The Raven's Disciple

The Raven's Disciple

Old Town

Robb had just taken up a quill to quickly jot down some of the thoughts he needed to convey in his message to Winterfell when a knock on the doors stopped him.

"Come!"

"Milord," a guard poked his head in, "Wade Poole has returned."

Robb stood up with a smile, "At last! I was getting worried." He pushed past the man and strode with quickened steps towards the front yard. "Send for Jon, will you please, Mantel?"

"Wolf is already at the yard, Milord." Replied the man.

Robb chuckled, all the men had taken to refer Jon as Wolf after Wade. It did irritate his brother in the beginning, but since he had been named Ser Jon, the White Wolf, the poor lad had to reluctantly accept the title.

Robb found half the men crowded with the returned men, all eagerly wanting to hear the news of their home. It had been too long since they had seen the North.

"Wade Poole!" Robb called out, and the men stood aside to let him through, "Never thought that I would say this, but you did brighten my day."

"Milord Robb," said a blushing Wade. Robb had to stifle his laugh seeing the man bashful. It was quite an odd sight to behold.

"Just in time too, brother." Jon approached them with his hand resting on a young lad's shoulder, "It seems Wade is very much on his way to make a warrior out of Kurt all on his own." The lad, immensely pleased with himself for being praised by Ser Jon, hid himself a bit behind the man.

"Oh?"

"Aye. Apparently, Kurt here had his taste of battle on the way home. He shot down a bandit leader from his horse."

Robb beamed at the lad, "Good lad. In no time, you will be a great warrior."

Wade coughed a little to attract their attention, "Milord, he also carries a special treasure with him. For you and Wolf."

Jon looked curiously down at the boy, "What is it, Kurt?"

The boy brought out a sheaf of parchments from within the fold of his clothes.

"Ladies Sansa and Arya sent you missives, Ser." Kurt handed them over to the brothers, "Lord Bran had to help the Little Lord Rickon with his letters, but he was the first with his message to you."

Truly, it was no less than a precious treasure to the Stark brothers. Both received the gift with misty eyes and soft smiles.

"You have our gratitude, lad." Robb surreptitiously wiped his eyes.

"Aye, Kurt. Your gift is truly precious." Jon frowned in thought, "Arya let you call her a lady?"

Kurt smirked, "She could only scream at me when I called her lady from afar."

The brothers laughed uproariously at that.

[CotW]

The setting sun had sprinkled a few handfuls of red over the water and turned it into a fiery waterbody of the Whispering Sound. From afar, Castle Hightower appeared to be a black monolith rising out of the fiery depths of Seven Hells. The road to the castle was free of any mud it accumulated during the day. Servants had worked tirelessly to clean the path for the noble lords and ladies to ride through to partake in the feast in honour of Queen Cersei.

The four friends, brothers in all but blood, urged their horses in a slow trot. Lord Robb Stark at the front, he was flanked by Lord Karstark on the right, and Lord Forrester on the left. Ser Jon Snow was bringing up the rear on his black destrier – Midnight.

Lord Asher Forrester leaned a little towards Lord Robb to ask him a question, "Gerþúr hugsa -" (Do you think-)

A loud cough cut him off in mid-sentence and he turned to look back. He found Ser Jon was looking at him in a fierce glare, making the young lord grimace and a little red around the neck.

The four had gotten into the habit of conversing in the Old Tongue. Before, they felt safe in the knowledge that they could discuss the current affairs among themselves without alerting any of the eavesdroppers. Old Tongue was the language of the North, but hardly a few seemed to know it nowadays even there. However, their opinion was proven to be wrong when an Archmaester of the Citadel proved that he was proficient in the language, and afterwards, a seemingly innocent missive from the Hightower Lord had them on guard. Jon had cautioned his brothers about conversing in the apparent dead language for the rest of their stay in Old Town, but it was not easy to not fall prey to old habits.

They were greeted at the entrance of the Great Hall by Ser Gunthor Hightower, who ordered one of the Redwyn twins to direct the Northern lords to their assigned seats. Most of the hall was filled with the nobles of Reach. The four sat at their table with Robb at the centre, Jon kept his eyes about the vast room, he needed to take the smallest opportunity to slip out and meet with Lord Leyton, he needed to be aware of his surroundings.

His eyes fell upon a table on the opposite side of the room. Prince Oberyn occupied a seat in seemingly careless ease. One hand rested on the backrest of the seat, while the other clutched a goblet full of Arbor Gold. A smirk etched on his face, appearing quite mocking to the others, one might even call it challenging. It was not a secret that Lord Mace Tyrell hated the Prince since he was the reason for his heir requiring the aid of a walking stick to move about. A slight raise of the goblet and a subtle tilt of the head let Jon know that the Prince had acknowledged his presence, and he returned the gesture.

Beside the Prince, sat Lady Ashara – Ellaria Sand, Jon reminded himself once again. He was yet to make up his mind on what to think about the lady. She was married to his Uncle Brandon, but at present, was married to the Prince, pretending to be a bastard from Hellholt. She was the mother of his cousin – though stillborn, but now, she was the adoptive mother of his half-sister, Rhaenys. A woman who hated his very existence because to her, he was the reason for their parent's death. The ache in his heart was not helping the confusion that clouded his mind.

Lady Ellaria gave her a soft but sad smile when she felt his gaze on her. Jon tried to return the smile, but it came out as a grimace. The lady gave him a nod of understanding. None of their daughters could be seen in the hall. Probably because the Prince didn't want to hurt the delicate feelings of the gathered nobles of the Reach by the presence of bastards. Lady Ellaria was overlooked because of her relationship with the Prince, and Jon was a knight of the realms.

A soft nudge to his side and a whisper alerted Jon of the new arrivals.

"The Heir is here." Asher indicated toward the doors.

The handsome youth had sandy blond hair; a pair of deep blue eyes and lean physic. It was apparent that the man was no stranger to the yard.

"The lad is indeed quite easy on the eyes, isn't he?" Torrhen murmured.

"Aye, and behaviours to go with that. I hope Wade succeeds in his mission."

"Oh, he will. You know Wade."

Ser Lyn followed the heir into the Hall. When his eyes fell on the Northerners he bowed his head, a tad more to it, and it would have appeared mocking. Robb's jaws clenched as he gave him a curt nod back. The exchange wasn't missed by the heir and he had a whispered conversation with his companion. Then he turned his head and graced the four with a calculating look while giving them – mainly Robb – a courteous bow.

Pretty soon, the Hall was filled with guests and the host arrived with the guest of honour holding onto his arm – Queen Cersei - following one of her Kingsguard, Ser Arys Oakheart. Her beautiful face seemed to be carved from stone as Lord Mace kept talking in her ear… almost kissing her cheek. They were followed by Loras Tyrell with Princess Myrcella; Margaery Tyrell with Prince Tommen; the Lord and Lady Hightower; Lady Alerie Tyrell holding the arm of Lord Baelor Hightower; Lord Willas escorting Lady Olenna; and finally Ser Garlan with his betrothed, Lady Leonette Fossway before the other Hightower sons and daughters ending with the White Lion. Ser Jaime and Ser Arys took places behind the seats of the Royal Family.

After everyone was seated, Lord Mace stood and started his speech, it began with thanking Her Grace but soon, it became nothing more than self-appraisal. Lady Olenna was seen to be rubbing her forehead as if she was trying to fend off a headache.

Robb leaned toward Jon and whispered, "The Heir is ready to fall into the trap. He is yet to take his eyes off of the high table."

Jon nodded, "I know. The Golden Flower kept surreptitiously glancing in his direction in between her blatant flirting with an eight namedays old lad."

Asher smirked, "On the other hand, Loras Tyrell keeps trying to engage the Princess in a conversation, but her eyes keep finding our table. I won't be too surprised if she is found to be holding a certain rose in her hands."

Jon grimaced, "I hope that I can make my escape before she corners me for a dance." He narrowed his eyes when the Forrester lord started to snicker at his imagined predicament. "I do plan on asking Meera for a dance though, just so you know."

That made Asher stop abruptly and Robb choke on a mouthful of wine he had just taken in.

"Fuck you, Snow!"

[Line Break]

The air didn't smell like shit.

That was the first thing she took notice of. That, and the lack of jostling crowd. She tried to feel offended at her husband for taking her precious son away from her. But once again, she reminded herself that it was for him she needed to come here. Her resolve was also strengthened by the message her father sent to her, reminding her of their discussion. It was all for Joffrey. She needed to be on that cursed vessel for days on water just so her son's future could be secured. With a deep breath, Cersei prepared herself to step on the solid ground for the first time in a week.

Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw the servants fussing over Myrcella and Tommen. Her youngest son didn't want to come. He didn't want to be away from his cats for so many days. But Cersei was adamant. Her golden children needed to be near her. It was bad enough that she had to let go of Joffrey, even for a little while, but she refused to be apart from her other children. Hence, Tommen stood at the deck sullenly, while his sister was looking at the dock and the people with excitement.

Sometimes, her daughter reminded Cersei of her younger self. Of the time when she used to sneak out of the Rock to visit Lannisport with her cousins. The excitement she felt, the independence. The sea-scented air on her face and the sun reflecting from her golden hair when she rode down the dirt road. But unfortunately, her daughter didn't possess her intellect. She never had her mother's ambition, nor her cunning. None of her children did save Joffrey.

Thinking about Joffrey revitalized her mind, she was on an important mission here. She would prove to her father that she could be as good as his chosen heir, if not better. She would ensnare the roses for her Joffrey's future, for her family's future.

She was brought out of her thoughts by Ser Arys, the Kingsguard informed her that her wheelhouse was ready for her to board. Glancing behind her, where Jaime stood silently, with Tommen clinging to his legs and Myrcella holding a handful of his cloak, she sent a smirk back to her brother and proceeded with her head held high. Why she did so, she wasn't sure, but anything that could irritate her seemingly useless twin should be celebrated.

Out of the small windows of the wheelhouse, she kept looking out at the people who had come to welcome her. Her children were whispering with each other quite excitedly. They too were looking out of the windows and taking in the sights of Old Town. She would need to remind them that they shouldn't behave like common street rats. They were the Royal Prince and Princess, after all.

Her eyes fell upon a group on horseback, standing detached from the crowd. At the front of the group, there was a big black destrier. Its rider wore non-descriptive clothing, but she was sure that there was an armband – of colour black, with a white direwolf stitched on it.

Within a moment, her smile widened with vigour. The White Wolf is here – that thought kept her from the tedium that was listening to the boastings of the fat oaf, Mace Tyrell. She didn't even give a second glance towards the Golden Rose, as the Tyrell daughter escorted her to her chambers. The girl would have to wait. First, she needed to have another meeting with the young knight.

[CotW]

She couldn't remember the last time she waited as anxiously for a feast as this one. Well, she could, but she didn't want to think about Silver Prince now. She had carefully chosen her dress and made the maid cry with her words to style her hair exactly the way she wanted. She needed to be perfect that evening. Taking another glance at the looking glass, she dipped the bottle of Lysian perfume on the sides of her neck, filling the room with a spicy fragrance. Perfect. She was ready just in time, for not a moment later, Ser Arys called for her to let her know that Lord Tyrell was waiting to escort her to the Hall.

She met her children and judged their attire with a critical eye. Jaime stood obediently behind them as she fussed a little over Myrcella's hair. But soon, they were on their way to grace the nobles of Reach with their presence. And she, on her way to hunt a particular wolf. A lioness was on the prowl that evening.

She arrived at the Hall resplendent. The gathered nobles all rose to their feet when she arrived. Her eyes made a quick search of the room and unerringly found her prey. He was present, sitting with his brother and friends. She smirked at the thought. Eddard Stark claimed him as his own, but he was Brandon's get, and surprisingly more endearing than his oaf of a father had been. It was truly a wonder that someone born from that man's loin could entice her so. It must be the Dornish blood in him, she thought. Looking at those purple eyes sent a very pleasurable shiver down her spine.

Speaking of Dornish blood, she frowned at the man sitting as if he had no care in the world. Her eyebrows rose a little when she spied the Prince making subtle gestures at him. When did they meet? – She tried to think. Then she remembered the rumours she heard of him helping the Maester before the Seneschal. The Dornish Prince was a known scholar. He could have been present at that time. She needed to know more. Nothing was beyond the capabilities of these Dornish cunts, she was sure of it.

She almost choked in her goblet when he gave her not so a quite subtle nod. Did he truly…? – Her mind screamed at her. But no, from the corner of her eyes, she caught Jaime returning quite the similar nod. And was that a faint smirk on the otherwise stoic face of the White Lion of Casterly Rock? In all these times, she never caught Jaime to be his old self, save for when he was in the presence of that monster, and now… him.

"Your Grace, may I have the honour of this dance?" Mace Tyrell's voice broke her out of her reverie. She didn't even notice when the bards came in and started to sing their songs. Nor was she aware of what she ate, indulging only in sipping her wine.

"Of course, My Lord," she gave him a simpering smile. She would endure for a while before she could claim her prize for the night.

The fat oaf tried to twirl her about the floor, but his girth made it quite insufferable for her. She gritted her teeth whenever he almost stepped on her feet. She kept a vacant smile on her face as her eyes kept searching for the black-haired knight among the throng of noble lords and ladies. She caught a glimpse of him, dancing with that redheaded whore from Vale. She was also there at Kings' Landing, she danced with him there too. Was she following their party? What was she after?

She managed to free herself from Mace Tyrell's clutches, but she couldn't escape Baelor Hightower. In a different world, she could have been married off to this man. But then again, his legend of flatulence was quite well known. It was said that Elia Martell couldn't keep her face straight in his presence after he farted quite a few times when there were talks about their betrothal. She prayed to her ancestors that the man won't fart while dancing with her. She needed to escape, she needed to catch his eyes.

But her fortune was not so good. He was free from that red witch but now was within the arms of another. Who was that whore? Her attire screamed Tyrell, but her features… Northern? What was a Northern girl doing with the Tyrells? She seethed some more when the girl indicated something and spoke softly at him. How dare she get close to him like that?

Thankfully for her mind, the song ended. Once more she was free to pursue her prey. But wait, Myrcella? When did her daughter come down to the floor from the high table? And what was she trying to do, approaching the knight? She hastened her steps, she needed to reach before her daughter.

"Ser Jon…" she breathed out his name.

The young man turned around to face her. Did he grow taller than the last time she saw him?

"My Queen!" He gave her a bow bending from the waist. When he straightened up, he had a polite smile on his face.

But it was his eyes… his purple eyes that sent her heart aflutter.

In the back of her mind, she could hear the music picking up again. But most of her senses were trained on the man before her. Ser Jon, the White Wolf, offered her his hand.

"May I have this dance, My Queen?"

She could hear a part of her mind screaming at her for wearing such a huge, idiotic smile, but she dismissed it.

"You may, my knight."

Why in the name of her ancestors did she sound so childish? Why was she feeling so insecure in his presence? She was the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, she was the Lioness of the Rock. She was in control.

Biting the inside of her cheeks, she pressed closer to Ser Jon. Some would say it was not proper. Some lips would flap in the winds and spread the rumours. But she didn't care.

Words are wind, Cersei.

She pressed closer to him yet, thrusting her ample breasts into his chest. Each sway, each step, rubbed her stiffened nipples on his chest and sent pleasurable jolts through her body even through her garments. Would she dare to lay her head on his shoulder? The music sped up, her knight picked her up by the waist and spun. She put her arms around his neck and laughed. She had never felt so carefree since the day she and Jaime used to run around their home. She didn't let go of him even when he put her back down on the ground. Her fingers interlocked behind his neck, her breast in their rightful place – rubbing in his chest, and one of his legs in between hers, pressing against her womanhood. She couldn't moan, but she did laugh out loud in delight. She took extreme pleasure in that shocked look on his face. She wanted more.

But why was he pulling away? Why was he separating himself from her? What… the music! She didn't pay attention to it all this while, it had ended. She wanted to scream.

"Thank you for the honour of the dance, My Queen."

She wanted to kiss those lips.

But before she could utter any word, the bitch from before called for his attention. She whispered something in his ear for which he gave her a smile and nod.

"Pardon me, My Queen, but my friend seemed to have had one drink too many. I need to go see him." He offered another bow.

And she stood there, feeling abandoned in the mass. Her eyes followed his quickly departing back. But soon, she lost him in the crowd. With a muttered curse, she turned away, only for her eyes to find that Northern bitch, again whispering, but this time to the Golden Flower. And she laughed? Was she behind this?

A cruel smirk came upon her face.

Prepare for the hunt, little girl!

[Line Break]

"My Lord," Jon called out. It was only because of their extensive planning that he was able to get away from people without anyone being any wiser. Asher had played his part perfectly acting like a drunk, and Meera, as they predicted, had come to ask help from him discreetly at Torrhen's urging. He was indeed at the centre of everyone's notice, what with him dancing with the Queen of Seven Kingdoms. And speaking of which, was it an accident for her to be pressing herself so lewdly against him at the end of their dance or was it deliberate?

"Ah, glad to finally have a chance to properly talk with you, Ser. Are you enjoying the evening so far?" Lord Leyton Hightower was standing in front of an open window, gazing serenely at the water reflecting the torchlights from the Castle Hightower. He turned around towards the entrance where stood the young knight.

"I am, My Lord, thank you."

Lord Leyton nodded, "If I may, Ser, I would like to have a conversation about the message I sent you."

Ser Jon's expression immediately took a stony visage, "Aye, My Lord, may I speak freely?"

"Of course, Ser."

He looked at him with narrowed eyes, "If I may so bold, My Lord, where exactly did you hear that phrase? Because even back at North it is not something to come up in everyday conversation. Let alone the way you wrote it – in the dialect of the First Men… in Old Tongue."

Lord Leyton nodded before turning towards the window with a sigh, "What do you know of our family, Ser?"

"You hail from one of the oldest families of Westeros, My Lord." Confusion was evident in his voice.

The Hightower lord gave him a wan smile, "Precisely. It is said that the first ever king of High Tower, Uthor, commissioned Bran the Builder to build this keep. Some say we, much like your family, also come from the First Men. However, you have kept your past and your faith alive, whereas my ancestors sought peace and clemency from the Seven."

"Aye, My Lord." The knight nodded agreeably.

The older man could understand that youth wouldn't be interested in knowing about times past, "You do not have to be afraid, young man. I have no desire to make you fall asleep with the history of the Hightowers."

Ser Jon shook his head in denial, "To be honest, My Lord, I prefer to learn the histories of our lands."

The reply surprised the old lord, "Truly? Then I have to have another conversation with you regarding our shared histories. But not this evening."

"Aye, My Lord."

"As I was saying, despite being a believer of the Seven, we do have a connection with the First Men. Most of my family would deny it, mayhaps, but not I. What do you know of my children?"

The knight rubbed his chin in thought, "The same as every other man or woman, My Lord. We, my half-brothers and sisters, along with myself did learn of your house in our lessons. We learned about yourself, Lord Baelor, Lady Alerie, Ser Gunthor…"

"And my Malora?" The old man asked, almost dreading the answer.

"Ah… aye, My Lord, I know of her," Jon admitted.

"And let me speculate on what you know of her, that she is mad, a maid turned into an old crone because of her insanity, mayhaps?" Lord Leyton couldn't keep the sneer off of his face.

With a solemn nod, Jon replied, "Those are the rumours, aye, but I have learned to not pay much attention to them, My Lord."

The lord took a few moments to gaze at the young man before him, "Wise words, Ser. Now, if you will indulge an old man for a little while?"

"Of course, My Lord."

Lord Leyton approached the sole fixture in the otherwise bare room – a wooden shelf containing a few wooden mugs and a small barrel of mead. He dipped two mugs in the barrel and returned to the window offering Jon one of the mugs.

"All of my children were very fond of my brother, the White Bull, Ser Gerold Hightower, but none more so than my Malora. Gerold also was very attached to her. Mayhaps because she was my youngest, or mayhaps because he was the first to have her in his arms right after her birth, I don't truly know. But their love for each other was true. Malora was nearly nine namedays old when the Rebellion started and Gerold, as the Lord Commander of the White Cloaks, didn't return home for over a year.

Not a day went by when Malora didn't ask about him. We can only placate her so. Then, about a year later, when ravens were received by every lord of the lands that war has ended, brought another shocking missive. My brother was dead. Died because the Silver Prince ordered him to guard the Winter Rose of Winterfell, and was slain by Eddard Stark who went to rescue his sister."

Jon didn't know what to say, still, he tried, "My Lord, I-"

Lord Leyton cut him off, "Oh, I bear no ill will towards you or yours, Ser. It was a time of great unrest, and Gerold lost his life at his post, performing his duties. Neither your uncle, nor you, or even the Prince are to blame for that. I am old enough, and I think of myself to be wise enough to not hold onto meaningless grudges."

Jon was truly lost for words. He knew of men who had declared feud for less, and here was a man who waved the death of his brother as if it was nothing.

"You are too kind, My Lord."

"Am I? I don't know about that, Ser Jon. All I know is that my brother died honourably in battle with his sword in his hand, not running or hiding like a craven. And above all, mayhaps I had a selfish reason to not think about his death." He averted his eyes from the young man's.

"As I was saying, the news of Gerold's demise came and it came at a very unfortunate moment. It was a day right after Malora's tenth nameday. We told her that her Nuncle Gerold will be a little late because he went to find her the most precious of gifts. But it was a black missive that came on the black wings.

Malora was devastated, as you can imagine. We let her be, to grieve for her Nuncle. We thought that she found peace within the colours Gerold brought her to draw. For a month or so, she kept to herself save for her meals and her lessons with the Septa. And then…" The lord's breath hitched. He put the mug down and braced himself against a wall.

"My Lord?" Jon approached with concern.

In a whispering voice, the old man continued –

"She told the Septa that she was going to take a stroll down by the river bank. It was where Gerold always took her along. She always rode on his shoulder as he spent the time telling her stories. When she didn't return even at nightfall, the Septa alerted us. We were not even aware that she was missing from the keep. I went out with my sons and guards. We found her, right at the edge of the water, with her feet still in it and her back resting against a boulder. To an onlooker, she would appear asleep, but she was not. She was unconscious and none of us could revive her. The Maesters fought hard to bring her about. They told us that her chance of survival was next to nothing. My motherless child was fighting for her life at the tender age of ten." A sob escaped the lord.

Jon laid a hesitant hand on the man's arm, "My Lord, you don't have to-" But the man turned towards him and grabbed his hands within his.

"But I need to, Ser, I need to tell you these stories for you to understand. I need your help with my Malora. Won't you help me? You are called the Protector of Innocent, won't you help me protect my innocent daughter?"

Jon swallowed thickly before nodding, "I will do everything in my power to help Lady Malora, My Lord. You have my word. Please, continue your tale…"

His relief was prominent by his shagged shoulders. He gave the knight a smile of gratitude through his tear-streaked face, "Thank you, Ser, it warms an old father's heart so. There is not much left to tell now. After we found her by the water, she was infirm for a moon's turn. And when she woke up, my sweet daughter wasn't the same."

"What do you mean, My Lord?" Jon asked with genuine intrigue.

"I mean what I say, Ser. A girl who had never set a foot outside of Old Town was suddenly drawing images of the Wall. Of the burnt castle of Harrenhall. The Red Keep. She was learning her Valyrian letters, but after that day, she kept humming songs and saying things in a different language. It was Grandmaester Merwyn who told us that she was speaking in Old Tongue. I tried to learn bits and pieces of the language from him, just so I can understand what my daughter was talking about. But it was of no help. I can now understand a few phrases, but that is all.

And that brings us to why I asked to meet you in secret. Ser Jon, my daughter has never seen you, yet, she painted an image of you. Along with your direwolf. And from the moment I told her about your arrival, she kept smiling and talking about ljós leggja. Do you know what it means?"

Jon grimaced, "Aye, My Lord, I do."

"Well?"

He sighed, "It is not a phrase, but a name. A name for a character from a myth. Ljós leggja means Light Bringer, My Lord. It is said to be the title of the Last Hero who fought in the Battle of Dawn and ended the Long Night. But do forgive me, because I don't know how Lady Malora came to know of such an old Northern folktale."

Lord Leyton considered the answer for a few minutes. Then he decided that it probably didn't matter concerning his daughter's cure.

"Can you help her to return to her old self? Do you know of anyone who can help her? If she is attracted to the North sing and draw about the lands, then mayhaps it is Northern aid she requires… I am prepared to offer anything in return, Ser…"

"I…" Jon hesitated.

"Please, Ser Jon, I beg of you, if you want my life in return, I will gladly slit my own throat. But please, help my daughter if you can." Once more were the hands of the knight in a tight grip of the old Lord of Hightower.

Jon looked down at his hands clasped within a pair of weathered hands, he struggled to form an answer for some time before he finally spoke –

"Are you a pious man, My Lord? Are you a man of Faith?"

[Line Break]

Five shadows tore through the moonlit darkness that claimed the city of scholars. Even though the city boasted almost as big a population as the Capital, it lacked the life that was present even in the hour of the wolf. None ventured out of their homes, not a drunkard singing songs at the top of his voice when the owner of the tavern finally kicked him off his premises. The whorehouses kept the noise of merrymaking to a minimum… but that was mainly because the acolytes didn't want to announce their presence at such establishments, and the occasional Maesters, also liked to be discreet. Save the Hightower guards patrolling the alleyways and the Citadel guards roaming about the plaza, the city was truly asleep.

The five shadows sneaked around the Tower and its vigilant men. They skirted within the darkness and went towards the water. Even with the moon only in her halved self, the darkness remained strong, and to any onlookers, the five would appear as any other rocks strewn about the bank by their crouched and unmoving position.

"Well, we are here. But for what exactly, I don't know." One of the shadows whispered.

"Asher is right, brother. Why are we here?" asked a shadow in Robb Stark's voice.

"I may have found a lead to Lady Reed's remains." Came a quiet voice of Ser Jon.

There was silence for a few moments.

"Jon…"

"I know brother, I know I am chasing after a shadow. And for what purpose, I do not know. But please, you have endured my madness so far, indulge it for one more occasion. I give you my word that if we are unsuccessful this night, I will put her memories to rest."

"Very well."

"Thank you, my brothers." Relief was hard to miss in the man's voice. "Now, I believe there is a hidden tunnel or a long forgotten cave-opening in this stretch of beach. It may look nothing bigger than a foxhole. I say we split into two groups while one of us remains on guard. Each group takes a side and looks for this cave while the guard remains alert for patrolling parties. What say you?"

"Sound plan. Who is to remain on guard and who shall be in the groups?"

"I nominate Torrhen for the guard, Robb and Wade take the right, while Jon and I take the left."

"Alright," Robb gave a firm nod, "till dawn?"

Jon nodded, "Till dawn."

The group of five split into three and went to their tasks. It was harder a task to perform than it sounded. Trying to find a tiny hole in the semi-darkness of the half-moon-clad night, was a near impossible task to do. After about an hour of fruitless searching, Wade and Robb took a knee behind a boulder to rest for a while.

"Milord?" Wade called.

Robb gave a small nod to let the man know that he had heard him.

"Who is this lady?"

Robb sighed as he sat down on his haunches and pulled down his hood to wipe his brow.

"She was a daughter of the North. A brave daughter who sacrificed her life and that of her unborn child for the realms of men even when the people didn't even realize they needed to be saved from men wanting to cause them harm."

"She… died?" Wade confirmed, "When was this, milord?"

Robb gave a frustrated huff, "About half a century ago."

"Eh?" The man was confused, "If that is so, then we may never find her. Beasts could have gotten to her body."

"I know that Wade," Robb growled low in his throat, "but you know Jon. He has this thought in his head that he needs to rescue her remains and send her to the land of her forefathers to rest."

Wade nodded, "Then we will find her for sure."

Robb frowned, "How can you say so?"

Wade gave him a wide smile, "It's the Wolf we are talking about, milord. He has some good ideas in that head of his. Ideas that I am most proud of."

Robb snorted, "Aye, he has some ideas for true. And I hope you are right, Wade, I hope we find her. Right or wrong, I hate to see my brother in pain."

They were about to resume their search when a loud call of a night bird tore through the darkness, halting them in their steps.

"Do you think they found it?" Robb asked.

Wade didn't answer but turned his head toward the direction the call came from for the second call.

Another loud screech. It was confirmed.

"They found the cave, come on, Wade!"

They darted forward from one shadow to the next, only slowing down near Torrhen's hiding spot to give him a clap on his shoulder. Soon enough, they reached a clump of dried bush. A shadow was kneeling before it, he waved at them as they neared the bush.

It was Asher who was waiting for them.

"Come, Jon went alone."

The two crawled behind him into the small gap. It was barely wide enough for them to crawl through. If a man bigger than them should attempt to enter, they would've been stuck inside.

A whisper, which seemed to reverberate all around them, warned them, "Careful, there is water ahead of you. You will have to swim."

Crawling on their hands and knees, the three slipped into the water.

"Follow the light." The whisper said.

Getting out of the water, they found themselves to be in a wider cave. Although they had to hunch down, they could walk ahead. They followed the light and found themselves into a small opening, not bigger than the pigpens back at Winterfell. Jon was standing at the far end. A small flame danced on his open palm. If Wade found that odd, he didn't mention it. His faith in Wolf was impossible to break.

The three went near him. They followed his gaze to find a small skeleton half laid in front of them. It was not bigger than a child's. Once again they were reminded of how young the woman was when she died. Tattered remains of her clothing still clung to the bones.

"She must have crawled through that small cave. And I believe it was only because the deep water between here and the cave was the reason why foxes or dogs didn't devour her body." Jon murmured.

With a sad sigh, Jon turned toward the three, "Can you imagine? She was barely sixteen namedays old… and she was with child. She was wounded when she came out of the river and crawled inside this cave. All alone, in a dark cave, so far away from home… can you imagine how afraid she must have been in her last moments? All because of her duties to her countrymen, to the lands of her ancestors… to her Gods…"

Asher and Robb shared a glance while Wade remained quiet.

They almost didn't catch Jon's whisper –

"This could be in my future as well…"

Robb took a step forward, "We need to get her out of here. Wade, the sack, if you please?"

Wade fumbled with the folds of his clothes, "Aye, milord, right here."

They gently transferred the bones into the sack.

"We will need to build her a pyre. The crannogmen burn their dead."

[Line Break]

The morning brought chaos to the daily life of the people of Old Town. It was the day of Lord Tyrell's tourney to commence. People from near and far, smallfolk and nobles alike, thronged the tourney field. The Starry Sept, the grandest Sept save the Sept of Baelor at Kings' Landing, had very few worshippers there than other days. Even men and women of Faith wanted to be a part of the entertainment. The handful of stragglers would also find their way towards the arena once they said their prayers to the Seven.

Nobody paid any mind to the two hooded and cloaked figures who remained kneeling in front of the Mother, or the lone hooded and cloaked figure who joined them after a while.

A woman's amused voice uttered a few ineligible words.

"Minn konungsson, hafþúr komtilr free mik?" (My King, have you come to free me?)

The new arrival answered in a low voice, "Aye, My Lady, I hope I can help you." He spared a glance at her companion, "My Lord, we need to wait for a bit till the Sept is empty."

The older man nodded his head in agreement. They remained unobtrusive to the scant few devotees and their process. When the Sept finally emptied save for a lone woman in her religious garbs, the young man rose and approached her.

"If you want to, Septa, you can leave. I know the tourney commences today."

The woman kept looking between the young man's half-hidden face and the two kneeling figures not too far from them.

"We are in mourning for a recently departed family member. The lady wanted to pray to the Mother to look after the departed soul. We shan't be long, we too intend to follow you to the tourney ground."

The stranger's cultured words with a strange lilt seemed to assure the Septa. She took the man's hand in her own and offered him a sympathetic smile.

"Take as long as you need. I will include you in my prayers this evening." She patted his hand softly before turning towards the door. She gently closed it behind her as she left for the arena.

Jon let out the long breath he had been holding in, he didn't know if the Septa would agree to leave them alone. When she closed the doors, he hurriedly turned towards his two companions. Lord Leyton had gotten up on his feet, but Lady Malora kept to her place before the statue of the Mother. She was humming a song under her voice and swaying side by side.

"Well, Ser, here we are. What do you need us to do now?"

Jon gave the man a tight smile. He went over towards the statue of the Crone and looked up at her stone-hewn face.

"The reason I asked for your religious views, My Lord, is because I need you to have faith and listen to what I am going to tell you." He turned to face the man, "I need your word that you won't discard what I am going to say to you without giving it a thought."

Lord Leyton nodded his head eagerly, "Anything you need, Ser."

Jon nodded appreciatively. He approached the kneeling lady and offered her his hand, "My Lady, please join us."

Malora gave him a beatific smile as she grabbed his hand and got up.

"Minn konungr, minn konungr, vindrrinn und minn wings…" (My king, my king, the air under my wings…) She sang softly.

Jon led her towards the Crone and gestured for both the father and daughter to kneel.

"Even as our religious views are different, I believe them – the Gods - to be the same. Whom you call the Crone, we call her Lady Minerva… but her name is lost with the time, even to the Northerners and she became one of the many amongst the nameless Old Gods."

He searched the folds of his clothes and brought out a small jar containing a reddish paste.

"She is the lady of knowledge and wit. She is the one who plans what our lives will become. She is in charge to guide us through her wisdom."

Lord Leyton was leaning forward and almost drank in Jon's words with a look of a thirsting man. Jon looked at the alter and picked up a small bowl. He opened the jar and upended it on the bowl. The red paste filled almost the entirety of the fist-sized bowl.

"As you know, back in the North, we prey in the Godswood before a weirwood tree. We believe that the seemingly immortal trees are our only source to commune with the Gods, for they were the ones to plant those trees when they made this world. I am not going to tell you every nuance of our religious beliefs, but I am going to tell you what I feel when I kneel to pray before a weirwood tree."

Jon looked at the old lord straight in the eyes, "They give me the strength when I feel the weakest. They supply me with courage whenever I feel I am not able to fulfil my duties. They soothe my troubled mind. They may not talk to me directly as we are talking now, but I believe that they know of me. They know of my deeds."

Lord Leyton nodded confusedly. Jon held up the bowl before the father.

"This, My Lord, is a paste made from weirwood seeds and sap. It helps in settling troubled minds. Consuming it, one would gain the clarity of mind they were denied before. I have taken it myself, and it helped me in realizing my identity and my purpose in this world. I have seen a young lad consuming it and becoming more at ease with the part he has to play in the Gods' plans. I can assure you it would have no diverse effect on Lady Malora save for making her unconscious for a while."

To alleviate the older man's concern, Jon dipped a finger in the paste and scooped a little paste before putting it in his mouth. He shivered a little with his eyes closed. After a minute or so of sitting in a trance, he opened his eyes again and smiled at them.

"A little bitter that leaves a sweet aftertaste in your mouth. I truly think that this will be as beneficial to her as it was to me and the lad I spoke about earlier. With your permission, My Lord?"

Lord Leyton looked at the bowl of red paste and then at his daughter, who kept nodding her head.

"You have my permission, Ser." Lord Leyton spoke slowly.

Jon bowed his head and turned to Lady Malora.

"My Lady, if you please…"

She beamed at Jon, "Hrafnrinn er hjá, ek megheyrr sinn wings." (The raven is near, I can hear its wings.)

She tilted her head back and opened her mouth. Jon looked at Lord Leyton who gave him a curt nod. He scooped the paste out of the bowl and fed it to her like a small child.

As soon as the bowl was empty, Lady Malora went limp. She would have crashed on the alter and hurt her head if Jon hadn't caught her. Together with Lord Leyton, he laid her limp body before the Crone.

"And now," Jon spoke to Lord Leyton who was caressing his daughter's forehead, "now we must wait."

[Line Break]

Robb climbed onto the saddle and led the Northern procession out of the manse. Torrhen was already at the tourney ground preparing himself for the archery competition. But it was Jon whose whereabouts he didn't know. They returned to the manse at daybreak and after a couple of hours of rest, Jon had once again ventured out. This time to his previously agreed upon meeting with Lord Leyton Hightower.

Asher planned to make a spectacle of their arrival at the tourney ground. Since the White Wolf cut quite a prominent figure, his absence would surely draw attention. Asher called it a double blinder – They were to catch the eyes of people onto themselves, and they were sure that they would be questioned about Jon's absence. Therefore, they would give the excuse of Jon being there to help Torrhen prepare. And since the competitors remain secluded before the tourney commenced, it would be easier for Jon to return afterwards without arousing additional questions. Also, Ser Arthur rode ahead with Torrhen to keep his preparations as secluded as they could make it. Their first set of enquiries came from the Pryor siblings, who remained their houseguest despite numerous other knights and nobles from the Vale arriving for the tourney. Other than a small pout of disappointment from Lady Madelyne, they didn't think twice about Jon's absence.

Robb knew that Wade wanted to have a conversation with him when he asked Asher to take Kurt along with him. To give the man a chance to speak, the two of them rode slightly ahead of their party.

"He is not the get of the Wild Wolf, but the She-Wolf, ain't he?" Wade asked without any preamble.

"Aye," Robb answered in the same manner.

"Lord and Lady Stark know about it?"

"Aye, they do."

"And he ain't a…" Wade trailed off.

Robb turned to see a guilt-ridden look on the man's face.

"A bastard, you mean?" He received a minute nod, "No, he isn't."

They rode on in silence for a while.

"You are not angry," Robb stated.

"Why would I? He ain't any different. Still the same lad who grew up with me. The same brave man who bled beside me. And above all, he is still a son of the North."

"Do you wish we had told you sooner?" Robb prodded.

Wade shrugged in reply, "Why would you? It ain't my place to know it. I know the history. If it wasn't for rescuing the Lady, I wouldn't have come to know. You are still my Lord Stark, the blood of the Winter Kings, and so is he, only with another name and station. For if he ain't born the wrong side of the bed, then he is -"

"Don't say it out loud in the open." Robb hissed.

"Aye, milord."

Robb gave a small smirk to the man, "You are a good man, Wade Poole."

Wade gave him a satisfied smile, "I sure am, ain't I? And Kurt thinks me as wise as any old Maester too."

Robb snorted, "Aye, we need to listen to the lad more."

They halted their horses before the tourney ground and waited for the others to reach. Ser Hugh escorted his sister to sit with the Vale nobles before going to the competitors' tent. Asher deposited Kurt under Wade's care to sit with the men as the two Northern lords made their way to the gallery.

"My Lord Stark!"

Robb turned towards the call to find Prince Oberyn waving at them. The two friends looked at each other before a silent agreement formed between them and they went to sit beside the Dornish prince and his paramour. The prince's daughters sat behind the man. Robb spared a glance at Sarella Sand but the woman sneered at him, which he returned with equal disdain.

"My Prince, My Lady." They greeted the pair as they took their seats.

"My Lord, you seemed to be missing a few numbers of your group." Prince Oberyn observed.

Robb chuckled, "Aye, My Prince. Lord Torrhen is participating in archery and Jon is out there helping our friend."

"Oh?" The Prince raised a questioning eyebrow, "Is your brother not taking part in archery? I hear he is quite an accomplished archer himself."

Robb shook his head, "No, My Prince, Torrhen made a wager about winning the event and so Jon is giving him a chance to that. Their stake is the loser claiming the winner to be their better in that particular Warcraft." He leaned towards the Prince and mock whispered to him, "Asher has the same wager running with Jon but in the joust."

Lady Ellaria, who had heard the conversation, asked curiously, "That doesn't sound like too high a stake, My Lord."

Robb smiled charmingly at her, "It is when you are a part of our group, My Lady. With the wagers, comes an added benefit of bragging and taunting the loser for an indefinite amount of time. And all the pranks one could squeeze in between."

Lady Ellaria tilted her head to a side confusedly, "Then shouldn't Ser Jon have taken part in the events? To beat them fairly?"

Robb smirked, "The way we see it, as Jon has already a pair of wins under his belt, he is ahead of them. Now it is for them to either catch up to him or fall even behind."

"Additionally, I have tricked Jon to act as my squire during the joust." Asher ventured in, "Just as he did to me back at Kings' Landing. So from where I stand, I am quite even with him till now."

Lady Ellaria frowned and looked between the two Northern lords for a bit before shaking her head, "I am afraid that doesn't make any sense to me."

Prince Oberyn barked out a laugh, "Of course it doesn't, my love. You are a lady of finer tastes. Whereas we are grunting, sweating beasts you endearingly call men. We do not care if our deeds make sense to others as long as we understand them. Isn't that right, My Lords."

Robb smiled widely, "You speak the truth, My Prince." Asher nodded in assent.

"Oh, how I wish to be young and foolish once more." The Prince let out another roaring laughter.

With a quirk at the corner of her lips, Lady Ellaria said, "You may not be young anymore, Oberyn, but you compensate that with the other by a hundredfold."

Prince Oberyn stopped abruptly, "What do you mean? Am I foolish?"

"Your deeds suggest so."

Prince Oberyn leaned towards Robb and clutched his shoulder, his other hand clasping his own chest, "How you wound me, my love. Take a lesson from me, My Lord Stark, you can love a woman, offer your life at her feet, but in the end, she will call you a fool and turn away from you."

Lady Ellaria let out an exasperated sigh, "Let the poor lad be, Oberyn, lest you truly feel my wrath."

With an exaggerated assent to her demand, the Prince sat straight but not before sending a lecherous wink in her way and a salacious smile, "Will you hurt me?"

Robb and Asher were trying to cover their laughter at the rejoinder from the lady with an equal fervour which made the Prince become excited even more. The Sand Snakes seemed to be immune to their parents' behaviour as they paid them no mind. Save for Sarella, who still had a frown etched on her face. Robb also noticed some members of the Tyrell family looking at the Martell Prince with disapproving glare while Wilas Tyrell tried to divert their attention. He seemed to be having quite a difficult time keeping his youngest brother, Loras, remain in his seat.

Lady Ellaria once more started the conversation with the young men, "What about you, My Lord? Won't you be taking part in the tourney?"

Robb smiled at her, "Aye, I would. Both Jon and I plan to take part in the melee."

Prince Oberyn became sombre, with a frown he asked, "Are you certain that the White Wolf will take part in the melee?"

"Aye, My Prince. Why do you ask if I may know?"

Oberyn took a discreet glance at his daughters, "My daughters also plan to take part in it. And to be honest with you, My Lord, I shiver to think about the confrontation between one of them and your brother."

Robb understood what the man wanted to say. Rhaenys would pounce upon the chance of attacking Jon under the guise of the tourney. He too spared a look at the hidden Targaryen Princess. Turning back to the Dornish Prince, he gave him a resolute nod.

"Fear not, My Prince. I will be watching his flank."

"And who would look after you, Young Wolf?"

[Line Break]

Everything was white. The ground, the trees that surrounded her, the rocks – all were covered in white. She reached out and touched the powdery substance. The feeling of cold made her shiver. It was snow! She had never seen snow in her life before. With a squeal of excitement, she bounded ahead. She wanted to see more of it. She could hear soft crunching noise under her boots with each of her steps. The tree in front of her stood covered in snow. So much so that icicles had formed on its branches. She tentatively reached out and touched the sparkling, white glass-like icicles. It should be cold, she shouldn't have been able to touch the ice without her gloves for fear of frostbite. Yet, she didn't feel cold. It was quite comfortable – wherever she was.

Her head cocked to a side, she contemplated for a few moments before poking her tongue out and taking a lick of the icicle. She giggled at the tasteless cold feeling on her tongue.

A chuckling voice came from behind her, "I should advise you to not do that out in the North. The cold can very well freeze your tongue. It would be quite painful."

She spun around to face the person but couldn't keep her balance and toppled over on the soft snow-covered ground. Spitting the snow out of her mouth, she growled –

"Who's there? Show yourself."

A tall, old man came out of the shadows of the trees. He was wearing a blood red tunic with grey linings along with black breeches and black boots. On his shoulder lay a grey hooded cloak. Its hood was pulled down – showing the long white hair of the man. She couldn't see his eyes but there was some red marking on the right side of his face. With a confident gait, he approached her.

"I have been waiting for you for a long time, Malora Hightower."

Malora scrambled onto her feet, keeping a wary eye on the strange old man, she prepared herself to run if the man tried anything.

"Who are you? And where are we?"

The old man stroked his chin in thought, "Who I am is quite easy to answer, but it is the absolute opposite to tell where we are."

Malora frowned, "And why is that?"

The old man gave her a mysterious smile, "Because we are between Here and There."

"What does that even mean?"

The man chuckled, "Just as I told you, child, it is quite difficult to answer."

Malora straightened indignantly, "I am not a child!"

The smile didn't leave his face, "You are to me, child."

"Who are you?" She yelled.

The man gave her a bow from his waist, "Ser Brynden Rivers. Lord Bloodraven, bastard son of King Aegon IV. Former Hand to Kings Aerys I and Maeker I. Former Lord Commander of the Nights' Watch. I am happy to make your acquaintance, My Lady Malora Hightower."

With her eyes widened in fear, Malora took a few steps backwards, away from the man. She could see the birthmark, the red raven in flight spread on the right side of his face and neck – a mark that made the man quite distinguished in the history of Westeros, the same mark which was the origin of his infamous name – Bloodraven.

She raised a trembling hand and pointed her finger at him, "B-but… you are dead!" She yelled shrilly.

Bloodraven frowned at that, "I can assure you, child, that I am quite alive."

Still trembling in fear, Malora asked, "H-how can it be possible? You would be old… more than a century…"

Bloodraven gave the same mysterious smile, "I am alive because of my Targaryen blood, child. Do you know what our blood has?"

Malora shook her head.

"It has power in it. It has magic."

"Magic?"

"Yes, child, magic."

Malora shook her head in denial, "How can that be?"

Bloodraven started to walk forward but stopped when Malora let out a squeak of fear and backtracked. He held up his hands to calm her.

"You have nothing to fear from me, child. I give you my word that I will not let any harm befall you, neither will I ever cause them."

Malora gave him a hesitant nod. Bloodraven slowly moved forward and came to stop before her.

"May I?" He asked her.

Startled, she looked where he was pointing and saw a snow-covered tree stump on the side, conveniently placed before it was a small boulder. Looking back at the man, she gave him a curt nod. Bloodraven smiled and sat down on the boulder. He gave out a satisfied sigh as he straightened his legs out.

"You can also sit down, you know." He looked up at her amusedly.

Haltingly, Malora approached the stump and sat down. She tried to retain her poise, thinking what her old Septa would've said to her, seeing her sitting there with an unknown man.

"My Lord…?" She stuttered.

"Yes, child?"

Emboldened with his calm demeanour, she rattled out a series of questions at him –

"How are you still alive? Where did you go? Where are we? How did I come here? What do you want with me? What -" She cut herself off blushing when she realized that she was almost blabbering.

Bloodraven chuckled softly, "To answer your questions in order – I am alive because of magic. I went beyond the Wall in search of truth. We are in a place conjured by your mind and mine. You came here by following the call. I want you to learn your gifts."

She was even more confused by the answers than she was before.

"How can I conjure this place? I have not seen snow before in my life."

Bloodraven shrugged, "No, you haven't, but I have. So with my help, you managed to conjure this place."

"How?"

"Magic," Bloodraven smirked at her venomous glare.

"Peace, child, I do not get to talk with others, so I tend to find my amusement whenever I entertain a visitor. Aemon was also quite wroth with me at first."

"The Dragon Knight?" She asked confusedly, wasn't he alive a long time before Bloodraven was even born? She tried to remember her history lessons.

"There are other Aemons in our family than the famed Dragon Knight."

"Oh?" She couldn't think of any other Targaryen with the name Aemon.

"Yes," Bloodraven nodded, "one became a wise, old Maester. And the other, why I believe it was him who helped you to reach here."

Malora gave a frustrated huff, "Would you kindly tell me how I came here… wherever this is, My Lord?"

At last, the man before her took on a serious mien.

"I will. But first, tell me how you are feeling, child."

Malora looked at the man with confusion, "What do you mean, My Lord?"

"Are you afraid? Saddened or enraged? What are you feeling at this moment?"

"I…" Malora frowned, she tried to decide what was it that she was feeling. "I feel peaceful… happy even."

Bloodraven nodded, "What was the last thing you remember?"

Malora thought hard, what was it she was doing before she found herself in the snow?

"I… I was strolling on the small beach of Whispering Sound. I… I heard someone calling out to me… a woman, she was in pain… I went to look for her but couldn't find her. Instead, I found a… a leather glove?"

She looked up at the old man to see him nodding at her encouragingly.

"Then it was as if I was trapped… I wanted to call out for my father… I wanted Nuncle Gerold to come and find me… but he was dead. Father didn't come for me either. I kept calling for them, but none came for me. I saw people… they came and found a… someone. I can't remember who it was those people found. Then I was dreaming… I dreamt of fire burning everything around me… there was blood everywhere… and snow… A man with purple eyes and a… a wolf?"

She started to tremble. It wasn't coldness because of which she was trembling, but fear. She was afraid. She didn't know where she was. She didn't see her father for a long time. Or her brothers and sisters. Her uncle was dead. She didn't know what to think. She didn't know for how long she was trapped. She felt memories which seemed like they belonged to someone else flood in her mind. She saw herself, but not as she remembered. She had grown up into a young woman, not a little girl anymore. But she was still in her old room, only it didn't look like the one she remembered. There were drawings and paintings… she didn't remember making them but they were hers, she was sure of it. She remembered seeing her father, older than she last saw him. He seemed saddened every time he looked at her. She talked and sang, but not in a language she knew. Yet, she understood the wordings. There was a man in her room, dressed in all black. He removed his hood, it was the man with purple eyes. Another woman seemingly came out of nowhere and stood beside the man. Both of them looked at her and then ran towards the window. She screamed as she saw them jump out of the window…

"NO!" Malora yelled out. The man and woman… they jumped, they couldn't survive the fall. She had to reach them. She had to…

She was not in her room anymore, yet again, she found herself in the snowy place, she was still sitting on the tree stump. She was shivering. Her limbs were not in her control. She felt hands on her shoulders. Raising her head, she saw Bloodraven had a hold on her to stop her from falling.

"What is happening to me?" She cried out.

"Your memories are returning. The time that you lost, the years that you spent trapped, are coming back to you."

Her throat felt raw. Her tongue was heavy and dry. Bloodraven seemed to hear her thoughts and brought out a small bowl of water from somewhere. She took it and gulped down the cold water greedily.

"I was trapped?" She asked, "Who abducted me?"

"No one abducted you, child, you were trapped in your mind."

She started to breathe heavily, "In my mind? How was I trapped in my mind? Am I still trapped? You said this place was created by my mind. It is my prison, isn't it? How do I get out of here? Help me! Get me out of here!"

She sprang up to her feet and ran off. She needed to escape this place. But no matter how far she went, the snow-covered forest seemed never-ending. She ran for as long as she could and then fell onto her knees, exhausted.

"Are you finished?"

She looked up startled to find that she was kneeling in front of Bloodraven. She must have turned around somewhere in the forest and ended up right where she started from.

With tears streaming down her cheeks, she pleadingly looked at the old man, "Please, help me!" She whispered, her voice had lost its strength.

"I am here to help you only, child. But I can't do that if you won't let me." Bloodraven peered down at her, "Will you listen to me now?"

Malora nodded slowly. She was exhausted.

"Then please, child, come and take your seat."

She obediently got up and went to sit down once more on the tree stump. She brushed the snow off of her dress but kept her head down.

"For how long was I lost? Trapped in my mind? And will I truly going to be free?"

"Sixteen years have passed since the day you were walking by the Sound. And yes, you will be free once you wake up."

"Sixteen years? I have lost sixteen years of my life? I am over twenty-six namedays old now?" She asked horrified.

Bloodraven gave her a mournful smile, "Yes child, your innate ability dragged you into this game of cyvasse the Gods enjoy and you have paid the price for it."

"Why?" came the faint murmur.

"Blood of old runs through your veins, child. It may be not as potent as those of Stark blood or Targaryen blood, but you are still connected to magic wielders of the past. You remember the calling you heard on that day by the Sound?" A nod. "That was powers of old calling out to you, leading you towards another just like you. Another who has lost her life in the service of the Gods. And you have stumbled upon their symbol of power."

"Their symbol… the leather glove?"

"It appeared as a glove to you, yes," Bloodraven agreed, "but it was so much more than that. Even I don't know of its full power. It is said to appear in front of the Gods' chosen when the situation arises that a Champion is needed to help mankind. You were not supposed to find it, but you were led to it so that you can wake the power sleeping in your blood."

Malora became less hysterical, and more resigned as Bloodraven continued his explanations. And what could she have done by throwing tantrums? How would one go about defying the Gods?

"Why did I lose so many years of my life?"

Bloodraven grimaced, "Magic, child, it is said to be a sword without a hilt. It demands a hefty price from its wielder." He removed the hair from his face that kept his eyes hidden till then. Malora gasped when she saw that one of the man's eyes was blood red, while the other… the other was not there, instead of an eye, there was a gaping hole. Magic indeed claimed a hefty price from the old man.

"What am I to do now, My Lord?"

"Now, I train you. I will teach you how to navigate the tides of time. How to traipse through years in the past, present and future. I help you learn so that you can help the Chosen in turn." He got up from his seat. "Come with me, child." Malora too got up and followed the elderly man who, by no means, appeared as his age suggested.

The two walked in silence till they reached the edge of a cliff. Before them, a white snow-clad valley was spread in all directions. Bloodraven indicated the valley in its entirety.

"What do you see, child?"

Malora frowned, what was she supposed to look for in that vast white nothingness? But there was something… someone.

"Are those people?" She gasped in realisation.

"Look again, dear."

She did. But she didn't expect the gruesome imagery it conjured.

"They are dead!" She shrieked.

"Yes, they are dead."

"B-but, how are they standing… walking even if they are dead?" For she could see the dried blood on their clothes. Some with severed limbs or mortal wounds on their body. But each of them was pale in colour and had blue eyes. And it was not only people but animals too. Animals which she only read about in stories – Shadowcats, ice spiders, wolves, bears, horses. There was even a dead giant stumbling along.

"An ancient power is steering yet again." Bloodraven spoke in a grave voice, "The horrors of myth, are alive once more. The Long Night is approaching, more determined than ever to plunge the world into neverending darkness. The Champion is tasked with saving mankind from this evil. He is to fight against the darkness to bring the dawn anew.

You will be his eyes and ears, his voice from the dark. You will show him the ways and guide him through them. It may seem like a terrible burden to you now, but you are strong enough to shoulder it. I know that, child. And quite soon, you will have help. You won't be alone."

He turned to face the woman beside him, "You are already assimilating the lost years within your mind. When you wake up, you will be whole again. You may not remember everything of those forgotten days, but you will have a shadow of the memories, an afterthought."

Malora remained thoughtful.

"Do you have any questions, child?"

She looked up into his eye with determination glinting in her eyes, "Will I remain a slave to the Gods' whims?"

Bloodraven smirked, "Precisely the question I hoped you would ask." He shook his head, "No child, you now have the power to forge your destiny despite the Gods' plans for you, all thanks to the Champion. You were to suffer a few more years lost, but his mere presence hastened your awakening. Now, you can prepare yourself without a terrible urgency chasing after you."

"The woman in my room, I didn't dream of her, did I? It was her voice I heard on that day by the Sound, isn't it?"

"Yes, she was the Chosen before now, it was her loss that enrages our Champion, it is what that drives him to alter the plans Gods laid before us all."

Malora nodded, "Don't I get to know of this Champion, my apparent saviour?"

Bloodraven smiled widely, "But you already know of him, dear."

Malora looked startled, "I do?"

"Think, child, think hard and clear about the man you saw with the woman."

She did.

"Jon Snow!" She breathed.

"Or, as his true name, Aemon Targaryen, the true heir to the Throne."

"If he is the true claimant, then…" she gasped, "Rhaegar and Lyanna?"

"Yes. Your uncle, Gerold, didn't sully his white cloak by keeping a woman imprisoned as the stories dictate. He died in his post by doing what he swore to do. He was guarding his future king."

Malors was trembling, her fists were clenched. Her eyes were alight with furious fire.

"Teach me!" She growled.

[CotW]

The men were broken out of their thoughts when they heard a gasp. Hurriedly, they turned to see the woman who had been sleeping for the past hour at the feet of the Crone. They found her sitting upright looking around wildly.

"Malora, sweetling!" Lord Leyton almost ran to his daughter.

The lady herself was a little taken aback by suddenly being embraced by her father, a man she didn't realise had aged so.

"F-father?" She asked in a trembling voice.

"Malora!? How are you feeling?" The lord held her face in his hands, peering closely at her eyes.

"I am back, father… I was trapped for so long. I saw you, I could hear you… but I couldn't come to you. It was as if… as if I was hidden behind a fine veil, hidden from everything, but I can see and hear them all."

Lord Leyton was sobbing while he was almost crushing his daughter into his chest. The daughter too had tears flowing freely from her eyes. Jon turned away and went to stand before the Smith. He wanted to give them a little privacy, but to his immense shock, his eyes fell upon a small metal charm hanging by a leather cord from the Smith's hand. It seemed as if the deity had just finished hammering the small charm and now he was offering the same to the human before him. It was not the bizarre appearance of man and idol, but the shape of the metal charm that surprised Jon. It looked like his axe-head – on the top, it took the shape of a spearpoint, but at the bottom, it was rounded – altogether, it took a shape of a teardrop. Jon wasn't even aware that he was reaching out towards it, but his trance was broken by a soft cough from behind.

"Ser Jon?" Lord Leyton called out to him.

"Aye, My Lord." Jon forced himself to turn away from the charm. As soon as he did so, the Hightower lord grabbed his hands within his own.

"I cannot thank you enough, Ser. You have done the impossible. Maesters and healers from all over Westeros had failed to do what you managed to do today. I even sent men to search for a cure for my daughter in the farthest lands at the east. I am in your debt, Ser, even my life is yours take if it pleases you."

Jon gently extricated his hands from the grip of the yet again sobbing man, "Forgive me, My Lord, but I do not hold you indebted to me. I helped Lady Malora because it was the right thing to do. I didn't do it in the hope of any reward. I was able to help her and I did only that."

The said lady had approached them after making herself presentable, in a lilting voice, she spoke –

"Nonetheless, my father and I are indeed grateful to you, Ser Jon." She placed a gentle hand on her father's shoulder. She gave Jon a bright smile before adding a few more words, "Ek em inn þinn debt, minn konungr." (I am in your debt, my king.)

Both the man looked at her with surprise, and Malora smiled to alleviate their fear.

"I am truly cured, father, Ser Jon. You don't need to fear. However, father, I have so much to tell you. It may seem impossible to you but after what you have seen here today, I am quite sure you won't readily discard them."

Lord Leyton nodded his head confusedly.

"If you don't mind, I would like to offer my prayers to the Gods."

Jon bowed to her, "Of course, My Lady, we will wait outside." He grasped the bemused old lord by his arm and slowly guided him towards the doors. But he stopped walking when his eyes once again fell upon the small charm.

"What is it, Ser?" Malora asked.

"Uh… it's the charm in the hand of the Smith… it's intriguing."

Malora smiled as she walked towards the Smith. "It is truly no wonder that you are attracted to it, Ser Jon. It is said to be the Mark of Smith. It is given to the deserving individual who is set out to forge their own path, as a token of blessing." She plucked the charm from the idol's hand.

"I didn't mean anything by it, My Lady, it's just… my axe-head looks the same."

Malora smiled, "Then it is decided, Ser, none is more deserving of this token than you."

Lord Leyton frowned, "How do you come to know about the Mark of Smith, Malora? Even I didn't know about that."

"I have learned a lot, father," Lady Malora replied mysteriously, "and I am learning still. We will talk about it later, mayhaps." She turned towards Jon, with her hands she indicated towards his neck, "May I?"

Jon could only nod.

Lady Malora wound her hands behind his neck to tie the leather cord, she whispered in his ear while she did so –

"Ek þorfutilr mæltilr þú too, minn konungr. Ek munu vitþúr later." (I need to talk to you too, My King. I will find you later.)

She left two confounded men at her wake as she went towards the Crone and knelt to pray.