"Congratulations maester, you've done what you always meant to do," said the Head of House Stark and Warden of the North. "You've changed the North more than any other Andal before you. Tell me, is this not a worthy achievement?"
Walys did not reply. He was too stunned.
"Get out of my sight."
"… What?"
"Leave."
"Y-you…" His tongue felt heavy in his mouth and his throat scratched against itself as he stumbled over his own words. "You're not going to kill me?"
"Oh Walys," Rickard Stark said sadly. "I don't need to do anything more. Do I?"
Those last two words said so softly haunted his steps as he left the room in a daze. All that certainty and uncertainty and certainty again, all of them had been brushed aside as if they didn't matter. As if none of it matter. As if he didn't matter. He felt… he didn't know how he felt. His feet carried him forward but all sense and reason seemed like they lagged behind him no matter how many hallways and bridges and stairs and steps he walked and paced. Even when his robes flapped with every draft and his chain clinked every time he made a turn and didn't, the world around just didn't seem real.
The stone-faced guards posted outside the Library Tower were the first hint that something was wrong. Their fellows guarding the stairs to the living quarters were the second hint about what else he hadn't known was wrong, when he made to save time on the walk to his tower and they denied him access for the first time ever. When he tried to stop a passing servant, the girl just looked down and hurried on without giving response. When he called after her, then tried to physically stop the next one he crossed paths with, he stumbled to a halt at the loud prruk-prruk-prruk of a raven's call. Spinning around with his heart in his throat, he found Alban staring at him from an old beam up above.
The maester all but fled from the sight as fast as his walk could take him, in a vain effort to outrun the anger and grief of that theft and complete betrayal. But even as he pounded down the length of the suspended bridge between the Great Keep and the Maester's Tower, he stopped at the mid-point window to look outside. He saw twice the number of on-duty guards everywhere he looked. Then he finally entered his tower proper, only to be faced with the terrible discovery that it wasn't his tower anymore. There were fresh grooves in the flooring everywhere he looked as if something or somethings had been dragged about. The doors to all quarters but his own were locked. The stairwells to the rookery and the observatory were blocked by silent sentries that stared at him accusingly. And his rooms…
They were all but empty. The place had been stripped clean. Ransacked top to bottom of everything of worth. The bookcases were empty, the desk was bare inside and out, scraps of paper littered the floor now bare of every last rug and carpet. His sleeping area had been stripped clean of blankets, feathers and even the straw. Not even his personal effects were to be found anywhere, few and meagre as those mementos were. A chip of his acolyte dorm wall, his copy of A Caution for Young Girls by Coryanne Wylde, even his father's old archmaester rod. Gone. All gone. The only thing that stood out was a small vial sat in the middle of the desk. Sweetsleep. It lay there like the most innocent thing, a clean and clear monument to all his sins. Glinted tauntingly in the pale light of the winter afternoon reflected off the snow.
Rickard Stark had never been playing any games with him. It was a lot simpler. He was stalling until the guards could ransack his chambers and all his hiding places.
Walys didn't know how long he stared at the thing. He knew even less how he managed to stumble away from the thing, or how he wound up staring out the window for even longer afterwards. The world was a painting of still whiteness and moving men, twigs, branches and ravens playing on the sharp, sloped roof of the great hall in front of him. The dark birds were using the snow-covered roof as a slide. Others were rolling down snowy mounds down in the yard and stables, playing keep-away with each other and the dogs. Half the rookery seemed spread all over Winterfell, having the grandest time as if to spite him whose life had taken a turn for everything but. There were even a bunch of the birds making toys out of sticks and stones and pinecones. They played with them like happy children, hopping and bouncing and cawing all over the canopy of the firewood supply next to the Great Hall. He wondered how long it would take before one of them broke off from the mob through whatever sorcery. Come over and taunt or mock him and complete the picture.
He saw little Ned and Lyanna and Benjen throwing snowballs too, after a while. He wondered if they knew anything. He wondered if anyone would try to save them and the North after he was gone.
The shadows were much longer when he finally turned away from the window. He walked back to the desk on stiff legs. He stood there for a while, staring at the bottle that could only have come from the stash he kept in the rookery which was beyond his reach now.
Then he took and threw it at the wall with a scream of anguish and it shattered.
"The one who passes the sentence must swing the sword, is that it?" Walys asked harshly, looking up at his white raven that wasn't his any longer now. "You don't have to swing the sword if you're not the one passing the sentence, is that it?" What a way for Rickard Stark to tell him what he thought should have been his answer, all those years ago when he counselled for murder.
He didn't even have any way to gainsay the logic, Walys thought bitterly.
He left the tower with grim purpose. If Rickard Stark wanted so badly to see him shunned and disdained and humiliated in his great halls of power, far be it from him to gainsay his decision. The kitchens would probably be closed to him, as would the armory and tool sheds and everyone's goodwill. None of it would matter. There were always at least three knives misplaced in obvious places, and while he could have used a proper mortar and pestle cup, a wooden mug and broken broom handle and one of the many dog bowls would suffice. The only thing that made him think twice was the shovel, but that solved itself when an errand boy saw him and dropped the one he was carrying in his rush not to be seen anywhere near him. One would have thought Walys was some leper, except the boy proved every bit as foolhardy as every other peasant in the world by stopping to watch him from around the nearest corner.
Were he a lesser man, Walys might have considered taking him hostage just to satisfy what little he could of his bubbling spite.
Instead, he beat down any attempts by his mind to conjure similarities with the not-child this was all about, picked up the shovel and made for the Godswood. He was stopped by guards there too, of course. But they didn't leave their posts to escort him off. And when one of the pair was about to break their silent staredown to go looking for a superior, the white raven flew and cawed above them, making them look up and spot the Lord himself. He was stood on the balcony of the Great Keep itself, looking down on them from his great place on high. After a while, he nodded shortly to the guards to let him go about his business. Walys didn't bother feeling vindicated over having his expectations met.
"Your plans will fail you know," Walys said once the shade of the trees engulfed him, not needing to look up in the boughs to know his raven was there watching. Listening to everything he said. "You should have started teaching all your children these things as soon as they became old enough to be able to keep a secret. Surely Brandon and Ned have reached that point? And is there a backup plan so that your secret designs aren't lost in case you and your heir are killed? There must always be someone to clean up the mess, no? That is what lordship is. That is what kingship is."
He made his way through the trees rightward instead of forward where the Heart tree stood. Didn't stop until he came upon the three hot pools that fed Winterfell's pipe system. As always, even in winter, the place was bountiful in all the shrubs and moss and mushrooms not of the edible kind. Or at least, not edible as most people understood them.
"When Arryn and Baratheon find out what you're using them for, how will they respond? For all the value you place in being underestimated, you don't prove very good at conveying when you want that to cease. When Lord Ellard Stark supported the claim of Laenor Velaryon over Viserys Targaryen during the Great Council of 101 AC, was it because you actually hoped he would win? Or was it a warning? How does the Iron Throne remember it these days, I wonder?"
He gathered what he needed, prepared them in the right ways, mixed them in the right order and mashed everything together in fits and starts with an ounce of water until the paste was soft and even. Then he set the bowl down and went off to look for a place to dig that wasn't frozen solid.
"Even if Arryn and Baratheon or whoever else you pull into your scheme doesn't hold your secret agenda against you, why would they help? Why should they throw their lot in with you when you frame your hate of the Iron Throne in the same hate you feel for the entirety of the Andal kingdoms? The Iron Throne is supposed to protect and preserve the good of all the realm. Even if they agree you seem exempt, why should they care? You've given them no reason not to view the North as an empty land with no prospects and you as heathen barbarians. Blame it on septons if you wish, it's not all because our Gods are different."
The last ingredient was further near the forest's midpoint, well away from the hot springs proper, but persistence paid off where memory didn't. The sun disappeared from the sky and his limbs protested by the time he was done digging, but angry perseverance was on his side and soon enough even the weirwood roots were in his hands.
He ignored the voice of Archmaester Norren who'd so often japed about this or that Andal revisionist that most recently took his turn shitting all over the First Men in their history books. Walys had thought it an ill vice once, a means for malcontents to force through the idea that Andal supremacy was nothing short of inevitable. Now that he'd seen the depth of misplaced and undeserved Northern pride for himself, he found himself far less outraged on the native's behalf.
"I wonder, is it truly obligation that drives you, or is it your own wounded pride? When you visited the capital, how much did they mock you I wonder? Did the Iron Throne's Small Council jape behind your back? Did they jape to your face even, when you were down there? For relying on the Riverlands and Reach for food in winter, mayhap? How hard was it to hold your tongue about Jaehaerys and his Good Queen wife that heaped the New Gift insult on you all? Truly, such grand benefits you receive from being part of the Seven Kingdoms! At least before the conquest there was always a goodly stream of conscripts for the Wall thanks to all the warring down there, wasn't that what you said?"
Why should he shy away from saying his piece, now when he could do so without interruption or rebuke?
He was shivering by the time he made it back to the hot springs, his grey robe not enough to keep him warm despite the clothing underneath. He thought of taking a dip in the pools themselves for a while, then his mind conjured an image of the raven plunging beak-first through his eye socket and him floating off dead in the middle of the pool.
"You only invite woe if you think Cregan's leftover northmen can be turned to your benefit now," Walys told his foul watcher once he decided not to push his luck. "You would spread word of lofty Northern opportunities to pull all those legions of increasingly disenfranchised peasants in numbers greater than what Cregan left behind a dozen times over. Oh, what a great feat by the Old Man of the North six decades dead! Whatever news the Winds of Winter carry from far off places, they are not the only winds, or even foremost among them. The northmen left behind will have married and established families and bloodlines in the south. Put down roots, just as you said. You think there is no strife of faith in every household? You think inviting them North won't invite all those tensions you disdain as well? You think the Seven won't come along with them? For all the contempt you hold for southron snobbery and the Faith of the Seven, that's exactly who you mean to bring in. Westeros is at the edge of a precipice. The scales are frail, ripe for the right word to tilt and shatter them every which way no matter the wish of one person. Bring them up and it's the southron kingdoms that the rumor mill will serve. You might even spark an uprising of the Faith. The Faith Militant, didn't you yourself say they lie in wait? To say nothing of the tensions that could erupt among the nobles whose smallfolk you'll be poaching. Rile them and they won't stop until you all drown in their spite."
"Spite! Spite! Spite!" Alban cawed from the snowy branches behind him.
"Is that your way of telling me I'm drowning in spite?"
He was talking to animals now, Walys thought as he used his purloined knife to scrape the insides of the root bark into the mug full of hot water. Then again, he'd been doing that for years now. Oh Alban. He couldn't bear to think about his fate. He couldn't bear to think of suffering the same. He would not suffer the same, even if it killed him. He'd take his own life before that happened.
But he'll do it on his own terms.
Finally, the paste was ready. It wasn't the distilled potion he made before, the one that gave him his most precious and doomed spark of insight, but quantity would just have to substitute for quality in this case.
Picking it up, he walked to stand between the three pools to soak in the warmth one last time.
Then he turned around and made his way to the Heart Tree at the Godswood's core. He could already feel the cold seep into his bones. He knew it would take him long before the paste's effects wore off. Or would have, if he hadn't deliberately made ten times as much as it was safe to take. He stood there, fantasising of chopping the thing down, burning it to ciders and then dancing over the ashes and remains.
Instead, he walked to stand in front of it, knelt down and began to eat the mixture one handful at a time.
"Whatever else may be, the southron wife you buy an alliance through will do the one thing the Andals never managed, you realise," Walys said between bites, because of spite he had plenty to spare of his own even now. "You're a fool if you think a Lord of a Great House won't demand you let his precious spawn bring the Faith here with her."
Wouldn't that be ironic? Thousands of years of defiance undone for the price of a maidenhead, assuming the woman will even have it by the time she's wed.
Too bad he wouldn't be alive to see it. He'd have to settle for spitting the tree demons in the eye.
Walys' mind stalled. The Godswood teetered suddenly as if weighed down by the weight of the world. The blood-leafed tree's two eyes seemed to mist over with white fog. The moon rose high into the sky. Its scattered beams pierced the flame-red heavens and cast forth as shadows disappeared from amidst the branches. The fading footprints of a warrior slain lingered in the snow reflected in the pool of black water. Then, suddenly, that hated sight of a black abyss surrounded by a thousand and one eyes of fire noticed him from where it wallowed in Winterfell's most auspicious bowels. Then it shimmered into the shape of a boy wearing his sight as part of a cloak made of crow feathers. They blinked at him.
Above all else, the sight brought one last question to his mind.
If she had time to learn to read before it was all done, how many years did her wetnurse and mother breastfeed the Good Queen Alysanne?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
To the Seneschal of the Citadel,
I'd hoped that the last one was a fluke, what with how he managed to get himself killed along with the entirety of my family and half of Winterfell's staff because he couldn't handle one epidemic. But now I find this new maester you sent me dead of exposure after spending the whole night doped up on some poison or drug in the snow.
Since your leadership is clearly as incompetent as the poor excuses for learned men you've been sending me, I'm coming down there to choose my help myself.
Rickard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.
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To Leyton Hightower, Lord of the Hightower, Lord of Oldtown, Voice of Oldtown, Defender of the Citadel, Defender of Oldtown, Lord of the Port and Beacon of the South,
Greetings from the North.
If you are reading this letter, then my special raven got this message to you without ever passing through the hands of any maester of the Citadel.
When my father and mother and the rest of my family and half of Winterfell died when I was six and ten, I had no reason to suspect my maester of any wrongdoing because he'd also died to the sickness. But now I find out my new maester has been conspiring with others at the Citadel in pursuit of aims and objectives unknown. Circumstances prevented me from uncovering the what, who or why. But they did not prevent me from learning that, whatever their goals may be, they hinged among other things on murdering my wife and firstborn. The plot against my heir has been prevented, but my wife's life now hangs in the balance. Worse, I never got the chance to squeeze my maester for information. The treacherous fiend was found dead by his own hand the very next day after I got word from the Dreadfort's maester that House Bolton has gone extinct under obscenely suspicious circumstances.
Attached is a copy of the letter I sent to the Citadel, as well as a summary of the evidence House Stark is currently in possession of, to be gone over in more detail in a moon or so during my visit of your fine city.
I've given similar warning to all the other Great Houses I could reach without risking their maesters learning of this first. However, as a gesture of courtesy, as well as my confidence that House Hightower could surely not be involved in any plots so foul, I leave it to you to decide how to handle this matter relative to the Iron Throne. As, indeed, I urged our peers to do as well.
Good luck in your hunt, for all our sakes,
Rickard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.
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