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Robb Returns by The Dark Scribbler

Books » A song of Ice and Fire Rated: K+, English, Fantasy & Adventure, Eddard S./Ned, Robb S., Theon G., Domeric B., Words: 627k+, Favs: 6k+, Follows: 6k+, Published: Jul 16, 2015 Updated: Sep 287,744Chapter 56

Asha

She was getting tired of seeing dead men in gibbets at the entrances to harbours. This one, however, was different. She knew the man for a start. And he was – or rather now had been – a Drowned Man. She stared at the corpse. Interesting. He'd just been hung. No stakes.

Looking around she could tell that the sight of the man had, in some odd manner, slightly relaxed her crew. With the exception of Alek, the man who had signed on at Pyke and who she suspected was some kind of informer for Damphair. Meh. Haken was keeping an eye on the little wet runt. If it meant that Alek suffered an 'accident' then he'd arrange it.

As they reached Long Stone Quay and tied up she looked up at the castle. She'd always loved Ten Towers. It was so very different to Pyke and its rope bridges and eternal dampness.

Dale was standing on the Quay, directing repairs to a longship that looked as if it had seen better days. He nodded to her as she approached. "Your nuncle sent word to send you to him when you arrived. He's not at the castle today. He's at High Harlaw."

She stared at him. "He hates High Harlaw."

"Yes, but that's where he is. I must warn you – he's in a foul mood."

She sighed a little and then paused. "Who's in the gibbet on the point?"

"A friend of your other nuncle. He started to be shouting a lot when he heard that Black Gregan was on his way to the Shadow Tower with a longship of supplies, men and weapons. It was annoying. So Lord Harlaw cut him short." He smirked a little. "Got cheered for it too, by every man nearby."

She smiled a little and then strode off to the stables, where she saddled one of the little shaggy ponies that the island was famous for, mounted and then rode out of the gates, down the road to the old holdfast of the Harlaws. As she did she looked about carefully. The people of Harlaw seemed to be preparing for Winter. Odd, that. She'd heard of some communities on Old Wyk were doing the same.

She also had an unpleasant feeling that the fight between those who claimed to have heard The Call and those who denied it, like Father and Damphair, was getting worse. Her religious nuncle was worrying her a great deal. He appeared to be increasingly angry, increasingly obsessed with punishing those that claimed that The Call had been real, that the Stark needed their help. More men were in gibbets at Lordsport. The lucky ones had died quickly.

And now her nuncle Rodrik was pushing back. This would not end well, she could tell that. The question was – how bad would it be?

When she finally arrived at High Harlaw she found her nuncle Rodrik scowling over a set of records that looked as if they had been locked in a box and then covered in dust for several decades at the very least. But judging from the severity of the scowl she guessed that he either wasn't finding what he wanted or didn't like what he had found.

"Useless," he muttered as she slammed the topmost book closed. "All useless. Damn my ancestors. What were they so afraid of?" Then he looked up. "Asha. How is Pyke?"

"Parts are heated. Parts are fearful. And parts are dead. Damphair rules over Father at times. There are more gibbets at Lordsport."

He nodded. "So I heard. We have one of our own here. We put fools who smell too much of Damphair's madness in it. After we've shut them up that is."

"Damphair will not like it. Neither will Father."

"I care not. I am Lord of Harlaw. My word rules here, not Damphair's. And if your father disagrees then we…" He set his jaw. "We will have words."

Asha thought about the kind of words her nuncle was implying and hid a wince. "What are you looking for here?"

He directed an odd look in her direction. "Reasons."

"Reasons for what?"

He sighed. "Reasons for why my – our! – ancestors were such damn fools and destroyed so much."

She stared at him. "Destroyed what?"

Her nuncle ran a hand through his hair and then gave her another considering look. Then he crooked a finger. "I need to show you something."

He led her down a long dark corridor and then handed her a burning brand, before starting down a long spiral staircase. It smelt damp down here and as they descended still further she could see moisture on the walls. The stonework was rougher down here too, older. How old was this place? Which of her ancestors had built it? Or had they built it on something else, something older? A strange feeling stole over her and she shuddered a little.

"Do you feel them too?"

She looked at her nuncle, who was still leading the way. "Feel what?"

"The ghosts. I shudder every time I come down here. I feel the spectre of the past most heavily here. This is the oldest part of High Harlaw. Should be the dampest too, but whoever built it knew his drains well."

"How old is it?"

He paused for a moment and then laid a hand on the rough walls. "This stonework is that of the First Men. I have seen it in other places. Read of it too." A ghost of a smile crossed his face and then he resumed downwards. Asha stared at the walls for an instant and then followed him hurriedly.

The stairs ended and a long corridor stretched ahead. There was a slight curve to it, a subtle one and Asha wasn't sure if it was intentional or not. What she did see was the room that her nuncle led her too. Especially as she saw it from a distance. There was an… odd… dull light flickering it, like a guttering candle.

Her nuncle paused at the doorway, set his chin and then walked in. As she reached the doorway as well she stopped dead in her tracks. The walls of the room were covered in… something she couldn't quite make out. She peered at the nearest wall. Runes, or the remains of what seemed to be runes. The carvings were glowing fitfully, like dying fireflies. And they had all been incised by lines, as if someone had been trying to destroy them. It was beyond eerie. It gave her the creeping horrors as she looked at the walls. "What… what is this place?"

"I do not know." He said the words heavily, as if it pained him to say such a thing. "I wish that I did. All I know is that the Steward of High Harlaw was assessing stores not too far from here when he saw the light. It was the first that I ever knew of this place."

She raised a hand in bafflement and pointed at the nearest rune. "Do you know what they say?"

"No. Whoever carved the lines through them did too good a job of it. And yes, I can read runes. The odd word here and there – in some of the darker corners – survive, but all they give are hints. Dark hints at that. 'Blood tide'. 'Outcast'. 'Prophecy'."

He fell silent and Asha stared at him. "What else nuncle? I see the battle in your face."

"Words that make my heart sink. 'Death cult'. 'Lost God'. 'Sea Wolf'. And – most ominously – 'Beware the return of the Others'. It's the longest fragment."

She absorbed this and then looked about the room again. "The light… where does it come from?"

This question brought a sour smile to his face. "Oh, that? Simple – magic. Probably the magic used by the First Men. The thing that your father and Damphair deny even exists. Deny it to the point where they kill men." He spat the words bitterly.

"Nuncle…" Asha started to say, before stopping as she struggled with the words. "Nuncle… what is going on?"

He surprised her by laughing softly for a moment, before spreading his hands. "I know not! And it's not from lack of trying. There are no records of this room, no legends of it. Someone carved those runes and then someone else, afterwards, carved lines through them, weakening whatever magic was within them. And from the violence of some of the strokes – someone who hated whatever the runes said."

There was a pause as her nuncle leant tiredly against the wall. "They call me The Reader, and they think that they insult me. No. It is a simple truth within a name. I read. I try to understand this world of ours. I try to see beyond the walls that your benighted father seeks to build around these islands. I would have a good future for Harlaw, a future where the sails of the Ironborn were not viewed with dread. And I seek to understand the threats that your father and his insane brother would deny even exist!"

He ran a hand through his hair. "Something comes, Asha! Something comes, something black and terrible, a storm like nothing that we have ever seen before. I smell it in the air. This room had a warning here once. A warning carved by the First Men. By… by my ancestors. There have been Harlaws here for hundreds of years, if not longer." Grief rippled over his face for a moment. "Fair Isle changed me. When my sons died… well, it broke a part of me. Broke any faith I had in your father as well. Damn him."

Asha winced a little. "Nuncle…"

"Oh don't look like that Asha! Your wretched father is a fool. This notion that The Call was some kind of Greenlander mummery… do you know why your father supports his brother Aeron so much? Because he and his Drowned Men – still don't call themselves as such openly – make up so much of his support for the Old Way. The Iron Price. That's what he bases his power on, after the stupidity of his rebellion against Baratheon." He spat to one side. "I have a done a lot of thinking of late," he said bitterly. "And the more I think about it, the more I wonder if your Grandfather Quellon had the right of it. If only he'd lived longer. He might have beaten some sense into your father, instead of your father deciding to turn against what his father believed."

This made her look around uneasily. Yes, Father's adherence to the Old Way was… traditional. She understood that. And yet Father had, in his own way, also let her walk her own path, which was non-traditional. But he also demanded that the people around him charge the Iron Price. Follow the Old Way.

"Nuncle…"

"I am having the island searched for other such rooms. Any records at all. I am searching for answers, because my people are in danger and they need those answers. And if Damphair or even your father try and stop me from protecting my people I shall turn the waters around this island red with their blood. I will not ignore this Asha. I cannot. I heard The Call to Winterfell. That's something else that I cannot ignore." He shook his head. "So – now you know where I stand. I do not want you to make a choice as to where you stand yourself – but you must know the issues."

She stared at him for what felt like a very long time. A hundred things or more flashed through her mind. The Call. The bodies in the gibbets. Damphair's dangerous madness. Father's comments about his plans for the North. He probably thought that his secret was unknown to her. If so he was wrong. She'd seen enough to put the pieces together. She wasn't an idiot. She also knew that the very thought of attacking the North – of attacking Winterfell – now made her… uneasy. She made her choice.

"Nuncle, I cannot fight my father. But that does not mean that I will fight you. You have the right of it in this case."

He nodded at her and then directed a brief wintery smile at her. "Keep your eyes on the horizon, Asha. Send word if you see or hear anything odd. And smell the wind, especially when it blows from the North. If you smell foul things, steer for Ten Towers."

Riding back to the quay she was in a thoughtful – dark, even – mood. Her nuncle's words had shaken her. Shaken her more than she could admit. Her nuncle was looking for answers… where could those answers be found? Wait… Old Gram. Where was she again?

When she reached the ship she found Haken sitting on a bollard and using a honing stone on his knife. "What news?"

"Alek's gone."

"Deserted?"

"Died."

"What from?"

"Stupidity."

"How so?"

"He thought that he was better at using a knife than me. And before that, that he could lecture me about taking orders from a woman. Oh and he also seemed to be a very religious man. All told – he died of stupidity."

"Oh." Then she shrugged. "Hire someone to replace him then. We stay the night here. Have the ship reprovisioned. We sail on the morning tide."

"Where to?"

"Great Wyk. There's someone there I need to talk to."

Robert

The Street of Steel was the kind of place that made any man feel alive. So many people, so many horses, so much noise, the smoke and sparks, the pounding of metal on metal… Oh and now the cheers. Men and women cheered him as he rode down the street, with Ser Barristan by his side, with cries of 'Long live Good King Robert!' and 'Long live the King!'.

He nodded genially at them and gave them his best flashing smile. It was good to be the king on a day like this.

Ser Barristan pointed to one side and he nodded. The shop that they stopped at was a large one – and a very well-appointed one. This was the workplace of a man who knew the value of good equipment – he could see that at one.

Dismounting he tied up his horse himself. "What's the name of the merchant again, Ser Barristan?"

"Tobho Mott, Your Grace. He's an Essosi – and a very skilled one."

Nodding that this, he strode in. The workshop was very well-appointed indeed and he nodded at the workmanship on some of the weapons he could see on display. "Hello? Is Tobho Mott here?"

"Yes, yes, I'm coming," a man called out tone side crossly. A door opened and a man entered. He was balding, with the shoulders of a smith. Not that he was using one of his arms at the moment – his right arm was in a sling. The moment he saw him he stopped dead – and then bowed deeply. "Your Grace. How may I help you?"

"I have a sword that I need you to have a look at," Robert rumbled as he unslung Stormbreaker and then pulled it from its scabbard before placing it carefully on a workbench. "It's my family sword – the sword of the Durrandons – and I've only recently rediscovered it. That said, it's occurred to me that I know nothing about it. It never needs to be honed and the more I use it, the lighter it seems. Odd. So – I would know more about it."

Mott stared at it and then nodded slowly. "I can do my best Your Grace. I might have to call on my apprentice – damn it, my ex-apprentice now, but he's still here for a few days to help out – as I might need help because of my arm."

"A bad injury?"

"Foolishness on my part." He went slightly pink. "She was heavier than I thought," he muttered quietly. "But worth it." Then he stepped forwards and looked at the sword. After a moment he frowned. "The sword of Durran Godsgrief, yes? There are tales of this sword Your Grace. Odd ones."

"Aye," Ser Barristan Selmy said to one side. "It's a sword that was said to turn aside lightning and embolden fainthearts. It's even said that it gave warnings – but just how it did that is not said."

Mott moved closer to the sword and then stared at the metal with a frown on his face that deepened by the moment. Then he straightened up and turned to the door. "GENDRY!"

"Master?"

"Get in here!"

"Can't Master, this steel needs to be quenched properly. I'll be there as soon as I finish it."

There was something about the voice that rang a faint bell at the back of his head, but he shook it off as Mott stamped over to another workbench and then used his good hand to open a drawer, muttering as he did so. When he turned back he was holding a small round object, which he then put to his eye, scrunching his eyebrow and cheek up to hold it in place. It seemed to have some kind of lenses in it, because as he walked back to the sword Robert could see that his eye appeared to be massively enlarged. It was… unsettling.

"A payment from a Myrish merchant for some work I did on a sword for him," Mott muttered. "It lets me see things close up." Then he leant back over the sword and inspected it intently. Robert watched him. The man seemed to be increasingly puzzled by something. He was about to ask him what was wrong, when all of a sudden the smith straightened up. "Your Grace, may I use a tuning hammer on this sword? I want to hear what it sounds like when the metal rings."

He stared at the man. "You want to sound the sword?"

"Aye."

"Very well."

Mott rummaged in a desk to one side and then pulled out a small hammer. As he did there was movement to one side and another man entered. He was well muscled and wore a blacksmithing apron. He also had a cloth over his head that seemed to be soaking up the sweat that was trickling down his face. "Master?"

"Lift the sword a little Gendry."

"Yes Master." The apprentice reached out and lifted the sword by the pommel. As the smith gently tapped the sword Robert heard a melodious chime from it that seemed to ripple through his very bones.

"Odd," said the smith. "I have no idea what this metal is, Your Grace. None at all. It… it is a mystery to me. The First Men used bronze, the Andals steel. I know both metals well. The Valyrians invented their own way to forge steel, the secret of which is lost. It is the greatest mystery, for smiths, Maesters, all who work with metal. Some – myself included can rework Valyrian steel. But none can make it from new. And now, there is a new mystery. This. I truly do not know what this is made from. It is no metal that I am familiar with at all. I cannot even tell by the sound. That dull noise is odd as well."

"Dull?" Robert asked, confused. "You've been by your forge for too long, man! It did not sound dull when you tapped it. It chimed!"

"Your Grace?" Mott and Ser Barristan both looked confused.

"It chimed!"

"I heard no chime," Ser Barristan said with a frown. "Odd."

"Your Grace," the apprentice said hesitantly, "I heard it chime as well. Like… like a bell."

"Not now Gendry," Mott barked, but Robert was now intrigued.

"Take that sweatrag off your head lad. You're the apprentice?"

"Former apprentice," the lad said dully. "I've been told I'm to work by the docks now." And then he pulled the cloth off his head. Robert openly stared at him. Blue eyes. Black hair. That Baratheon jaw. It was like looking at a younger version of himself. He could see that Ser Barristan saw it too. And Mott… well, he was looking a bit shifty.

Robert rubbed at his temple for a moment. Oh gods. "Gendry, is it?"

"Yes Your Grace."

"You look familiar to me lad. Who was your mother?"

The lad stared at his feet. "Don't rightly know, Your Grace. She died when I was very young. She worked at an alehouse."

"And your father?" Robert prompted gently.

The apprentices shook his head. "Don't know, Your Grace. That's why I haven't got a last name."

"How long have you been working here?"

The lad looked deeply puzzled at the sudden change in the direction of the conversation. "Um… some years now Your Grace. A man brought me here. Can't remember who he was now."

Robert stared at him – and then he looked at Mott, whose shifty look intensified. "Who brought him here?"

The smith looked at him. "A man I'd never seen before, Your Grace. He paid me twice the normal fee for an apprentice. Not that he needed to. The lad had a knack with a hammer." Oh, he knew. "He might have been an Essosi though. His accent was good, but I could tell he was once from Essos."

Varys. It had to be him. He had seen to the matter of young Edric. How many more bastards did he have? It was an unsettling thought. Then he looked back at Gendry, who was staring at the sword. "Your mother – which alehouse? And can you remember anything at all about your mother?"

Gendry frowned in concentration. "Crossed Keys, I think. And… she had blonde hair, Your Grace."

The Crossed Keys… he remembered that place. Oh, but remembered it. What had her name been again? Bessie? No, that was the one with the massive tits. Ah…. Oh. Alys. She'd had the most amazing smile. "Alys," he said out loud. "Her name was Alys. She was from the Stormlands, originally. That's why I remember her. You have a last name lad. Gendry Storm."

The lad looked at him, and Robert could see what looked suspiciously like tears in his eyes – but that he was not going to cry. No, he wasn't going to shed a tear. Had to be a man. "So you're here for a few days? And then down the docks?" Robert asked, keen to move away. "I'll talk to you again lad. And on the matter of your father – I need to talk to you about that. On another day perhaps. How good an apprentice is he, Master Mott?"

"Fair to middling. Needs to work at it. Can be a good one – if he applies himself."

"Are you working on anything at the moment, lad?" Robert asked.

"Thought about making a helmet," Gendry muttered. "The head of a bull."

"Not a bad idea," Robert said. "A challenge. Tell you what – once you make it, bring it to me. If it's any good I'll have you make one for me. Only in the shape of the head of a stag."

Gendry gaped at him for a moment and then tugged his forelock. "Be honoured to do it, Your Grace." Then he sniffed. "Master, I need to get back to the forge. Don't like leaving it unattended. Dangerous. Your Grace. Ser Barristan." And then, at their nods of dismissal, he left.

Robert watched him go and then looked at Mott again. "What's he really like a smith?"

Mott smiled slightly. "If he applies himself – a very good one. He's a steady one. A mite stubborn at times and if you throw too many things at him he can get a little confused. But he has a big heart – he's a fierce friend. Loyal. He's had a hard life, but he's a good man."

Sounds like Father, Robert thought with more than a little sadness. The poor lad. He needed to do something to help him along a little. Then something occurred to him. "Why is he going to the docks?"

"I was told that was because of Lord Stannis, Your Grace. He saw the lad once. With, erm, The Lord Hand. Lord Arryn."

Gods, did everyone know about the lad? Did Renly know? Then he paled a little. Did Cersei? If the Scold knew about him then he might be in danger. Stannis had the right of it – the docks was a good idea. He'd talk to him.

Robert turned back to the sword. "Very well, let's get back to the matter at hand – Stormbreaker. You don't know what the metal is?"

"No, Your Grace. It is a mystery to me. Although… it might be a form of sky-metal. There are many kinds and I have not seen all of them."

"Sky-metal?"

"Sometimes a star falls to earth, burning a great fiery trail as it descends. They are rare – and still rarer are the ones that are intact. And some – rare upon rare upon rare – contain a heart of iron, the kind of iron that is unlike any other. The First Men were very skilled in fashioning weapons from these things. Those that they did are famous amongst smiths. Legends in fact."

This was intriguing. Robert shared a glance with Ser Barristan, who looked almost excited. "Such as?"

Mott stroked his chin. "The Gardener kings were said to have a great spear. The Casterlys an axe – Rocktooth by name, or so it is said. Twin daggers as well. Who knows what happened to them though? Oh and the Starks were said to have something called the Fist of Winter. A… mace I think, and a legendary one."

Robert stroked his face. "You said that this is the work of the First Men."

"Aye, Your Grace."

"And possibly this, this, sky-metal."

"Aye Your Grace. Oh, and there was another on the list. 'Tis said that the Daynes of Starfall have a sword made from a fallen star. Dawn."

"Dawn is the work of the First Men?" Ser Barristan asked. He looked at Robert. "'Tis very likely Your Grace. I knew Ser Arthur Dayne well. He said that Dawn was unique. And very old." He looked ashamed for a moment. "I liked the man but… he was deep in Rhaegar Targaryen's counsels."

Robert felt his blood thunder in his ears at the mention of that bloody man, but kept his temper in check. "And Dawn was in this city recently, oddly enough."

"I know," said Mott wryly. "Half the smiths I know of – including me – were hoping to catch a glimpse of it. And that is a sword that has many, many odd legends attached to it. It's said to be a blade that can only be borne by a Dayne. A blade made with magic. Rather like the Fist of Winter. And Stormbreaker. I think, Your Grace, that only you – and your blood can wield the blade properly."

He considered this. Then he smiled. "Ironic. I love my Warhammer, but I now have Stormbreaker. Ned loves that sword of his, Ice, but his family once had a mace. I wonder what happened to it? Ned never mentioned any such weapon. I'll write to him." He stood up. "Master Mott – my thanks for your time. You do good work here, I can see it. You will receive commissions from the Red Keep, I swear it."

"My thanks, Your Grace," the smith said with a bow. "I should be fit again to swing a hammer in a week or so."

Robert grabbed Stormbreaker, returned it to its scabbard and then secured it to his back again. "Good. Ser Barristan?"

"Training, Your Grace?"

"Aye." As he strode back to his horse he sighed a little. Why was it that he got on better with his bastards than his trueborn? If only Joffrey wasn't quite such a Lannister. He mounted with a grunt. Ah well.

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