Chapter Text
“Steady on there, Ned! Don’t want you getting lost in this bloody squall.”
Arms wound tight around Lady Cassana’s upper railing, Eddard flung his head to the side, squinting against the eastward rain that had been pelting them ever since Faircastle. A sudden flash illuminated Robert’s broad grin, his eyes full of unvoiced laughter in the face of such a monumental torrent.
“No chance of that, my liege, only that it’s been some… time.”
The king’s smile dropped a little, storm-blue clouding over. “Don’t I know it. These past three years - all this damnable back-and-forth across the realm. Words with a maester and not a lord- bah! The fool Lychester served a scorpion, yet expected all his sons to be toads. Rotten… rot, that.”
Robert’s ranting petered out as a chorus of horns rose up out of the spitting gloom. Soon after, the air came alight with a volley of fire, arcing up and over the pair before dropping into the dark waters with a soon-swallowed hsss.
At least, most did.
“Land ho!”
The call went up, overflowing with exhausted joy as it leapt from ship to ship. Lanterns went up along the command galleys, echoed by the lesser lights that soon faded into the distant fog.
“Thirty thousand souls. Will it be enough?”
Eddard met Robert’s eyes for a moment, then dipped his head.
“A damnable business, either way,” Robert sighed, gauntleted fingers drumming against the pommel of his warhammer. “A damnable business, indeed.”
Dearest Cat,
We have landed at Lordsport. King Robert sent most of our forces onward to scout the other islands. A thousand men remain to find what may be left.
The storm is easing here. Lordsport- it is abandoned , or so it seems. Where now the smallfolk have gone, there are none left to say.
I pray this letter finds you and the children well.
Ned
- Letter found in a bottle floating near the Flint Cliffs, c. AC 294; some words have been smudged into illegibility. To be stored in the Motherhouse of Maris at Gulltown on order of Perrin, First of His Name, of the Houses Baratheon and Jordayne, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar, Lord of the Three Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, c. AC 315
Eddard awoke to the sounds of revelry.
The Lady Cassana had made landfall at what he had guessed was twilight, alongside nine other ships of varied make. Unlike Robert, who’d leapt into a rowboat the moment he’d caught sight of a harbor, Eddard had stayed aboard, scouting the shoreline with a far-eye he’d gotten from the captain.
“Anything catch your fancy, Stark?”
The far-eye creaked under Eddard’s suddenly-tightened grip, but he eased. “Nothing. Take a look, Kingslayer.”
He could hear the scowl in the Lannister’s grunt of acknowledgement as he passed the instrument to him, but Eddard didn’t look to see his face. Instead, he raised a hand to pursed lips, eyes squinting at the oddity.
“Ha! The cowards must’ve fled inland once they saw our arrows.” The Kingslayer’s arrogance betrayed little other emotion, but he knew the man’s thoughts were the same as his. “What was it that Maron… Aeron… whoever had said? ‘Ever-dying, never die’? ‘The world goes headlong’?”
The knight set down the far-eye. “What- what was that bit they did?” Counting on his fingers, he recited: “‘Cattle die, kinsmen die-’”
“‘One’s self dies the same,’” Eddard intoned.
“‘I know one, that never dies,’” Lannister took over, pausing for a moment before murmuring, “The doom of every dead man.”
He shook his towed head, laughed without humor. “Such nonsense- and yet, for so small a thing-”
“Aye.” Eddard glanced over. “Shall we go ashore?”
The Kingsguard looked to him, nodded.
How long ago was that? Eddard wondered as he sat up, rubbing at his eyes with a stifled yawn.
The noise had not receded; indeed, it swelled and grew, taking on new and strange tones and rhythms. It almost sounded like- a party?
He drew near to the doorbolt, pressed his ear to the old driftwood planks. Shadows danced in long motions beneath the doorsill, yet…
He hesitated, listening closer. The words almost reminded him of the Old Tongue- but surely such a thing was impossible. Especially here.
He felt his head pulse, like the start of a headache- or a bell of warning.
Yet…
Fingers clasping at the worn metal of the bolt, Eddard slowly unlatched the door, his free hand clenched around the nearest free thing - something sturdy, from the heft and feel. Then, all at once-
A sound echoed through the weary inn, like mocking laughter and a rumbling, clicking groan all in one;
Eddard burst from his room, eyes searching for the guards on duty;
Screams rent the darkened air.
Eddard sprinted toward the open inn door, cudgel at the ready.
“Ned?”
Robert could feel their eyes on him, cold, weighing. He ignored them, shaking his brother once more. “For the sake of all the Gods, wake up, man!”
“My liege-”
“Shut it, Little Lannister!” Robert growled at the Lannet lickspittle. Drawing himself up, he reached out a hand- and swiftly flicked the Northman on the forehead.
Ned came awake with a heave and a gasp of breath.
“See?” Robert scoffed, turning to their small audience of lords (and one Kingsguard - Greenfield, he guessed). “Nothing to it.”
“Rob- Robert?”
The man turned back at the Stark’s unsteady query. “What, dreams that bad?”
“Where are the guards?”
Robert cocked his head, brow furrowing. “Right where they should be- sleeping.”
“Right, right.” Ned put a hand to his forehead. “Right?”
Robert frowned, stepping back to give the Northman some space. “We’ll, ah, leave you to it. Most everyone else’s broken their fast, sorry to say.”
Ned swung his legs out of the cot, saying nothing. There was something in his eyes…
Robert turned, making a shooing motion with his hands. The room emptied slowly, with only a little grumbling from lords like Redwyne or Hawthorne, until only he and his friend remained. The silence lengthened.
“Robert.”
“Aye? What is it?” His hand rested on the doorbolt for a moment as he spared a glance right at the wall. There was a smudge there, almost like a splinter or a gouge.
“Have you ever had a dream… that was not all a dream?”
“Unmaad! Unmaad! O, merciful Mother, may thee and thyne Sons taketh pite on thyne servaunt, for I have seen the dampned minde of the Halwed. O, the hond! O, that dredful hond!”
- The last words of a Hughart “Goldlips” Lipps, the 15th Day of the Apricot Moon, Year 54 of the Eighth Ebony Emperor (c. 56 AC). Recorded by a scribe in service to the prefect of the Fort of Water. Discovered in the vaults of the Ninth Ebony Emperor by Corlys Velaryon on his Sixth Great Voyage, c. 86 AC, and recounted in Maester Mathis’ Nine Voyages.
The air outside stank like a charnel house. Some of the younger foot gagged, retched, but Ned, Robert, and the rest covered their faces with perfume-soaked cloths and soldiered on.
“Maester Bernhart, any reports from the rest of the fleet?”
The King’s voice still held a tinge of hope, as if the non-welcome they had received upon disembarkment was only a trick of the enemy.
The shaggy-jowled man started, withdrew some small scrolls, untied the bits of twine about them. After a moment, he replied, “No resistance at landfall on Harlaw or Saltcliffe, my liege. However, scouts have made note of figures amongst the copses on Great Wyk and Blacktyde. No banners or devices have been seen as of yet.”
“Damn,” Robert muttered lowly. “Well, we can’t just stay here while the rest of the isle needs clearing. You there!” He grabbed a passing spearman by the tabard and pulled him close. “What’s everyone standing about for, eh? Where’ve the scouts got to?”
“We- we dunno, m-mil- King- Sire,” the man - boy, more like - stammered. “We’ve been f-finding them all over the b-beach since dawn.” Fumbling in his jerkin, he withdrew a handful of- of-
Robert couldn’t suppress his shudder of recognition as he stared at the sand-grey bits of flesh, some jagged, some chewed. “Father Above.”
The spearman cradled seven tongues in a half-clenched fist, careful as a father with his newborn babe.
“Maerni?”
“Yes, my dear, sweet hunter?”
“Why does Father never come to see me here? I caught him an icefish for supper yesterday; I thought we could share it. Did you tell him?”
“Sweetli-”
“You didn’t. Did you?”
“I-”
“He’s not the only one who lost Avar, but Rodrik, Maron, they can go out from port whenever. Why not me?”
“Because you- you- you’re different, Theon-”
“But I don’t feel different. I don’t look different. Why can’t you just admit it - he doesn’t want me. None of y-”
The room echoes with the sound of flesh on flesh, a gasp of air.
“That’s a lie, and you know it. I love you. I want you. Don’t you ever doubt that.”
A sniffle. “Leave.” The word sounds as if it was forced out through open lips.
“Wh- Theon, my sweet, I-”
“Leave! Get out! Get away from me!”
A muffled sob. Clothes softly rustle. A door creaks open. Footsteps patter away.
Silence.
Floorboards creak. Hinges squeak.
“Thee, my pet! Have I got a story for you!”
The room fills with a sweet, hot scent, like apricots and peppers, ashes and rot.
“Hello, Nuncle.”
“Hello.”
Eddard startled into motion to see a black-haired child crouched at his knee. “Hello there, lad. Where’d you come from?”
The boy twisted at the waist, pointing up the hillside. Eddard followed his finger up to the lichen-spotted curtain wall that separated the estates of the Lords Greyjoy from the rest of the isle. The towers of Castle Pyke rose above the ness like the misshapen finger-bones of a half-rotted hand.
He turned back. “You wouldn't happen to know where everyone's gone, would you?”
The boy swirled the sand at his side with a finger. “No. Father wouldn't let me out of my room when Nuncle came back from his travels, so…” He shrugged. “I don't know.”
Frowning, Eddard crouched down, now only a head or so taller than the boy - a bastard Pyke, he supposed. He tugged off a glove and dug into the soft-coarse shore, biting his lip at the autumn chill that ran up his arm. “That doesn’t seem very nice.”
He heard a chuff. “No? And what would you know of it?” The voice turned strange for a moment, the you elongating, rumbling in his ears - then it was gone. “It’s not like anyone else was ‘nice’ to me there. I- I had to get out, to get away.”
Eddard stole a glance at the boy. He still couldn’t see his face, but his shoulders held stiff, tense. The rough woolen shawl about him trembled.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” He tried to keep his voice light, like he had with Benjen all those years ago, or Jon and Robb just a month past.
The boy looked up to him for but a moment, teeth flashing in a scowling sneer, before he bolted, rushing down the eastern shore.
Ned watched him go, mind foggy with memory and heart pounding an odd rhythm.
“And this? What’s this?”
The sun hung low over the western horizon, nearly quartered by the angle of the Keep. Oh, how he wished he could go there - beyond this cursed tower, beyond this isle, and all isles hence. Away. Away! To where the gulls made their nests, and the stars twinkled like black sand beneath the waves.
Away from all suns, and the eyes-
“Theon!”
Pain shot up his arm, and Theon jerked to attention with a gasp. He sucked in air, drawing his injury up to his doublet’s breast. The scabs on his knuckles had cracked from the force of the blow, and blood oozed like red tears down the paling swarth of the back of his hand.
The look he gave Maester Qalen was sullen and pouty, but he did not cry. Someone was bound to learn of such weakness, he was sure.
His eyes burned, all the same.
“What. Is. This?” Qalen jabbed with his long ruler at the wobbling bulb of skin that sat above the dead woman’s knee. The skin above and below the bulb shifted slightly.
“A cyst?” Theon thought that sounded right.
“Correct. And why would such a thing occur?”
Theon shrugged, eyes going to the folds on the woman’s back for a moment before meeting the maester’s. “Bad humors?”
He could almost hear the teeth grinding in the man’s skull before he heaved a sigh. “No,” Qalen forced out, bringing up the hand with the brown-tan ruler to pinch at the bridge of his nose. The wood smacked against his forehead, leaving line-like speckles of crimson on the weathered cracks of his brow. “You know the answer, boy. What is it.”
“She got too close to a fire?”
The grey robes of the maester tangled in his fist. “No.”
“A greenlander cursed her?”
“No, Theon.”
“Well, then, I-”
He stopped at the sound of voices, just outside the door. Father? Mother?
The maester’s study echoed with four booming knocks - dmmm, dmmm, dmmm, dmmm.
“Enter.”
The Lord Reaper of Pyke and his lady swept in, the perfumed smoke swirling about the room wisping out above and behind them.
“How goes it, innipúki?”
Qalen flushed at the insult, though his words were stiff with courtesy. “Well, milord Reaper. The boy was about to answer as to what this is.” He gestured once more at the bulb.
Father fixed him with coal-black eyes, an eyebrow raised in expectation.
“It’s a- a wen-”
“That is on the skin, boy. Is this one ‘on the skin’?”
Theon flushed. “N-no-”
“Again.”
“A polyp-”
“Only in the guts. Again.”
“A tumor!” Theon would’ve thrown his hands up in despair had Father’s eyes not been on him.
“It’s not a tumor!” Father’s voice was thick with irritation. “Hang the bloody fire- damn idiot-” He made to grab at his son.
Theon recoiled, eyes wide. “No-”
There was something at his thighs- nothing at his back-
He tipped, the setting sun blinding him-
Half-bitten nails dug into his sleeves like dull claws.
Theon gulped in air like a fish out of water, wide eyes whirling about as he tried to force himself upright. The hands pulled, tearing at the black wool of his doublet as they wrenched him back inside.
He struck the floor with a jarring crash that rattled his skull and sent a loose tooth flying. His mouth filled with the copper-iron taste of blood.
Theon scrambled to his feet, spitting pink spittle and rubbing at his jaw. Balon watched him impassively for a moment before turning away with a chuff. “Leave us.”
“Milord.” Qalen dipped his head to Father and Mother in turn before drawing up his hood and shuffling off. The door creaked shut behind him like a rusty cage.
Theon shuffled under his father’s gaze. “Father, I-”
“Why did God curse me with such a troublesome cyst?”
His mouth opened as if to gape at the insult.
“You are meant for more than- than- this. And yet still you wallow in your weakness.” The disgust rolled off the words like seafoam from a wave, tinged with some feeling he could not place. “You cannot even understand your own import.”
A hand came to rest on his shoulder, on the junction where the neck met the clavicle, and Theon couldn’t help but look up.
Father’s eyes were dull with resignation. “Tonight, and for the rest of your nights, you are to sleep in the Sea Tower. It seems-”
He cut himself off, sighing. The hand fell away. “Alannys, take the boy.”
Theon glanced back as Mother led him from the room, but Balon stood at the window and watched the sun set, his face bathed in orange and red and green.
“Bolton.”
Roose turned ice eyes to his liege lord. “Lord Stark.”
Stark leaned against the ramshackle house wall, eyes dropping down, down, to fix upon his boots.
“What did your ancestors say a man’s skin looked like after it was cut from his body?”
He stiffened, lips pressed into a line. Surely he didn’t suspect-?
“Why do you ask?” he lightly prodded.
The other man lifted his eyes to the storm-darkened horizon, squinting. “Call it… curiosity.”
Roose hummed to himself, averting his gaze as he considered an answer. Too much, and he was a dead man. Too little, too much potential for further questions.
“Pale, for the most part,” he finally admitted. “Like parchment, but much too… horrid to look at for long.”
Stark nodded. “Da used to tell me stories about the licamen from the east. Said that they used to throw the skins of our forefathers on boulders as a distraction when the Kings went to war. You’ve heard something similar?”
Roose dipped his head, confused and perturbed.
Stark looked to the sky, hummed to himself for a moment, then pushed off the wall.
“Ready yourself. Soon, we ascend.”