern.
"I want you to promise me: No more climbing!" she said. The young Stark looked at his feet.
"I promise," he said at last.
"Do you know what?" Cat said as she straightened up.
"What?" Bran asked.
"You always look at your feet before you lie," answered Cat. Bran was unable to contain a smile.
"Now go, run to your father, and tell him the King is close," she ordered. Bran nodded and ran off towards the keep, the direwolf pup following close behind.
The great column of the King's procession rode up the central road of the winter town that led to the castle of Winterfell itself. Everywhere one looked there was movement and colour as the King's retainers and his court arrived, everywhere there was the pageantry and splendour of a royal entry. All the smallfolk of Winterfell had turned out, lining the sides of the road as the company rode up to the eastern gate of Winterfell.
The column was led by the Baratheon knights and bannermen in the yellow of their King's house, the royal stag sigil emblazoned on the pennants which fluttered in the northern breeze. Amongst them were the Kingsguard themselves in their distinctive white cloaks and elaborate white enamelled scale armour. There were whispers amongst the smallfolk as they saw the dozens upon dozens of Lannister soldiers that rode alongside the Baratheon men-at-arms and the Kingsguard, and that the Lannister lion flew alongside the royal stag on the flags and pennants of the King's retinue. The whispers disappeared as they saw the colours of a third house amongst the company, and there was an awed silence broken only by the sounds of shod hooves on cobblestones as the smallfolk watched fifty Numenorean knights ride past.
They were tall, and prouder than any of the others in the King's company, for they seemed more akin to noble lords than to knights. The Dunedain wore long hauberks of black steel rings, with black surcoats upon their chests with the silver tree and seven silver stars that stood for the Dunedain Realm. Each man wore a tall helm that glimmered in the sun, and the close-fitting cheek guards were wrought to resemble the wings of seabirds, and the crests of their helms too were decorated with wings. They bore at the head of their column a long banner, black as the night, and upon it was the tree and stars, but above the tree and the stars was a silver crescent moon sigil. At the head of the Numenorean knights, beneath their banner, rode a man taller than the rest, and greater in bearing than all of his kin.
In the courtyard of Winterfell, Lord Eddard Stark stood and waited for his King's arrival. Beside him stood his family, and all around him all the servants and retainers of Winterfell stood, waiting to greet their King. Soldiers and stable boys, blacksmiths, fletchers, carpenters, cooks, pages, squires, all stood together, close packed around their lord, as the portcullis opened with a great creak to admit the King's company.
The mounted Baratheon bannermen were first to enter, proudly wearing the yellow and black colours of their King's house and their distinctive helms with stag antlers wrought of bronze affixed upon them. Upon snorting mounts they trotted into the courtyard, and then as one dismounted and led their horses to the side and fell into formation next to the gate. Behind them came the Lannister men and some of the Kingsguard. Amongst the Lannister men-at-arms was a youthful boy, fair of hair and complexion, dressed in the finest of clothes, and handsome but with a grin that was more smirk than smile. Behind the golden-haired boy rode a towering man in dark armour, his helmet shaped like the head of a snarling dog, a massive sword slung across his back. A carriage followed the Lannister bannermen into the courtyard, its sides covered with images of lions and stags.
"Where's the imp?" Eddard heard the voice of his younger daughter, Arya, say.
"Would you please shut up?" Sansa, the older daughter, answered.
Finally, last of all and surrounded by his Kingsguard, came the man himself: King Robert Baratheon, First of His Name.
'Gods, is that really him?' Eddard thought immediately. Robert was hardly recognizable to him, having gained a massive paunch and a thick black beard. As the King entered, Eddard dropped to his knee, and the entire courtyard of people dropped to kneel before their King in unison. Eddard glanced up from his kneeling position to see that Robert could not even dismount his horse by himself, as one of Winterfell's grooms ran a mounting block up to the King's side to help him off his horse.
Robert strode across the wide space of the courtyard, a hand set on the pommel of the sword that hung at his side, his cloak flaring out behind him making the King appear even larger than he already was. Wordlessly, he stopped before the kneeling Ned. He flicked his fingers upwards, and Eddard stood up, his family and all the people of Winterfell standing with him. There was a long moment of silence as King Robert Baratheon looked at Lord Eddard Stark.
"You got fat," he said at last. Ned couldn't help the incredulous look on his face as he looked down at the King's gut, and then back up at him as if to say 'I got fat!?'. Immediately Robert broke out into peals of laughter, and the two old friends embraced warmly as they laughed.
"Cat!" Robert said as he turned to Ned's wife and hugged her in turn.
"Your Grace," Catelyn replied with a smile. The King ruffled the hair of young Rickon Stark, and then turned back to Ned.
"Nine years. Why haven't I seen you? Where the hell have you been?" Robert demanded with a good-natured grin.
"Guarding the North for you, Your Grace, Winterfell is yours" Ned replied.
"It's good to see you again Ned, we have much to discuss with you," Robert said.
"We?" answered Ned. He had never known Robert to use the royal 'we'. As he spoke, there was another clatter of shod hooves on cobblestones. Looking over Robert's shoulder, Ned saw a cavalcade of tall men in black surcoats upon tall horses ride into the courtyard, reining their mounts in to bring them to a disciplined stop, forming a solid block of armoured men on horseback in the centre of the courtyard. The leader, tallest of them all, dismounted swiftly and tore off his tall, winged helmet to expose a head of dark hair, and fair, familiar features.
"Isildur!" exclaimed Ned.
"Eddard! Been too long!" Isildur said with a wide smile as he strode over to the Lord of the North and the two threw their arms around each other. When they released each other, still wearing the grins of old friends who had been long separated, Ned saw the Queen standing quietly behind the tall Numenorean lord, an unreadable expression on her face. Coldly, she extended a hand towards Ned.
"My Queen," Ned said, and kissed her hand.
"My Queen," Cat echoed with a curtsy.
"Ned, where's your crypt? I wish to pay my respects," Robert said. Ned was opening his mouth to answer when Cersei interrupted.
"You've been riding for a month, my love, surely the dead can wait?" she said.
"Ned, Isildur," King Robert said, ignoring his wife's protest. Exchanging glances, Eddard and Isildur followed their king away from the courtyard and down into the cool, damp corridors of Winterfell.
Beneath the Keep was the Crypts of Winterfell, a long, chill room lined by paired pillars and the sepulchres of all the Starks going back to the ancient Kings of the North. Between the pairs of pillars sat graven images of Stark lords in stone, iron swords in hand and snarling direwolves at their feet. Robert, Ned and Isildur walked in silence down the halls of the crypt, no noise save for the sounds of their boots against the stone floors. 'They bury their dead much in the same fashion as us' thought Isildur. The oppressive silence and stillness of the ancient halls of dead kings and lords seemed to steal the joy from their hearts.
"Tell me about Jon Arryn," Ned broke the silence at last.
"One minute he was fine, the next… Burned right through him, whatever it was. I loved that man," Robert answered, his tone bleak.
"We all did," Isildur answered.
"He never had to teach Ned anything, but do you remember me as a young man? All I wanted to do was crack skulls and fuck girls, he told me what was what," Robert said with a rueful chuckle. Isildur and Eddard shot incredulous looks at their King.
"Don't look at me like that; it's not my fault I didn't listen," Robert said. Suddenly, he stopped and turned towards Ned.
"Listen Ned, I'm not the kind to beat around the bush, so I'm going to say this straight: I need you. The Kingdom needs you, down at King's Landing, not up here where you're no damn use to anyone. Lord Eddard Stark, I would name you Marshal of the King's Hosts," he said, his tone becoming very serious. With a confused look, Ned dropped his knee again.
"I am not worthy of the honour, Your Grace," Ned replied. Isildur looked at Robert, and the jolly gleam in the King's eyes had returned.
"I'm not trying to honour you, I'm trying to get you to build me an army while Isildur runs my Kingdom and I eat, drink and fuck to my heart's content. Hells, Ned, stand up," the fat King answered, tapping Eddard on the shoulder.
"The King's Host?" Ned said in an interrogating voice as he rose.
"Aye, the King's Host, Ned. A new army, not for any lord or rich man, but for the whole Realm, to defend all and protect all of the Kingdoms, not just serve one lord, and you will be the Marshal of my Host, to train it and lead it for me," Robert explained while the three of them resumed their walk down the crypt.
"My own son Aratan has come with me to help you build this host Ned, and he has brought with him Dunedain sergeants-at-arms to train your recruits," Isildur added.
"I am honoured Your Grace, and thank you Lord Isildur, but who exactly are you planning on using this Host on?" Ned asked pressingly. A dark look passed across Robert's face and he turned away from Ned. They had come at last to their destination, Robert stood with his back to his two friends, staring at the statue that he had come down there to see. From a pouch upon his belt, he drew forth a long feather, and placed it gently, almost lovingly in the outstretched stone hand.
"Some in the Kingdoms still call Robert 'Usurper'… And there are those across the Narrow Sea…" Isildur said, Robert still silent. Ned's eyes widened, and he looked from Isildur to Robert and then back again.
"By the Gods, you would build an army out of fear? Fear of what?" Ned asked, his eyes gleaming in the torchlight beneath furrowed brows.
"The Host shall preserve the King's Peace… I will not be remembered as the drunken Usurper, I will be remembered as the man who defended the Realm," Robert said, still turned away from his friends.
"From what, Robert? From what? Or is it from who?" Ned pressed, his voice hard. There was another long moment of oppressive silence.
"Did you have to bury her in a place like this?" Robert spoke at last. Ned seemed taken aback.
"She was his sister," Isildur said.
"She belongs here," Eddard replied.
"She belonged with me," Robert spoke again, his voice now hard and full of anger. Again the silence fell upon them.
"In my dreams I kill him every night. Sometimes I crush his breastplate with the hammer, sometimes I run him through, sometimes I kill him with my bare hands, choking the life out of him or drowning him in that blood-filled river," said Robert, his shoulders hunched beneath his cloak and his head hanging.
"You do not need a King's Host, Your Grace, the Targaryens are gone," Ned replied.
"Not all of them. Not yet," the King replied.
____________________________________________________________
The sun was sinking low in the sky when Isildur found Ned on the battlements of the western wall, above the godswood. His northern friend was leaning against the parapet, looking out as the sun set, a brilliant display of red and yellow light like a great funeral pyre, lighting up the woods and moorlands surrounding Winterfell with gold. Isildur could see, even as he came up the stairs to the battlement, that his friend was deep in thought.
"You ought to be in the great hall, our feast will be starting soon, and you're a guest of honour" Eddard said. Isildur smiled at him as he came to stand beside him, leaning back against the parapet.
"I thought that my old friend would need my counsel more than his family needs my company right now" replied Isildur. Eddard was silent, the light of the sunset falling upon his drawn, pensive face.
"The Iron Throne has changed him…" said Ned finally.
"It changes people. Such is the nature of kingship" answered Isildur. Eddard only shook his head.
"Why does he want to build an army now? What's got him frightened?" he mused. Isildur could only shrug.
"He took the Throne by rebellion, perhaps he wants to avoid his dynasty suffering the same fate as the Targaryens, perhaps he wishes to give the Realm a stronger defense against foreign invasion, perhaps he wishes to reduce the power of the nobles and stop the squabbling and backstabbing that has plagued this kingdom. I can see much in the minds and hearts of men, but I leave Robert's thoughts to himself. You'll have to take this up with him. You should be proud Ned, it is a great honour to be appointed the first Marshal" said Isildur.
"Aye, it is that. I must congratulate you Isildur, on your appointment as Hand. Robert couldn't have made a better choice" replied Ned, with a smile and a lighter tone in his voice. Isildur returned the smile as he turned around and looked out on the countryside around Winterfell. The sun was sinking lower in the sky, a brilliant ball of red flame. Out in the distance, Isildur could see a few farmers working in a field of golden wheat next to a small thatched-roof cottage, with a thin plume of smoke rising merrily from its chimney. Birds sang their evening songs, and somewhere a dog was barking. Behind them, Isildur heard the growing sounds of the feast beginning in the hall.
"I do love these long northern evenings. We never had sunsets like these where I come from," Isildur said with a sigh.
"You ever miss it?" Ned asked. Isildur was silent, very silent, as he stood with closed eyes, and Ned looked up at his friend and saw only an unreadable face.
"Yes… Every day. But I have a new home now" Isildur said with a weak smile
"Aye, you are of the North as much as I am. And I will miss it when I'm down there in that rat's nest they call a capital" said Ned.
"You're the lucky one Ned; you'll get to spend most of your time in the field, training your recruits. I'm the one who will have to deal with matters of the Realm," chuckled Isildur.
"I daresay you'll hate it as much as Robert does," Ned replied. "But you'll do it well. You do everything well"
"Well that's not entirely true my friend" Isildur smirked. "My brother tells me my calligraphy is horrible. I'm not much of a poet. And you know I can't dance worth a shit"
"Worst thing about the rebellion ending: I'll never get to see you dance like that again!" Ned laughed.
"If the Valar are merciful" Isildur chuckled.
"Come on Isildur; let's go drink the King's health and forget our worries for a while." Ned said with a broad smile.
The two of them turned away from the battlement and walked down the steps.
The western wall stood above the godswood, and Ned led Isildur along a beaten dirt path that ran towards the inner courtyard. The godswood lay in a tranquil silence as the light and darkness mixed in the twilight, the only sound was a subdued twittering of a few birds and the rustling of the wind in the leaves. Isildur had always loved the godswoods of the northmen, for trees and growing things had always been close to his heart, and though none of the weirwoods or Westerosi trees could equal, in his eyes, Nimloth the Fair or the White Tree that grew in Annuminas, the trees of the godswood were still beautiful.
The path turned towards the southern side of Winterfell, and they exited the godswood through a small wooden gate near to the Hunter's Gate along the western wall of Winterfell, and proceeded to wide main courtyard of Winterfell. The windows of the great hall were lit from within by firelight; there was the sound of many merry voices, of much laughter, the singing of songs and much good cheer. Isildur smiled as the great oaken door of the great hall were opened before him, and a wave of heat hit his face.
Before them, eight long rows of trestle tables stretched, four to either side of the central aisle, at which sat hundreds of people. Upon each table were plates heaped with mutton, roast pork, beef, goose, fish, vegetables, dried fruits, fresh loaves of bread, and whole wheels of cheese. Ale, mead and wine flowed in each person's goblet. Merry tunes were being played by troupes of musicians with tabor, pipe and lute, and many voices joined them in merry songs. The whole hall was candlelit, and great roaring fires poured heat from the hearths. Isildur smiled as he saw his own men seated amongst the northmen, smiling and talking amongst them, and his son Aratan and squire Ohtar seated next to Rodrick Cassel, laughing heartily at some joke or remark of his.
Isildur was seated at the high table alongside the Royal Family and the Starks, and they ate and talked about many things, and sung many songs late into the night. The food was very good, and the wine was even better. As the evening wore on however, Isildur noticed something: Jon was not seated amongst them. He looked down either side of the high table, and up and down the rest of the hall, and could not see him.
"Where is Jon?" Isildur said quietly, nudging Eddard beside him. Eddard subtly jerked his head towards Catelyn, and immediately Isildur understood. He spotted Eddard's brother Benjen, dressed all in the black of the Night's Watch, entering the hall, and Eddard got up to go greet him. Quietly, Isildur rose from the table and excused himself. As he walked out of the hall, he passed by King Robert, a buxom serving wench sitting on his lap, and Isildur glanced over his shoulder to see the Queen with a cold, dispassionate look on her face.
Outside in the courtyard, the night air was cool and crisp, the moon was shining and the sky was full of bright stars. Isildur breathed deeply of the cool air, and then looked across the yard. He heard the sounds of a blade ringing against wood, and he saw who he was looking for. Jon was standing by the training yard next to the armoury, across the courtyard from the great hall. He had a sword in hand, glimmering in the moonlight as he struck rapid winding blows against a man-shaped pell before him, and he was panting from the exertion.
"What are you doing out here Jon Stark?" Isildur called out as he crossed the courtyard. Jon stopped his practice and turned around slowly sword still in hand. His eyes widened as he spotted Isildur, and Jon bowed hastily.
"I'm sorry, my Lord Isildur, I did not see you," Jon said.
"Jon, you've known me since you were a boy, you can just call me 'Isildur'" Isildur laughed "Now tell me, why are you out here when the feast is indoors?" A grimace came across Jon's face.
"Lady Stark does not wish to insult the Royal Family by seating a bastard amongst them" he said bitterly.
"What? But you are of the House of Stark" Isildur replied.
"No, Lord Isildur, I'm not a Stark" Jon scoffed. At this, Isildur only gave Jon a hard look, ageless grey eyes meeting Jon's own.
"Jon, tell me, who is your father?" Isildur asked.
"Lord Eddard Stark" Jon answered
"Aye, and you live in Winterfell, the ancestral home of the Starks?" Isildur pressed.
"I do" Jon said uncertainly, not seeing the point of Isildur's questions.
"Aye, and you have been raised alongside Robb Stark and Brandon Stark and Rickon Stark, and Arya and Sansa too, and Eddard considers you his son. In my eyes, young Jon, you are as much a Stark as any of them"
"Thank you, Lord Isildur…" Jon said with a small smile.
"Now come on Jon Stark, you're coming inside. I'm a guest, and the Hand of the King, and you will be my guest." Isildur said with a merry laugh, clapping Jon on the back.
"Thank you milord, but no. I really must be practicing" Jon said bashfully, pointing at the pell with his sword.
"Practicing for what?" asked the tall Dunedain lord.
"I want to go north with my Uncle Benjen and join the Night's Watch" Jon said, a hint of pride in his voice.
"Ah, there is much honour in serving on the Wall. You may meet my nephew Anardil at Castle Black, he departed from Minas Anor before I left Annúminas, heading for the Wall as you are" Isildur replied with a warm smile. "But you're still coming inside to join the feast. You don't have to sit at the high table if you don't want, but I'm the Hand of the King and I won't have my friend's son out here slicing up a pell when there is food, drink and song for him to partake in"
"Are you sure that won't offend the King? Or Lady Stark?" Jon replied uncertainly, scratching the back of his head.
"Trust me lad, the King won't notice, and tell Lady Stark that she can take it up with me if she feels offended" Isildur insisted. He took the sword from Jon's reluctant hands and hung it up on the rack
Finally, Jon relented and nodded, and Isildur led him back into the great hall, still filled with the sounds of happy revelry, and he seated him beside Aratan, who welcomed the boy heartily and poured Jon a cup of ale. Isildur smiled as he patted Jon on the shoulder, and then started back towards the high table. However, even as he returned, he did not miss the glowering look that Catelyn shot him as he came to sit again.
The feast lasted much longer into the night, full of good food, good drink, and much laughter, and Isildur had his fill of all three. The night was full of music and song, Westerosi songs, different from his people's, but a welcome change. Many happy hours later, sometime after midnight, Isildur found sitting next to a small, warm, bright fire in one of the great hall's hearths, with all the Stark children gathered around him, young Rickon Stark almost dozing as he leaned against one of Isildur's great arms. The hall was empty except for them, the rest of the feasters having retired already. Catelyn walked towards them, hands on her hips, a warm smile on her face and all trace of her previous animosity gone as she looked upon her children.
"Come on children, time for bed" she said warmly.
"But I want to hear one of Uncle Isildur's stories!" Rickon protested, looking up at his mother with big, pleading eyes.
"Just one Mother, please" said Bran.
"Gods be good, it's like Robb is a child all over again" Cat said, rolling her eyes with a good natured smile.
"Mother, it's not my fault that Lord Isildur always brought the best tales whenever he visited" Robb laughed. Isildur looked around at all the Starks seated around him, smiling widely.
"I am so very fond of all you wonderful Starks, but Rickon, you know I'm not your real uncle right?" Isildur said, leaning down towards the young boy.
"But you feel like an uncle" Rickon said innocently. Isildur felt himself overcome with affection for all of his friends in the Stark family as he looked around at them.
"What story would you like to hear tonight?" he asked.
"The tale of Beren and Luthien! That's my favourite one" Sansa said immediately.
"No, that one's boring!" Arya protested "Tell us about Feanor and the Silmarils"
"No, I want to hear about Turin Turambar!" piped up Bran. Isildur could only laugh as the children bickered about the choice of story.
"I will tell you a tale that you have never heard before" he said mysteriously, firelight glinting in his grey eyes. At this, all the children quieted down, and Robb sat down from where he had been standing, shifting closer to Isildur as he did. Isildur looked around at all of them, and then up at Catelyn, who sighed happily and nodded her assent, and then Isildur began to speak, his voice deep and melodious
"I will tell you the tale of Fingolfin, proudest and most valiant of the Elf-kings of the Elder Days. It is a fair and sad tale, full of heroism and great deeds, as are all tales of that ancient world. Even the Elves do not sing of it, for their sorrow is too great, but we, the Dunedain, keep its memory alive. " Isildur began, and he continued:
"You have heard much of this tale already. In ancient times, thousands of years ago, all the Elves dwelled in Eldamar, which we call Elvenhome, in the blessed realm of Valinor in the Uttermost West, living alongside the holy Valar themselves, who taught them many great things, great arts and magic. This was in very ancient days, even before my own people had set foot on our homeland of Numenor, before men had come into the world at all. Fingolfin was the son of Finwe by his second wife, and he was the half-brother of Feanor himself."
"When the Black Enemy came into Eldamar, murdering the Two Trees and stealing the Silmarils, and killing Finwe in the process, Fingolfin joined with Feanor in the rebellion against the Valar, and Fingolfin's people were the largest group of the Noldor to join with Feanor against Morgoth, the Dark Lord of Angband. He thought it unwise, and Feanor foolish, but Fingolfin was noble, and would not abandon his people to Feanor's leadership."
"Feanor, however, was treacherous to his half-brother, and after stealing ships and slaughtering many of the Teleri Elves, the greatest mariners of all the Elves, he abandoned Fingolfin, leaving him behind in Valinor while Feanor crossed the sea to Middle-earth, all his thought bent on reclaiming the Silmarils from the accursed thief who had stolen them from him But Fingolfin was not interested in the Silmarils, he sought to avenge his father's murder at the hands of the Black Enemy, but Feanor had taken all the ships and the Teleri, enraged at Feanor's kinslaying, would not build any for Fingolfin. To avenge his father, Fingolfin had to take the host of his people and go north, across the only way to Middle-earth: The Helcaraxe, the Grinding Ice"
"Hell-car-ax? What's that Uncle Isildur?" Rickon said, struggling with the unfamiliar syllables.
"It's a land far, far to the north, and in those days the sun had not yet risen over the world, and there was no light in the world but the stars. The Helcaraxe is the Grinding Ice, hundreds and hundreds of miles of broken, shifting, grinding, crushing ice sheets, devoid of all life and warmth. There, at the northern end of the world, there is nothing but ice, and vast fogs, and deathly cold mists, and the seas there are filled with the clashing hills of ice and the grinding of ice deep-sunken. Fingolfin led his people across the Helcaraxe, with nothing to show the way but starlight. Now elves are hardier and stronger than men, and they do not take ill as we do, but even they are not immune to the cold of that long night. Some died as they walked, the cold freezing even the blood in their veins. Others just laid down in the snow to go to sleep, easing themselves into the embrace of death. But for those that survived, their valour and hardiness grew with the hardship, for they were a mighty people, the elder undying children of the One Himself. The fires in their hearts would not be quenched, not even by the Helcaraxe. At great length, after many hardships and much misery, they crossed the Grinding Ice and came into Midde-earth. There, it was they, the Elves, who beheld the beauty of the first rising moon, and the glory of the first dawn of the first day, in those ancient days when the world was young,"
For a long time, Isildur sat in silence, the Stark children could only look at him, and in that moment it seemed to them that his glinting grey eyes were wells of deep memory, reflecting ages long past. For a moment, they were fully aware that this man, Isildur, son of Elendil, had lived in the time of Aegon the Conqueror, had beheld Balerion the Black Dread, had been born and grown to manhood in legendary Westernesse itself. He seemed to them to be more akin to one of the hewn stone images of ancient kings in their crypt, yet more kingly, more powerful, more beautiful, far greater in majesty and authority. At first appearances he was no older than their own father; his face was clean shaven and there was no grey in his dark hair, they could all feel that Isildur was old, a part of an older, and more fey world than their own.
"What happened after that?" Bran said at last. Then Isildur began to tell the story again:
"Fingolfin took his people south into Beleriand, and there he learned that his brother Feanor had fought a great battle against a mighty army of orcs, and slain many balrogs, the fire-demons of the Elder Days, before himself having been overthrown in the combat. Maedhros, eldest of the Sons of Feanor, had been proclaimed High King of the Noldor in Middle-earth, but at Fingolfin's coming, he surrendered the kingship to Fingolfin, for having been Feanor's brother, Fingolfin's claim was stronger, and thus he was made High King."
"Now united after many years of estrangement between the Houses of Fingolfin and Feanor, the Noldor finally had the strength and leadership to threaten the Black Enemy himself and so the Dark Lord unleashed a great army of orcs from the depths of Angband upon the Noldor. Tens of thousands of orcs, they covered the land like a great black tide of insects, scurrying, snarling, vicious, sallying forth to burn the fledgling realms of the elves. The mountains spewed fire at the Dark Lord's command, and through the Enemy's foul devices, the skies grew dark at the coming of his host, and even the earth itself trembled at the marching feet of the orcs. But Fingolfin led the Noldor, and they met the orc-host on the great fields of Ard-galen, there they fought a mighty battle, and the elves held the mastery, for they were in the youth of their kind, and they were fell-handed and brave. The ground ran black with orc blood, and the orcs turned away at the valour of Fingolfin's coming and the cold death he rained upon them with his icy sword Ringil. They pursued the orcs even to the gates of Angband itself, and destroyed them all. After, under Fingolfin's leadership, they laid siege to Angband, and for four hundred years, until Fingolfin's kingship, the realms of the elves in Beleriand knew peace"
"But, you said that his story is sad…" Arya interrupted.
"He hasn't finished the story yet!" Bran snapped, and Isildur laughed.
"You have to let your uncle finish his tale before you start asking questions" he said with a merry glint in his eye.
"The Black Enemy was imprisoned, but he was not dormant for those four centuries. In the depths of his dark fortress, he was breeding a new weapon, more cunning and more terrible than orc or wight or balrog: Dragons"
"Dragons?" said Rickon, wonder in his tone.
"Yes Rickon, dragons, and not the beasts of the Targaryen kings from your stories, the Black Enemy created a great wyrm: Glaurung, the Father of Dragons. He was vast, wingless, a reptilian beast of great ferocity and terrible cunning. It was Glaurung who would bring all the misfortunes upon Turin Turambar, whose story you already know. When Glaurung was nearly fully grown, the Black Enemy sent forth fire that flowed like rivers out from the gates of Angband, setting alight all the plains of Ard-galen where Fingolfin had won his great victory four hundred years earlier, and amongst the fires came Glaurung himself, spewing yet more fire from his mighty jaws, and in his wake came thousands of orcs and wights and balrogs and other foul beasts of Morgoth's legions, and a desperate battle was joined amongst the burning fields. Though many great deeds were done, the elves could not stand before the coming of the dragon, they were beaten and scattered, and the siege of Angband was broken"
"When Fingolfin learned of the sudden attack, and of the great loss amongst his people, he was overcome by despair and a madness of rage. Filled with wrath and despair he armed himself. He donned his panoply, his tall helm, his silvered steel hauberk, his broad blue shield, and his long spear, and his sword Ringil, which glittered like ice. Then he mounted Rochallor, his great horse, and rode for Angband, passing over the burnt, ashen plains of Ard-galen like a tempest in the dust. All that beheld him fled in amazement, for such was his wrath that he seemed like Orome the Hunter had come into Middle-earth again, and his eyes shone like the eyes of a Vala. He came to the great dark gates of Angband, blowing his battle horn, and he smote upon the gates and cried out:
'Come forth! Come forth Morgoth, craven lord of slaves! Come forth and face justice!'
And Morgoth came"
"It's getting late children…" Catelyn interrupted.
"But mother, it's just getting to the best part!" Bran answered. Rolling her eyes, Catelyn nodded for Isildur to continue, and again the tall Dúnadan lord began to tell the tale:
"The sound of Morgoth's feet was like thunder underground. The brazen gate of Angband was flung open, smoking like the mouth of a volcano, and hither came Morgoth, the Black Enemy, the Dark Lord, in armour of black steel, with a great shield of sable without blazon, and in his hand he carried Grond, the hammer of the underworld. Atop his brow was set an iron crown, with the three Silmarils glimmering upon it, and he stood above Fingolfin like a tower stands above a man. Then the Enemy hurled Grond aloft, and brought it crashing down like a bolt of thunder, but nimbly Fingolfin sprang away, like lightning shoots from out of a dark cloud, and he cast his spear, but it was turned aside by the black shield of Morgoth. The crash of Grond left a smoking pit in the ground, and again Morgoth held it up and brought it down , again and again Morgoth tried to smite the Elf-king, each time rending a pit in the ground, and each time Fingolfin sprang away, his icy sword Ringil now in hand. Seven times did Fingolfin rend his foul Enemy with that glittering blade, and seven times did Morgoth cry out in pain, and seven times did the armies of Angband cry out in dismay as they beheld the duel between Elf-king and Dark Lord. Then at last Fingolfin grew weary, and Morgoth bore down his shield upon him. Thrice was he crushed to his knees, thrice did he rise again with his broken shield and stricken helm. However, the ground was rent from Grond's blows, and Fingolfin fell backwards into a pit, so Morgoth stomped down on him with his left foot and set his full weight upon him, feeling like a fallen hill on Fingolfin's throat. Yet with the last of his strength, Fingolfin gave one last stroke, hewing Morgoth's foot with Ringil, wounding the Dark Lord deeply, smoking black blood gushing forth. Then, wounded and enraged, Morgoth seized Fingolfin's body in his massive hands and broke it, and made to throw it to his wolves, but Thorondor, King of all Eagles, came rushing down from the sky as swift as the wind, stooping upon Morgoth's face and marring it with his talons. He seized Fingolfin's broken body in his great claws, and bore him away. Thus passed Fingolfin, High King of the Noldor, bravest and most valiant of the Elven kings. Forever after, Morgoth would bear the scars of the duel, and the Black Enemy always walked with limp from where Ringil hewed his foot"
The Starks were quiet all around him, and Isildur stared hard into the fire, stretching out his long legs before him.
"What happened to the Elves after that?" Arya asked.
"The kingship passed to Fingon, Fingolfin's eldest son, who bore the crown until his death in battle, whereupon Turgon, lord of the hidden city of Gondolin, became High King of the Noldor. And that story too I shall tell you..." Isildur said, and then glanced up at Catelyn, who stood with hands on her hips. "Another night" he added with a merry twinkle in his eyes. Immediately there were protests from all the younger Starks.
"Enough! Robb, Sansa, take them to bed would you?" Catelyn said in exasperation.
"Of course mother, come on you lot!" laughed Robb, gathering up his younger siblings and leading them off, up the stairs to their chambers.
"Thank you for the story Uncle Isildur" Rickon said, and Isildur smiled at him and ruffled his hair before pushing him off towards the group of his siblings. Isildur looked at Catelyn, who stood with arms crossed, shaking her head ruefully.
"You always fill their heads with such unbelievable tales" Cat said with a sigh.
"The best stories are always the ones that really happened" Isildur replied as he stood up, towering over the smaller woman. Again Catelyn shook her head.
"You truly believe that such things happened?" she said.
"Cat, I truly know that such things happened. A Dúnadan never forgets" answered Isildur "Thank you for your hospitality tonight, sleep well Lady Stark" he added, and then he bowed with a flourish, and smiled, and turned and walked out of the hall, the sounds of his boots on the stones echoing around him.
__________________________________________________________
The next morning, dawn crept up above the moorlands, bright and yellow, full of promise of a fine day. Isildur stood by the window of his room, on one of the upper floors of the keep, looking out upon the courtyard. He was already dressed in a fine, but simple, tunic of black and grey. In his hand he held a wooden pipe, blowing smoke from his mouth as he puffed on it, the scent of galenas filling his room as he smoked. Far beneath him, in the courtyard, a company of Stark men at arms were drilling with spear and shield, practicing coming together into the tight packed ranks of a shield wall, and moving and wheeling with shields locked together and spears presented, their razor-sharp tips glinting in the morning sun. Amongst them was Aratan, easily spotted by his great height amongst the northmen, correcting a man's stance here or his grip there, offering advice in between the sergeant-at-arms' barked commands to the company.
After Isildur had broken his fast in the great hall, dining lightly on bread, fruit and cheese with the younger Starks and members of the Royal Family, who were full of questions about his stories, he walked out of the hall only to be met by Ohtar. Ohtar was scratching at an old battle scar that ran along his cheek; in his hand he carried a long-bladed boar spear.
"Milord, will you be accompanying His Grace Tar-Robert on his boar hunt today?" Ohtar asked.
"Boar hunt? What? I thought we were to depart today?" Isildur said, confused.
"Aye milord, but Tar-Robert expressed the wish to, and I quote: 'Kill the fuck out of something' this morning, and so he and Lord Stark have decided to go on a boar hunt. Tar-Robert wishes to know if you will accompany him on the hunt. I took the liberty of finding a good boar spear for you, milord" Ohtar said, extending the spear's haft towards Isildur, but Isildur pushed it away.
"You're free to join the hunt if you so choose, but I am not in the mood for killing today," replied Isildur, walking past his squire.
"It seems, milord, Tar-Robert is always in the mood for killing" his squire said, following his lord a few paces behind him.
"Where is Robert? I must speak to him" Isildur asked.
"Over by the Hunter's Gate I believe milord" said Ohtar.
Ohtar was correct. Near to the Hunter's Gate, Isildur found his king, with Ned nearby, and a strong company, two score of hunters with spears in hand. Dogs they had too, a large number of strong mastiffs and hounds, tails all a wagging, eagerly barking amongst themselves. In the morning light, to his credit and Isildur's amazement, Robert did not look nearly as hung over as expected. 'Perhaps he's developing an immunity?' Isildur thought drily.
"You as good with a spear as you used to be?" Isildur heard Robert say to Ned as he approached.
"No, but I'm still better than you" Eddard replied, and they both laughed.
"Ah, there's my Hand. If you're done with your smoking and whatever other shit your people do in the morning, grab a spear Isildur, we're going hunting" Robert said, with a happy glint in his eyes, smiling through his black beard.
"Forgive me Your Grace, but should we not be departing for King's Landing today? We have many leagues to travel, and surely the affairs of the Realm-"
"To hell with the affairs of the Realm, I want to kill something!" Robert cut him off.
"And I don't mean to stop you!" Isildur laughed "But forgive me Your Grace, I fear that I haven't the heart for hunting today. Though I think my squire shall join you". He cast a glance over his shoulder and saw Ohtar, standing head and shoulders above the other hunters, pulling on a pair of leather gloves.
"Aye milord. If it pleases you, Your Grace, I would join in your hunt today" Ohtar said, bowing as he did.
"Fine then. If Isildur doesn't want to kill anything today, I may as well kill something with his squire. Seven Hells, between you and Eddard, King's Landing will have a surplus of grim. I'll have to work on that! Come on boys let's go kill some boar!" And with that, Robert set the spurs to his horse and galloped out of the Hunter's Gate. Eddard walked his horse past Isildur, giving his friend a knowing look, and then spurred his horse into a canter and followed his King. They were followed by the trotting spearmen on foot and by the pack of dogs, all barking as they ran.
Turning back and walking towards the main courtyard, Isildur smiled as he saw that Aratan had now fully taken over the drilling of the Stark soldiers. Aratan had them spread out across the yard, swords in hand; mirroring Aratan's movements as he led them through repeated sword drills. Aratan smoothly transitioned between cuts, thrusts and guards, and the men-at-arms drilling with him struggled to match the fluidity and speed of his blade glinting in the sun. Some did better and some did worse, yet Isildur could clearly see that the Stark soldiers all knew what they were doing. 'Sir Rodrick has always been a good trainer' Isildur thought, though he noticed that Rodrick was not amongst the drilling soldiers this morning. 'Probably away on the hunt' he mused as he turned away from the training grounds and headed towards the godswood.
Beneath the thick canopy of the godswood, the sounds of the castle seemed muted, dulled and distant. Golden rays of sunlight streamed through the dense, dark foliage as Isildur walked beneath their boughs, humming softly as he walked amongst the close confines of the wood. Hard ironwoods and ancient oaks grew thick in this godswood, and tangled roots jutted out through the dark soil. A breeze rustled the leaves and pines of the wood, yet he did not feel it down amongst the tree trunks. There was a dark, silent tranquility in the godswood this day. Isildur found himself drawn to the weirwood heart-tree in the centre of the godswood. It stood, silent and implacable, with its boughs drooping over a cold, dark pool of black water. He walked around the edges of the pool and stood by the weirdwood, running a hand along its bone-white trunk, staring into the sap-filled red eyes of the weirwood's long, drawn, melancholy face. Isildur had always felt a kinship to the weirwoods. The whole godswood of Winterfell felt old, but the weirwood heart-tree felt ancient, full of deep memory. Brandon the Builder had raised this castle around this tree; this tree had stood when Isildur had come ashore with his father and brother to set foot for the first time on Westeros. Isildur had lived for many more years than any man not of Numenorean lineage could hope, yet he felt young standing next to the weirwood. When he was young, elves would often come to his grandfather's household, always secretively, to speak with his father and grandfather and hold many counsels late into the night. He would hear them speak and sing, and Isildur had always marveled at how ageless and yet how old they seemed. Standing next to a weirwood felt like standing next to an elf.
Isildur heard barking, two sharp, high-pitched barks. It was too close, and too early in the day, for it to be the returning hunting dogs. It sounded like the barking of one of the Starks' direwolf pups. Isildur looked around for the source of the sound. Then, looking up above the tops of the trees, he saw an old, crumbling tower that brooded above the northern end of the godswood, and upon one of its walls he saw the brown shape of a child climbing. It could only be Bran, he was a better climber than Arya and Rickon was too young for climbing still. With a light heart, Isildur set off in the direction of the old tower, once again humming to himself. As he lost sight of the old tower within the darkness of the wood's dense canopy, his mind turned to other things. He wondered how close Anardil was to the Wall by now, how Elendur was ruling Ithilien in his absence. Inevitably, his thoughts turned to his future. He had not seen King's Landing since the Rebellion, seventeen years ago. It seemed that every time he rode away to the south had been in times of upheaval, war and loss. And now he was to be Hand of the King, the first Dunedain Hand in the three centuries since their nine ships had landed.
'Illuvatar grant me the strength, Valar grant me the wisdom' Isildur thought pensively. He came out of the trees into a small clearing where the canopy gave way to a window of clear blue sky. He was still some distance from the tower, but he could see Bran climbing on it more clearly now. The clever little boy had gotten all the way up to the top, and seemed to be standing at a window, peering inside.
But then Isildur's heart stopped, and Bran was falling through the air, plummeting towards the ground.
"BRAN!" Isildur cried out, and he took off at a run towards the tower. Branches of the surrounding trees whipped in his face and eyes painfully, but he pushed through them as he ran, heart pounding rapidly in his chest, a cold sweat rising on the back of his neck.
Within moments he burst through the trees to the clearing at the foot of the tower. Bran's direwolf pup was close nearby, whining and licking Bran's face insistently. The boy lay motionless, flat on his back on the cold, hard ground, bloodied and bruised, his legs splayed at an unnatural angle beneath him. Isildur sprinted, covering the last few yards to Bran's side in a few long strides, and skidded down onto his knees next to the boy.
"Oh no, please no, please not the boy" Isildur muttered, checking Bran for signs of life.
He sighed with deep relief as he found a pulse on Bran's throat, faint but steady. His breathing was light and ragged though. As he had been taught, Isildur checked the boy over for obvious injuries, and found none except for the severely broken bones in his legs. Swallowing a growing lump in his throat, Isildur scooped Bran's small body up in his arms carefully, then started back towards the courtyard, jogging as fast as he dared, trying not jar Bran's body too much.
Isildur burst through the wooden door near to the Hunter's Gate, and broke into a run across the courtyard, the ground sailing underneath him as long strides carried him towards the great hall.
"Aratan! Aratan!" he yelled out as he ran. His son was in the yard, still training with the soldiers. Turning around towards his father, Aratan's face paled when he saw Bran cradled in Isildur's arms.
"Get the Maester! And bring me athelas and my healer's bag!" Isildur barked out, now quickly jogging up the stairs to the door of the great hall.
"Aye!" Aratan yelled, running off towards the carts, "Send for Lord and Lady Stark!" he roared.
Gasps and screams of shock and surprise filled the air as Isildur carried Bran into the great hall.
The hour was late when Isildur finally left Bran's room, followed by Maester Luwin. The sweet and pungent aroma of athelas followed them as the Maester closed the door softly. Out in the hallway, the Starks were all clustered around Catelyn, faces downcast and grim. Ned's arm was around Catelyn, and her eyes were red and puffy from much crying. She stood up from where she had been sitting, her family rising with her. All eyes were on Isildur, the same question plain on each person's face.
"I believe the most dangerous time has passed… We are very lucky that Lord Isildur was in the godswood when Bran fell" Maester Luwin said gently. There was a deep, collective sigh of relief from all the Starks.
"Is-is he awake? Is he okay?" Cat asked anxiously.
"What about his legs?" Ned asked, deep concern in his eyes.
"I did all I could for him" Isildur sighed "He will walk again, but I think he will need a cane all of his life, and he will be able to run only with great pain."
"He wanted to be a knight of the Kingsguard…" Arya said quietly.
"He is deeply comatose right now; he has withdrawn within his mind, though I tried to reach out to him, he would not harken to me. Whether this is from the shock of his fall or something else, I cannot say" Isildur explained, his eyes closed as he rubbed the bridge of his nose, great weariness on his face.
"What can we do for him?" said Robb, anxiousness for his brother clear on his face. From a pocket, Isildur produced a small leather bag. Opening it, he revealed several dried green leaves. The hallway was immediately filled with a clear, refreshing scent from the leaves.
"This is athelas, a plant from my homeland with many noble qualities. We have often used it in healing, but it seems most potent in my hands or the hands of those of my house. I must depart for King's Landing, but I will leave with you one of my men, my cousin Beregond, to care for Bran. If you crush these leaves in hot water and waft them around his face, you may be able to wake him, for the scent refreshes, clears and calms the mind. Beyond that, I cannot say" Isildur explained. His face was drawn, and for a moment he felt fully just how old he was. "All we can do is hope. I will pray to the One for him" he added.
"Thank you, Isildur. If you had not been here, my son-" Ned trailed off.
"Don't even think of such things. I just thank Eru that I was here"
"Gods be good, Bran will awake soon and be able to thank you properly." Cat said, and she wiped a few tears from her eyes. Ned drew her into his arms for a gentle hug.
"Shh, it's alright, it'll be okay." Eddard murmured into her hair. Isildur watched them quietly for a moment, and then he bid the Starks good night and walked away towards his chamber.
_____________________________________________________
Isildur found himself walking in the godswood again, but he could not remember how he got there. The sky was a stormy grey, the whole world around him seemed washed out and colourless, all sound was muted and distant except for the crunching of leaves beneath his boots as he drifted slowly through the wood. All around him, the trees were bare and lifeless. Snow was beginning to fall, and he could see his breath in the air.
"Cold be hand and heart and bone
and cold be sleep under stone" Isildur heard a voice whispering. It seemed to come from behind every tree and right in his ear all at once.
He looked up, there was the old, broken tower, and there was Bran in the window once more. Bran was slipping, Bran was falling. Isildur opened his mouth to cry out, but no words came from his throat. He began to run, but it felt like he was moving underwater. Too slow, too late, he'd never make it in time.
"You couldn't save him, Isildur Elendilion" he heard a voice, deep and powerful, echoing through the woods. And then once more there came the whispering voice again.
"Never more to wake on stony bed
never, till the Sun fails and the Moon is dead"
Suddenly, Isildur was not in the godswood, but in a great large room. He recognized it: It was the great hall of the Red Keep, in King's Landing. Looking up, Isildur saw that the roof was smashed and open to a stormy grey sky. Snow was falling through the open roof, more heavily than before and already the hall was covered in a layer of white, even over the Iron Throne. Before Isildur stood two men, a table in between them. Stretched out on the table was a woman, dark-haired and fair of complexion, but deathly still and cold. The two men were weeping over her.
"You couldn't save her, Isildur Elendilion" said the deep voice, and the whispering followed.
"In the cold winds the stars shall die
and all men shall give a fearful cry"
Now he found himself in a new place, but this one he recognized immediately. Despite the snow that now fell heavily upon everything, he could recognize that he was at the havens at Romenna, back in Numenor, but it was not the Romenna he remembered. A heavy blanket of snow covered everything, the buildings were broken and crumbled, the towers had been toppled, and the walls were in disrepair. The whole city had the air of a place that had been abandoned for many years. There was ice in the harbour, great floating floes of it and the sea was black as night.
Out on the horizon, Isildur could see the ocean beginning to swell, a massive swell. A swell coming towards him, growing as it did. It towered over the tops of the tallest buildings, it was taller than hills, taller than mountains, taller than Mount Meneltarma itself. A wall of black water, vast and silent, bearing down on Isildur implacably and unstoppably, coming towards him faster and faster.
"You couldn't even save your home, Isildur Elendilion"
"And the Dark Lord shall raise his hand over dead sea and withered land"
With a mighty roar, the wave came crashing down.
________________________________________
"NO!" Isildur cried out as he sat bolt upright in bed. He was breathing heavily, his sheets were soaked with cold sweat, and he felt his heart pounding hard in his chest. The low embers of his fire were burning out in his hearth, and the grey light of dawn streamed through his window. Then Isildur's door was flung open, and the Numenorean knight who had been on watch rushed in, hauling his sword from its scabbard.
"Cirion, it's alright… Just a dream" Isildur said slowly as he swung his feet over the side of his bed. His guard visibly relaxed.
"Very well milord" Cirion replied, sheathing his sword. He saluted in the Numenorean fashion, with clasped fist on his breast, and then left the room.
Isildur pulled on his travelling clothes, a sturdy, simple, but finely made high-collared tunic with trousers, and a sleeveless black surcoat overtop, belted around the waist with Narsil on his right side and a short dagger on the left. On the right side of his chest, over his heart, a small tree was embroidered in silver on his surcoat. From his bedside table, Isildur picked up a silver brooch. It was small, but very finely made, a silver brooch in the shape of an eagle with wings outstretched and an eight-rayed star on its chest. Isildur regarded it for a moment, and then pulled his heavy grey cloak up around his shoulders and pinned it there with his brooch. Then he pulled a long wooden pipe and some dried galenas out of a pouch on his belt, and filled the pipe, lit it, and then wrapped his cloak around himself and stood by the window as he smoked.
The weather matched his mood: Grey and grim, with only a hint of blue sky on the horizon, the rest covered in overcast clouds. There was no training in the courtyard this morning, the King's retinue was too busy preparing for departure, packing and repacking the carriages, carts and wains, marshaling the horses and assembling the supplies, barrel upon barrel of food and drink for the road. Ohtar was amongst them, bickering with some Lannister squire over a matter of some package to go in the cart for the Dunedain or the cart for the Lannister men. Isildur heaved a deep sigh, breathing a cloud of smoke out the window, they had many miles to go today, and even after his smoke his mind was not at peace.
After he had checked on Bran to find the little Stark still deeply asleep, his breathing now steadier, Isildur broke his fast. When he had eaten lightly of bread and cheese, Isildur walked out into the main courtyard. The travel preparations were continuing smoothly, and Ohtar seemed to have his own company's preparations firmly under control. He had always been an excellent squire. Isildur breathed the brisk northern air in deeply, and then spotted Jon standing over by Winterfell's smithy. As he walked over towards him, Jaime Lannister passed by Isildur going in the opposite direction. The wolfish look in Jaime's eyes seemed to say that he was sizing Isildur up, measuring him in some way. Involuntarily, Isildur's hand twitched near Narsil's hilt.
Jon was standing above a workbench as the blacksmith polished off a sword with a long, thin, light blade with a complex guard around the hilt.
"You are to leave today?" Isildur said as he approached. Jon turned, startled at his voice.
"Yes, going north with my uncle, my lord" Jon replied.
"Jon Stark, I'll say it again: Call me Isildur. You planning on taking that to the Wall?" said Isildur, nodding towards the thin blade in the blacksmith's hands. The finishing touches done, the smith sheathed it in a special thin scabbard and handed it to Jon.
"No, it's a gift" Jon explained with a small smile. Isildur held out his hand towards it, and Jon handed it over. With one smooth motion, Isildur swept it out of its scabbard and held it aloft before his face.
"I never thought I'd see one of these again. In my homeland they were called 'limmegil'. They were quite a fashion amongst the nobles. Rather useless on a battlefield full of armoured men, but they were quite handy in the duels of honour most of our nobles were fighting, or for driving off thugs in the street." Isildur said, and then sheathed the sword and handed it back to Jon. "Who is it for?" he asked.
"My sister"
"Ah, Arya. It will suit her well. So much like her aunt, that one… Jon, I know a lot of people in the Kingdoms don't take the Watch seriously, but I would just like to thank you now for choosing to take the black. Not many volunteer for such a duty, not many have the right spirit for it, but I see you shall go far, Jon Stark." Isildur said, and he extended his hand towards Jon. Jon went to take it in a handshake, but instead Isildur clasped Jon's forearm firmly in the Numenorean fashion
"Give my best to my nephew" Isildur said.
"I will" replied Jon with a smile.
"Good hunting, Jon Stark"
Over by the supply cart, Isildur found Aratan and Ohtar. All of the Dunedain belongings had been packed away snugly in the cart, and Ohtar was overlooking the lashings that held it down with a satisfied eye.
"How is Brandon?" Aratan asked immediately.
"He will survive, the only thing worrying me now is when he will awake. The athelas shall help, and young Beregond was ever a diligent student of the healers" answered his father. Isildur pulled his saddle off the cart and put it over his shoulder, then walked over to where a groom was holding Fleetfoot's bridle and placed it on the horse's back.
"Forgive me father, if I had been faster-" Aratan began, but his father cut him off.
"Enough of that Ari. You are too hard on yourself. I went to see Bran before I broke my fast this morning, his breathing has improved, and there is more colour in his skin today. All we can do now is hope and pray to Illuvatar for the boy and his family"
"To endure such injury at such a young age… Poor boy" Aratan said, while Isildur secured the straps on Fleetfoot's saddle.
"My Lord Isildur" said the voice of Robb Stark. Isildur turned away from his horse to see the eldest of the Stark children standing there. Despite Robb's strong, stocky build, he appeared small amongst the tall Numenoreans all around him.
"I just wanted to thank you for what you did for my brother, I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't have been here" Robb said. Isildur stopped him with a raised hand.
"I'm just glad I was here. I'm very fond of that boy. I hope he awakes soon. You will write me when he awakes?"
"Yes, of course. And you'll watch my father's back down in the capital?" Robb replied.
"Always have" Isildur laughed.
It was nearly noon when the King's entourage was ready to leave. With a great clatter of hooves on cobblestones, the column set off, riding beneath the tunnel of the main gatehouse. The royal procession streamed out from under the portcullis like a river of colour and steel. King Robert led at the forefront of the column, the royal stag banners streaming above his head, with knights and men-at-arms in Baratheon yellow all about him. Next went the Queen's carriage, with Lannister men on horse and foot all around it, lion banners fluttering in the cool breeze. Bringing up the rear were the Starks and the Numenoreans, the white tree of the Dunedain flying alongside the grey direwolf of House Stark.
The few summer inhabitants of the winter town lined the streets for the King's departure as the procession passed out of the East Gate of Winterfell. Isildur could never get used to their awed looks whenever he rode amongst Westerosi. They rode out on the eastern road, over the broad grassy moors and hills surrounding Winterfell. The overcast was beginning to clear, and rays of sunlight pierced the clouds, shining down upon the fair green hills of the North. At length, they came to the crossroads, the castle of Winterfell now shrinking in the distance behind them. Ahead of Isildur, he saw Benjen Stark, and the little Lannister dwarf and his two guards, turn away from the main column and start up the northern path. Jon and Eddard had stopped at the crossroads.
"The next time we see each other, we'll talk about your mother" Isildur heard Ned say, his voice personal and deeply emotional. Jon turned his mount, and then cantered away towards the north after his uncle.
Isildur found himself halting Fleetfoot at the crossroads, silently looking away towards the north. The column was passing him by as he sat upon his horse, watching Jon and Benjen and the Lannister dwarf ride away.
'That boy rides towards dark places and many hard labours… And so do I' Isildur mused, and then reined Fleetfoot around and cantered away into the south.
Wöchentlicher Energiestatus
-- Power-
Rangliste 
-- Power-
Stein