Chapter 226: Tomb of the Wolves
The wonderful banquet and the beautiful music all came to an end. But the silver-haired prince's beautiful and philosophical lyrics were still etched in everyone's hearts.
"The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind!" This also seemed to be the destiny of generations of Northerners; they were always solitary, surviving and seeking answers in the cold. The desolation and barrenness of the North happened to perfectly match this song.
Rhaegar saw their immersed faces. Brandon was deep in thought, and Roose's eyes held a different gleam. Lyanna's eyes were filled with tears; after all, she was a precocious and sensitive girl of House Stark, the Winter Rose of Winterfell.
"Maester Walys!" People crowded around Rhaegar as Lord Rickard and his wife and children dispersed. In the departing crowd, Rhaegar saw the grey-robed maester who had been at the banquet. His grey robes and the chain around his neck made it clear who he was. Walys Flowers was the bastard son of an old maester from the Citadel and a girl from House Hightower. He was not old, had silver hair, sharp eyes, and a perpetually gentle expression, as if he had a mouth that could make iron trees bloom, making everything go smoothly. After he forged his maester's chain, he hid his bastard past, and his unspeakable father and his friends eagerly sent him to Winterfell to pour insidious sweet words into Lord Rickard's ears. Walys encouraged the Old Wolf's ambition, using honeyed words to entice him to march south, but ultimately, it was the Old Wolf himself who harbored grand ambitions, otherwise nothing would have been so easy.
"You must follow Prince Rhaegar! Think about it, is there anything more impossible than one or two thousand men defeating twenty thousand Dothraki Screamers?" Rickard avoided Maester Walys and instructed his son, Brandon. The Old Wolf was wild, but he also knew when to bend and when to stand firm, otherwise why would the ancestors of House Stark have become the Kings Who Knelt, surrendering without a single strike?
"Those plans were all made with profit in mind at the time. Now it seems we need to proceed slowly. With the royal authority reasserted, the Dragon is the greatest destiny!" Rickard said to Brandon, who nodded. When the Iron Throne showed signs of revival, many schemes might need to change, from forming alliances to aligning with the center.
"A bastard of House Hightower and a maester who broke his vows at the Citadel, I don't know which House Hightower girl bore him! But he's truly a collection of cunning and mischief, his heart deserves to be punished!" Rhaegar returned to his courtyard, still thinking of Walys's figure. He didn't harbor much ill will towards House Hightower and the Citadel, but power in the hands of such scheming individuals always caused wariness and concern. Life is less than a hundred years, yet one often harbors worries for a thousand. While the overall nature of House Hightower and the Citadel was unknown, the existence of some conspirators and eccentrics within them was clearly stated in the books. Oldtown should return to its proper state, and maesters should relinquish their power. So many Lords employ maesters; upon reflection, who is the master and who is the servant? Every Lord of some renown has a maester, and every lesser Lord also wishes to have one.
"Perhaps when I'm at the Wall, Maester Aemon can give me some information? The maester collective is too broad; there are the indifferent, and there are the ambitious. If these maesters have an intelligence network and a secret organization like a brotherhood, sharing information would be quite simple." Rhaegar still planned to visit the Wall; Maester Aemon, a living fossil of his own family, might know some of the Citadel's secrets. There were still some who were dissatisfied with the Citadel, such as Maester Marwyn, and some Lords and nobles also felt that maesters were grey rats, always scheming and whispering among themselves, fed by the Lords' scraps but pouring dangerous ideas into their masters' ears.
"I need to get to the bottom of this Walys, especially his parentage. I need both Northern spies and information from the Reach. The North is barren and stubborn, few can infiltrate it, but House Bolton can be contacted. As for the Reach, Mace's mouth cannot be trusted, so I can get the Dornishmen to act." Rhaegar thought, his intelligence could come from King's Landing, Gulltown, Dorne to Pentos, Lys, and Volantis. If he wanted to know this person's true nature, Dorne, not far from the Reach, would be suitable. Thinking this, Rhaegar prepared to send a letter to Planky Town to follow up on his leads. As for the North, the best partner was definitely Roose; he currently didn't trust the Old Wolf, who was being misled by Maester Walys into playing a grand game, Gods know what he was busy with. And uniting secondary Lords to check the great Lords was also a common tactic of the Iron Throne.
"I wonder if there are traces of magic on the ice longsword." In the courtyard, Rhaegar caressed the black sword, Orphan-Maker. The longsword had not been drawn today, and he really wanted to duel the Old Wolf a few times. Winterfell held many attractions for Rhaegar: the relationship between House Stark, the Others, and the Great Other; the mystery of Winterfell's hot springs; the Stark family crypts in Winterfell; and the Starks' ice. These were certainly all very appealing.
Rhaegar strolled through the courtyard, trying to feel for magical fluctuations, but he felt none. Perhaps the Old Gods lurked in the godswood and would only heed the prayers of the First Men bloodline. People said the Old Gods and the godswood were inseparable; godswoods were scarcer outside the North, and House Stark had not been favored by the Old Gods, so they would no longer be lucky. Greater magical traces should be at the Wall.
The next day, Rhaegar accompanied Brandon to the crypts of Winterfell, the Tomb of the Wolves.
The spiral staircase leading to the crypts was very narrow, so Brandon walked ahead with a lamp, followed by Rhaegar and Barristan. The crypts were like the throat of a giant ice beast, emitting a constant, endless chill that evoked a sense of indifference. It was said that these crypts were even larger than Winterfell itself, and House Stark lived among the graves without fear.
"Prince, was your journey pleasant?" Brandon asked.
"I was flying on a dragon, so I was very happy. But for Ser Barristan and the others, it might be a different story," Rhaegar quipped. Most of his retainers and guards were Southerners, unaccustomed to the ice and desolation.
"To be honest, Young Lord Brandon, the journey was full of swamps, forests, and fields, and after the Neck, we couldn't even find a decent inn. The vast, endless cold wilderness was desolate, and I rarely saw any of House Stark's people?" Ser Barristan said. He came from the much milder Stormlands Marches and had rarely experienced such cold.
"Perhaps they are all hiding! You know, our people are quite shy. Winter makes them even more dispersed," Brandon said with a smile.
"Such cold and heavy snow, just thinking about it makes one shiver. Perhaps only Northerners can endure it," Barristan sighed.
"Northern winters are cold and harsh," Brandon admitted, "but House Stark will endure. Winter is Coming, we always remember."
"The South has its beauty, and the North has its beauty; mountains and landscapes, each with their own merits," Rhaegar replied to their words. This Brandon fellow was a bit two-faced; he couldn't resist the temptation to go south either and was a pawn in the Southern Ambitions.
Brandon, Rhaegar, and the others reached the bottom of the stairs, entering the deep darkness of the crypts, the Tomb of the Wolves.
"Please enter, Prince." Brandon led them to their destination, swinging the lantern in a semicircle. Shadows stirred, and the flickering light illuminated the flagstones beneath their feet, revealing pairs of granite pillars stretching into the darkness beyond. The deceased of past generations sat on stone thrones between the pillars, their backs to the Wall, behind them stone coffins holding their remains.
"Truly magnificent! I dare not speak loudly, lest I disturb the heroic souls of past generations!" Rhaegar said to the two. The death rituals of the great Lords differed; House Targaryen was cremated by dragonfire, the most authentic—born of fire, dying by fire. House Tully, according to their customs, had their bodies sent down the Red Fork by boat. The heir would shoot an arrow to light the boat. And House Stark was somewhat frightening, with so many Starks, the wolves buried beneath Winterfell.
The crypts were always cold, and all of them felt the chill, but Rhaegar, with his magic, did not easily succumb to the cold, remaining as usual. Brandon guided them through the tall stone pillars, where statues of past Lords watched them. The effigies on the sealed stone coffins depicted their appearances in life, with giant roaring direwolf statues curled at their feet.
Brandon was most familiar with the more recent ones: Lord Edwyle, Rickard's father; Lord Willam and his brother, Artos the Implacable; Lord Donnor, Lord Beron, and Lord Rodwell; Lord Jonnel One-Eye; Lord Barthogan; Lord Brandon; and Lord Cregan, who once dueled a Dragonrider. They sat on stone chairs, with stone direwolves at their feet. According to tradition, an iron longsword was placed across the lap of every statue that had once been Lord of Winterfell, to ensure that vengeful, hateful spirits remained sealed within the crypts and did not wreak havoc in the land of the living. Once peerless, precious longswords, some were now piles of rust.
"Is there really a connection between the Great Other and House Stark?" Rhaegar looked at the statues, even gently touching them, but felt no magical fluctuations. Only cold, lifelike sculptures.
"Some magic comes from fire, some from bloodlines, and some from faith! House Stark's bloodline is of the First Men, their faith is in the Old Gods; they can obtain magic from these two aspects, and they also have traces of magic, though it is less apparent now." Rhaegar was most interested in whether House Stark was connected to the Great Other, as the Night's King might have been a Stark. The Great Other, out of respect for the Starks, might not invade on a large scale, and Winterfell would definitely need a Stark.
Rhaegar lingered for a long time before the statue of Cregan Stark. Cregan might have been the one who interacted most with House Targaryen. He once allied with Prince Jacaerys Velaryon and orchestrated the Hour of the Wolf, a remnant of the old era who also boarded the great ship of the new era. Cregan once dueled Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, and later, the Dragonknight said he had never met a better swordsman in his life.
"So many iron swords, they seem quite ordinary! Where is the legendary savior's sword, Lightbringer, from Azor Ahai?" Rhaegar wondered. It could also be deeper within.
"Explorer: Congratulations on entering the crypts of Winterfell and receiving an ancient blessing. The ancient North holds many secrets awaiting your discovery."
Beneath the crypts, in even deeper and darker places, there were other tombs where ancient kings of an even older era slept. Brandon did not have the inclination to lead Rhaegar into these places.
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