บท 7: VII.
Robb offered to carefully bundle Aegon's crown next to his iron-spiked crown of winter, wrapped and hidden at the bottom of Robb's travel satchel. Jon spent a long, long moment staring at the two crowns resting side by side, surrounded by Sansa and Catelyn's Myrish silk scarves, at the way that the gold from Aegon's crown caught the feeble light they had in Summerhall's chambers, or the way the cold iron of Robb's crown complemented Aegon's so well.
It was like the two crowns were meant to be side by side.
But Jon carefully placed silks to cover the two crowns, and then turned the flap to Robb's satchel down and latched it, turning to face the others. His hands shook the tiniest at the thought of them somehow being able to reach through time and space for Aegon to give his crown to his great- great-grandson.
Arya eyed him warily. "Alright, Jon?" He nodded.
"Then... we are in accord of what to do next?" asked Robb after a minute's hesitation, looking at the Stark siblings. Arya was practically bouncing on her feet, Rickon a hair behind her; both Bran and Sansa seemed pensive, but Jon nodded. "Well, then..."
The plan was simple and straightforward, for all that there were going to be several things happening at once: Arya and Rickon – the smallest and lightest of them all – were to excavate the hole in the west wing's great hall, where Aegon had conducted the bonfire and the floor had collapsed. They were to find the dragon eggs, if at all, and then make their way through Summerhall's underbelly back to the main great hall where they were still sleeping, cataloguing secret passages and the damage to the foundation of the once-great castle.
Robb and Jon would make their way toward the west wing, and with Bran's guidance, begin to clear the remains of those who were unfortunate and did not make it out of Summerhall in time. Those closest to the fire were nothing but ash – those who had been too close to the bonfire – but others who died of smoke inhalation in the corridors would have remnants and Bran would figure out who they were so that they could be returned to their families.
Sansa, for the most, had very little to do; yet, she had perhaps the hardest task of all: practice her skinchanging. Not only was Sansa a capable warg – although she had the least amount of practice in comparison to the other Starks – she had inadvertently slipped into birds before when in King's Landing and the Eyrie. While Bran and Arya remained the most capable skinchangers of the group, Sansa was to practice with the birds around Summerhall and perform scouting duties outside the palace.
Robb and Jon left Bran in the corridor with the first collection of bones, following Arya and Rickon instead to the hall. Both looked around with curiosity, their Stark faces long and without much emotion as they took in the soot stains, the haphazard placement of twisted or rotted wood and iron from melted swords.
"You were here when it happened?" Rickon finally asked, while Arya's gaze lingered on the hole before them.
Robb nodded, back determinedly at the spot where he had last seen Duncan.
Jon, however, had his eyes glued to the spot. Nothing remained of his great-uncle, of course; the fire had swallowed him and Jenny whole. All he had were memories, less than twelve hours' worth. Turning to Rickon, he said, "It all happened very quickly."
"I wonder what he was thinking," mused aloud Arya, carefully stepping her way across stone until she reached the edge of the hole. Her body leaned over it, peering into the gaping darkness below. "Don't Targaryens usually light themselves on fire to birth dragons?"
"Not usually," argued Jon feebly, just as Robb snorted and said, "Absolutely. Aerion Brightflame comes to mind."
Jon grimaced. Perhaps there was something of Targaryen madness that went hand in hand with the flames, then; Daenerys had done the same, stepping into flame and sacrificing the woman who killed her Dothraki husband and child and birthed three dragons for the three lives the flames took. Had Aegon wanted to do the same?
The thought made Jon sick, and he turned from his siblings, blinding reaching forward and finding purchase on what was probably the melted remains of a Targaryen guard's army and chandelier, merged. If Jon followed that thought through – if Aegon had really done the same as Aerion and Dany – he had not only killed himself, but his wife, and his two Targaryen cousins, and Duncan
and Jenny, as well as everyone else, just to birth the seven dragon eggs.
He had all but implied he knew of the Long Night – outright stated it at other points – so he knew that dragons were a key to defeating the undead. But seven? Even if all his cousins could skinchange, and not just warg, there would still be a dragon left over and it was unheard of for a dragonrider of old to be bonded to two. What had Aegon thought to accomplish?
"Snow," called Robb, causing Jon to turn. Robb, Arya, and Rickon had been staring at him, making him realize they had called his name several times. With Jon's eyes on them, Robb continued, wariness in his voice. "Arya's ready to go down. We need your help."
Arya had rope coiled around her waist, looped under and around her legs as a seat, and behind her back for support. She wore her trousers and a tunic tucked into the waist, as well as high boots and carried Bran's satchel, emptied of her weirwood sapling (as it was the largest of the ones they brought).
Jon pinched his mouth. "Are you sure this is safe?"
"No less dangerous than what I got up to as a Faceless Man," she shrugged in response. "I used to scale buildings all the time without a rope."
Jon's pinched look turned into a scowl at the reminder of her other life, but he lined up behind Robb, who was behind Rickon, and then carefully lowered the rope, taut with Arya's weight as she disappeared inch by inch into the darkness.
Only moments after she fully descended did she call back, "It's a giant mess down here! There are beams of wood poking out like a death trap!"
"Should we pull you back up?" called Robb, grunting a little as Arya did something below, causing the rope to pull and the three of them to dig their heels in.
"What the hell are you doing?!" cried Rickon. For all that he was only thirteen – fourteen in a few weeks – he was still skinny with hints of the broadness he would inherit. He stumbled forward a few feet.
"Swinging!" called back Arya, her voice tiny. "Loose the rope!"
"What!" shouted Robb in alarm, but the rope moved across the opening, far to the right, and the three stumbled after it with Rickon almost pitching headfirst into the pit.
Jon launched forward and caught him, but the rope was left in only Robb's hands, and he didn't have the strength. The rope cut across his palms, and he hissed at the rope burn but caught the tail end of it before the rope disappeared like a fast, slithering snake, over the edge of the pit.
Jon cried in alarm and fell to his knees, shouting, "ARYA!"
There was a moment of silence, all three fearing the worst, when she piped back, distant and coughing, "I'm fine! Landed perfectly fine!"
Robb and Jon shared a look of relief, as the original two eldest. Robb tightened his grip and Jon and Rickon hurried to grab what they could but didn't pull Arya up. It was Rickon who called back, "What do you see?"
"Bugger all," replied Arya instantly. "Give me a mo' to find something to use as a torch."
"Is that safe?" muttered Robb to Jon. He shrugged. "It's been thirty years..."
Robb frowned, turning back to the pit warily. The three peered over into the darkness, where, far to their right along the edge they were at, an eventual flickering orange orb caught their attention. Then another, and another joined it until the three of them could peer down into the hole and see the broken, crisscrossing remnants of wooden beams, dripping and hardened iron that glued the broken pieces together in a dangerous pile of sharp angles and pikes.
Arya stood off to the side, only her pale face obvious with how far down she was. "I think this was the dungeons!"
"Never mind that," called back Robb. "What about the eggs? And the chests?"
"I'm not a bloody hound," called back Arya, voice miffed. "I said give me a moment, so give me a
bloody moment, Robb!"
Robb and Jon shared a look again, while Rickon snickered.
"I think she's upset at me," muttered Robb, eyes wide.
"You reckon?" replied Jon, dryly.
Rickon longingly looked at the pit. "I wish I was down there."
Robb and Jon both wore panicked looks, Robb hastily saying, "Oh, Gods, no, the both of you? No. No, no, no, no..."
"Just be safe, Arya," called Jon, leaning a bit further over, watching a faint, pale face move in and out of the shadows. "And keep speaking to us!"
Arya grumbled to herself as she wove through the debris left behind after the fire. Thick beams of wood were toppled this way or that, causing her to vault over them, like her training in the House of Black and White; other times, she would grip the wood and swing between gaps, feet first.
She prowled around the pitched pile first, lighting torches and wrinkling her nose at the lingering scent of decay, rotten wood, and sulphur. But whatever powder or oils used to light the bonfire from decades ago had long fizzled out – just like everything else in Summerhall, all that remained was a faint, sensory memory of what once was.
She spotted the remains of a chest on her third turn of the pit, hidden underneath what could have been a table. She shifted it out of the way, grunting, and knelt.
The velvet from the inside had moulted and faded, covering in ash and dust, and eaten by moths, but the gold jewels inlaid on the lid remained, as well as the golden latches. While they had access to the Targaryen bank account in Braavos, it certainly wouldn't help to have more disposable forms of currency, so Arya pried the jewels out with a small knife she kept on herself and popped them into her pocket.
"Find anything?" shouted Robb, his voice strained and thin.
"I'm gonna find you a tomb to stick you in if you ask that again," she muttered, but then pitched her voice loudly to her siblings, "I found one of the chests!"
So, the dragon eggs should be nearby, she finished with a thought, glancing around. Jon, Sansa, and Robb had described the room in as much detail as they could the previous day, trying to keep emotion from their voices. They had been badly affected by the deaths of Aegon V and Duncan, in particular, and it had taken them a few tries to cover everything they felt was important. Bran refused to show them the tragedy again, saying that that point in time was now locked from them ever visiting again.
But because of their retelling, Arya knew that the eggs had been placed around the entire bonfire, on the furthermost points like the Star of the Seven. When the floor collapsed, the eggs could have been buried under the giant pile, or skidded further away, into the darker recesses of the dungeons.
With her lips pursed, Arya climbed over a diagonally laying beam and then slid down, away from the torches and closer to the thick stone wall. The dungeons had a tall ceiling – nearly the equal height of the original hall above it, creating a drop from the floor above to the floor above of more than forty feet – and there were rooms with warped doors as well as sooty iron bars that hid pockets of darkness, and Arya was sure, bones.
She stumbled upon an egg by accident.
She stepped carefully, heel to toe, and as her boot came down there was a terribly loud crunch in the stillness of the pit.
She froze, eyes darting down as she carefully peeled her boot back, moving it to the side instead. There, revealed as she moved, were pieces of crushed, broken dragon shell in sunny yellow.
Arya's eyes traced the shell, from the tiny particles that were more dust to the larger ones that were like puzzle pieces until she found an intact half of the egg. She gently moved it toward a patch of torchlight with her feet, eyes wide at the faint purple sheen the yellow made when the shell slid and rocked.
Inside the whole half of the shell, were tiny, delicate bones.
Something in Arya's chest clenched in despair.
"I—" she croaked, blinking rapidly. She tried again, shouting, "I found something." "What?" called back Jon.
"A broken shell." She paused. "The dragon didn't survive."
There was silence from above her.
Finally, Robb spoke. "Thank you for telling us, Arya."
"I'll – I'll keep looking," she replied, determination filling her. She did so, knowing now where to potentially look; she found another crushed egg, an ombre cream to brown one with the dragon bones scattered along with the shell to the point that Arya wasn't sure if they were dragon bones or rat bones, and then another brown and green egg with the dragon bones a foot away from where the egg cracked open like the dragon had tried to crawl its way free.
She almost missed the pure black shell, except it glinted off the torch she plucked from the wall to dig in some of the wooden pile's recesses. The shell had been crushed entirely under the weight of the woodpile and was nothing but tiny, thin speckles of starlight. Any bones had been ground to dust or burned up with the fire raging above it. The dragon had been too young, too fresh, to survive.
Arya found two other broken chests as well, bejewelled and gold-flaked, and solemnly pilfered the goods. She had grown a collection of rubies and emeralds and sapphires, but a part of her wanted to give Jon a dragon instead of tokens of Targaryen wealth.
It was on her tenth sweep of the pile when she finally gave up, a deep sigh of regret. She looked idly at the length of rope, still hanging and gently swaying; she heard the soft murmur of Rickon and Robb – Jon, she assumed, had long disappeared to deal with the bodies they had seen in the hallways and to compose himself –; and saw the floating dust motes in the pale beams of sunlight that came through the hole above her and mingled with the torches she had lit.
The pile was exhausted; she had moved what she could, combed the floor as best as she could, and there was nothing but broken dragon eggs. Jon would not find Aegon's legacy of reborn dragons here.
Was that even what he meant? She wondered, biting her lip as she moved away from the pile and toward the rooms lining the sides, as well as the barred dungeons. Aegon wanted to bring dragons back into the world – what if it wasn't literal but metaphorical?
Without a key, the dungeons weren't available, so she moved to the opposite wall and yanked hard on the first warped door. Its hinges squeaked loudly, and she cringed.
"All well?" shouted Rickon.
"All well!" she shouted back in confirmation.
But she found a garderobe, its scent pungent, so she pushed the door shut again, braced against the wood as the hinges loudly protested. Her foot slipped as the door finally gave away, and she fell to the ground, stunned.
Her chin slapped hard against the rock, and she was dazed for a single moment, blinking in surprise. Arya groaned, squeezing her eyes shut. She wasn't going to tell anyone what had happened. How embarrassing!
With a sigh, she pushed herself up on her hands and then knees, crouching as she rubbed at her chin, which smarted. She turned, ready to stand when she paused. Blinked.
"Holy shit," she muttered, creeping forward. She reached a shaking hand out, gently rolling the turquoise blue dragon egg toward her. It wobbled, due to its oblong shape, but it was intact, glittering with golden flakes.
"Holy shit!" she repeated excitedly.
She scooped it up and placed it in the satchel, standing up quickly and eyes darting around with
fervour. If one had survived – maybe the missing others had, too? By rolling further afield?
Purpose drove Arya and she loped to another point, branching out and skimming along the floor in a crouch with her torch. The smoky grey egg she only spotted when her torchlight glinted off the golden veins that rain like lightning across its surface; it had been partially hidden under a scraggly nest of some kind, meters from where the woodpile had ended and down the hall.
The white egg, the one that reminded her of Ghost, was found by pure chance. She had spent another thirty minutes trying to find it, giving up and returning to her rope. And there it was: almost glowing preternaturally in a sunbeam. It had been hours since Arya began her search, and that spot had originally been encased in shadow when she first landed in the pit. It was like the egg had waited for the right moment to show itself.
Like with the others, Arya gently placed it in the satchel. She carefully looped herself back in the rope, tugging on it and calling, "Lift me up!" to Rickon, Robb, and Jon.
"Robb and Jon aren't here," called back Rickon, sticking his head over the edge, his red hair tousled. "Stay there! I'll go get them."
"Where else am I supposed to go?" muttered Arya in response, rolling her eyes. Honestly, Rickon was sometimes just so obvious.
Moments later, the rope began to ascend, and then Jon and Robb both hauled Arya up from under the armpits – which was a bit embarrassing, she was a woman grown and assassin, really! – and then she was standing before them, Sansa, and Bran behind, eyes curious.
She began her descent early morning, and the sun was on the other side of the mountains now. She had been gone the entire day, and her stomach growled, loudly, making itself known. Both Robb and Jon had dirt across their faces and solemn looks from helping to gather the bones; Sansa looked worn and wane from her skinchanging; and Bran looked tired from using his greensight, which was more than he normally did. Rickon looked utterly bored, having spent all day watching a pit and nothing else.
But all were looking at her.
"Well?" asked Robb, breathlessly. "Did you find anything?"
Wordlessly, Arya swung the satchel to her front and opened the flap. Robb, Jon, Sansa, Bran, and Rickon leaned forward, peering into the satchel opening.
Rickon's breath hitched.
Sansa stuttered, "Are those – is that—"
Bran looked triumphant, and Jon was the one who murmured, blinking rapidly, "Aye. Aegon's dragon eggs."
They didn't linger at Summerhall after that. Within a sennight, they had packed their horses, Aegon's crown, and the dragon eggs, and had decided on their next location.
There was nothing left for them to discover at Summerhall; Jon learned what happened, how Aegon's decisions left a gaping hole for a power vacuum taken over by his surviving children and then grandchildren, who made bad decision after bad decision. Maybe Jon would've liked to see Rhaegar at Summerhall, but if he did, he never said.
Instead, he let the others squabble about their next destination until Bran won by cleverly arguing for Oldtown.
It was going to be a hell of a ride – Robb estimated it would take close to three moons, at best; Sansa added that stopping at the holdfasts along the way would add time they could ill afford.
But while none of the Starks complained about camping under the stars – and Robb certainly thought Sansa would have, had he not known what she had gone through in the other timeline – by the time the new moon had come and Rickon had his nameday (simultaneously a year old and fourteen) – the Starks were grumpy, snappish, and soaked from a sudden downpour.
"I've had it!" declared Robb, a pout on his face. "We need to stop somewhere! With a bed! And a
fire."
"I have saddle sores," agreed Sansa with a grumble.
"Oh, shut up," muttered Bran, strapped into his saddle, and who constantly had saddle sores from the design.
"Ashford or push on to Cider Hall?" asked Jon, bringing his horse up from the rear to step alongside Arya and Robb, who took the front.
Robb and Sansa shared a look. "I'd suggest Ashford," began Sansa slowly, "But..."
"Cider Hall," finished Robb, definitively. He still looked hesitant, though. "They're descendants of the First Men. There were Cider Hall Fossoways at Summerhall, and they saw us."
"While I am all for a featherbed," broke in Arya mulishly, "How exactly are we going to get through the gate? We know we're Starks, but no one is going to believe us."
"Father gave us a few sealed letters of explanation and introduction," answered Sansa. "It has his signature and seal. We can't falsify that."
"Worse case, we'll stay at an inn by doubling back to Ashford," added Jon. "We've enough coin, loathe I am to spend any of it."
The group consented, although reluctantly, and then they were off to Cider Hall.
They reached the castle in good time, despite the heavy downpour that hampered them for three days and broke on the fourth, just as they came to where the Cockleswhent and Mander rivers converged. Orchards of red apples stretched along the side of the Cockleswhent they were on, sloping gently up and over rolling hills. A light brown dirt road, quickly drying out after the rain, wove in and out of the orchards, all the while leading up to the pinkish-stone castle flying a golden flag with red apple on it.
Cider Hall was a long, rectangular fortress with a tall, narrow gatehouse and balcony overlooking the pathway, with thick curtain walls extending in either direction; the left hit the river, curving around to run parallel with the water, while the right curtainwall stretched only a few meters before ending on a square corner tower.
Compared to Winterfell's round towers and long curtainwalls and baileys, with sloped roofs to keep snow off them and the thick, grey stone of the north, Cider Hall was completely alien to them, surrounded by nature and decorative corbels.
"Halt! Who goes?" called one of the guards, on either side of the large, open doors.
By design, Robb had been chosen as spokesperson – no one was going to give Jon Snow a chance to speak for the Starks, no matter what they knew. Robb cleared his throat and said, "Lord Robb Stark of Winterfell, with my siblings. We've come to call on Lord Fossoway and ask for his hospitality on our way to Oldtown."
The guards goggled at the group, tilting their helmets back to look through the visors.
"Erm," began the other at the door, sharing a glance with the guard on duty. "A moment, my Lord."
He then turned on his heel and disappeared through the door with a fast clip that turned into a run.
The Starks were left to awkward shuffle their horses on the dirt path, looking at each other warily.
"Well, we can't say that we didn't expect this," muttered Sansa, keeping an eye on the entrance where the other remaining guard began to sweat.
"What? People coming back from the dead?" asked Arya sarcastically. "Oh, no, that would never happen."
Rickon snickered and Jon looked very put upon, rolling his eyes upward for divine help. "Children, behave," muttered Robb, as the guard returned, breathless.
"My Lord – Fossoway – bids you – welcome," gasped the guard between heaving breaths, stepping back and to the side with a sidestep so that the entrance was free for them. The other guard dipped their head respectfully, and Robb led the group by clicking his tongue and nudging his horse forward.
Past the gatehouse, trees lined the path to another pink-stoned building, square with tall, thin glass windows facing the very large bailey. There was low, thick, and knotty grass spread across the bailey, with a well and several short and squat buildings with tiled roofs spread throughout the large space.
The castle proper was elevated a few feet, with a short staircase that framed the tall double doors. The front of the rectangular castle was extended, with an equal number of windows on either side of the entrance, three floors in height. Above the large entrance doors, on the third flight, was a recessed balcony. At the foot of the stairs were several people, and off to the side, a servant in gold and red livery with a tray of salt and bread.
The bald man at the head of the stairs was tall, ruddy-cheeked with the beginning of a potbelly and garbed expensively. There was a woman in a pretty dress, wisps of grey in her hair, and at least three grown men around them, with flyaway blond or light brown hair goggling at them.
"Welcome!" he greeted with a loud voice, eyes wide and skipping over each Stark as they spread their horses in a line before him and his. "Please, be welcome in my halls and accept guest rights."
Robb dismounted first, Sansa next, both properly and with decorum; Jon helped Bran and both Rickon and Arya practically leapt from the back of their mounts.
"My thanks, Lord Fossoway," greeted Robb, bowing as the servant approached. Robb's hand hovered over the bread and bowl of salt, a breathless moment of hesitation that only Sansa and Jon's keen eyes caught. He then took the bread with a thin, weak smile, broke it, and dipped it in the salt before passing it on to his siblings.
"It is an honour to house those who share First Men blood," the bald Lord Fossoway continued, eyes strangely stuck on Robb, until they skittered to Sansa and Jon before turning back to the once King in the North.
What a strange thing to say, thought Sansa, eyes narrowing slightly.
Both Jon and Robb thought so as well, but Jon busied himself with helping Bran set up his
wheelchair. Robb was the one who asked, a polite, "oh?" emerging from his lips.
Lord Fossoway's smile strained. "I was a young lad, my father's heir when I visited the Targaryen court, my Lord."
Arya and Rickon tensed; Rickon went as far as taking a threatening step forward until Sansa stopped him with a firm hand on his shoulder.
"I'm sure you have questions, my Lord," said Bran, pushing his chair forward.
"Many," the man replied, but he turned to those standing with him. "My wife, Lady Emmaline, and our sons, Owen, Mathias, and Symon."
Robb bowed to them and introduced the Starks. Sansa curtseyed prettily; Arya scowled and, given she was in trousers, bowed instead to the Fossoways. Rickon gave a sloppy bow and Bran merely inclined his head, which was perfectly acceptable. Jon gave a bow as well, lingering behind the group.
There were no ramps, so Jon and Robb carried Bran in his wheelchair up the stairs while Sansa and Rickon followed behind Lord and Lady Fossoway. The inside of Cider Hall was gorgeous, with
tall ceilings, painted white or cream with images of the history of the First Men or the Reach. The floors were white or buttery cream-yellow marble; staircases were wide, white marble with curling bannisters of wrought iron or thick columns of pinkish-grey marble. There were swoops and curved borders around tall, glass-filled windows letting in light down wide, open hallways, framed with golden curtains held back by red braids.
Although they were given rooms to freshen up in, all separate, the Starks did as they had in Winterfell and found themselves in Robb's room, where a servant for Lord Fossoway encountered them with instructions to visit the Lord's solar.
Dutifully, they all trooped into the large, airy room that overlooked the Mander. Lord Fossoway
sat behind a desk, his eldest son and heir Owen at his right. The other two sons were not with them.
Robb sat in the chair Lord Fossoway indicated, while Sansa took the other. Bran occupied the space between their chairs, and Arya and Rickon ranged themselves on either free side of Robb and Sansa, leaving Jon to stand at rest behind Bran.
"Remarkable," breathed Fossoway after several long moments where he stared at Robb, Sansa, and Jon. "You haven't aged a day since Summerhall."
Owen Fossoway started at the name, head turning to look at his father incredulously. Robb frowned, picking at a thread on his shirt. "I don't recall you, Ser—"
"I had hair then," the man interrupted wryly. "And I don't believe you spoke to myself or my father, that evening. You seemed particularly startled after speaking to Andros Dayne—"
"I had been under the impression that I wasn't seen," scowled Robb, shooting a quick look at Bran, who looked back serenely. "So, I was startled. I then realized that more people could see us than I had thought."
Fossoway's forehead furrowed. "You didn't expect to be seen, but you were walking around the hall?"
"It's... complicated," replied Robb cagily. "We had only spoken to Prince Duncan at that point and weren't expecting anyone else to engage us."
Fossoway's frown deepened. "I am confused, but – no matter. I had not thought that the Starks would send anyone to the Targaryen court. Nor did I know Rickard Stark had a bastard brother who birthed Starks of age to his own children – less so that they were given the Stark name." His
frown turned contemplative. "Although, after what the Mad King did, it is expected..."
"Oh." Robb nervously cleared his throat. "Oh. No. Erm. Rickard was our grandfather."
Fossoway paused. "Your... grandfather?"
Cheeks red, Robb turned to Sansa, who pulled a small, sealed roll of parchment from her sleeve and reached across the desk to the Lord of Cider Hall.
"This may explain some things, my Lord," she said prettily. "Rickard Stark was our grandfather and Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell is our father."
"But." Owen, Fossoway's son, was gaping at them, mouth wide. "But Lord Stark's children are... are children. Not grown adults."
Fossoway had unsealed the parchment and unrolled it, reading through the penned ink quickly. His eyebrows jumped up at the end, causing him to look over the collection of northerners before he reread the scroll.
Arya opened her mouth to reply to Owen Fossoway, but Robb leaned back enough to elbow her sharply. She glared in response but shut her mouth with a snap, scowling instead.
"I keep to the Seven, you know," said Fossoway quietly, putting the scroll down on his cleared desk. "But our ancestor was Foss the Archer, the son of Garth Greenhand. They were First Men, kin to Bran the Builder. We might not keep to the Old Gods anymore, but I still have a healthy respect for them and those that do – especially after..." he trailed off, blinking as he collected himself.
"Father?"
"I do not confess to understand the manner in which you are here," the man continued quietly, stressing especially at Robb, Sansa, and Jon. "I saw you years past in Summerhall, and yet you stand before me here, unchanged. And yet, you claim you are Lord Eddard Stark's children grown, despite his children being half your ages, at least, in Winterfell. But I have his own words and hand confirming it, stating it is an act of the Old Gods."
"As far as we know," agreed Sansa demurely. "We did appear before a heart tree in the North, my Lord."
Fossoway shook his head. "I will not question the Gods – the Old or the New, my Lady. If the Warden of the North tells me you are his children, then so it is so."
Owen's eyes bulged.
The man looked down at his desk, drumming his fingers for a few moments. Then, he looked up, tone wry. "Well, this certainly explains the strange ravens we received from Oldtown and King's Landing."
Ravens? thought Robb worryingly.
"How can House Fossoway of Cider Hall be of service to you, my Lords, Ladies?" Fossoway continued easily, leaning back in his seat. He was relaxed and welcoming, and Owen immediately copied him, relaxing his stance.
All tension leached from the Starks at the words, and the invisible, unspoken of worry that hovered
over them dissipated, turning into relief.
"Merely a place to sleep tonight, my Lord," answered Sansa with a smile. Owen melted where he stood at the sight of it, going a bit dreamy-eyed. Arya turned away to pretend to gag.
"Easily done," agreed Fossoway. "You'll join us for a feast?"
"Certainly." Robb paused. "On the condition that Jon sits with us, my Lord. He's our brother. Family. Where one of the pack goes, the rest follow."
Fossoway's eyes – a brown that looked golden at times – turned to Jon contemplatively. The bald man scanned Jon, from the top of his head to what he could see before Bran's head blocked his view.
"Your... brother, of course," the man finally said, with a slow nod of agreement.
Robb's heart clenched. Was the man thinking of Summerhall? Had he seen Jon next to Duncan, or more worrisome, the king? Aegon and Jon's facial features were close enough, and they had been next to each other before they disappeared before the fire. If anyone had seen – it would not be hard to see the similarities between the two – and put things together – to realize that Jon could not be Eddard Stark's bastard –
"I would be happy to seat you at our table, my Lord," finished Fossoway, his eyes fixed on Jon.
"'M not a lord," Jon replied carefully, looking everywhere but at the Lord of Cider Hall.
"No," the man agreed quietly, eyes still on Jon. "No, you're not."
Tension racketed up in the room. Robb saw Sansa's hand tightly clenched, partially hidden by the folds of her dress.
"Well!" Fossoway stood, a beaming smile on them. "I'll have Owen escort you back to your rooms to prepare for tonight."
Robb stood at the dismissal, bowing shallowly while his siblings murmured their own thanks and copied him.
Owen strode first out of the room, Sansa on his arm and distracting him as she asked about Cider Hall and his own accomplishments. Robb walked with Jon, at the very back of the group.
"Why do I feel like we dodged the swing of a sword?" muttered Robb to him. Jon replied grimly, "I'm not sure we did."
TBC...
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