Chasing Memories

Chasing Memories

Winterfell

It wouldn't have been a rare sight mere two years ago to see the youngest Stark daughter racing away atop her horse. People of the Winterfell castle and the surrounding town of Winter Town were used to seeing the Lady Arya Stark, who was said to be the reincarnation of the North's beloved daughter, Lady Lyanna Stark, often venturing out of the keep without her guards, having a marvellous time riding around the nearby fields.

However, the image was quite different from the years prior when both the daughters of Lord Stark were seen to be riding without a care. The Lady Sansa had truly changed from her shy demeanour from the days when she was to be found beside her lady mother, or the Septa, immersed in her lessons of noble ladies.

That morning, the Stark sisters had given the slip to their foster brother, Lord Cley Cerwyn, and instead of their morning training session, they had decided to went for a hunt. Lady Arya was determined today to do her absolute best against her elder sister regarding the art of archery. Sansa Stark had shown an uncanny ability with bows and arrows that the resident best archer of Winterfell, Lord Theon Greyjoy, had to admit of her being better than him. Even the Lord and Lady of Winterfell - the honourable Lord Eddard Stark and his beautiful wife, Lady Catelyn Stark, wouldn't have believed it if they hadn't seen it with their own eyes.

The sisters came across a rare sight during their ride through the lighter and considerably safer part of the Wolfswood forest near the keep – an apple tree. Rarer still, a few fruits were hanging about the branches. Arya let out an excited squeal pointing ahead to the tree. Sansa, spotting where her sister was indicating, had taken out her bow off her shoulder and an arrow from the quiver slung onto her saddle, taken aim and shot. The arrow cut through the air and snagged the biggest of the semi-ripe fruit before stopping against the trunk of another tree. Sansa let out joyous laughter in reply to Arya's indignant huff, all the while their horses were in a canter.

"You didn't have to show off, Sansa!" Arya narrowed her eyes.

"I didn't, sweet sister, I only plucked the juiciest fruit for you," Sansa replied with a hint of smugness.

"I could've done that myself." Arya refused to look at her sister.

"Why didn't you then?"

Arya didn't dignify the question with an answer, rather, she climbed off of her horse and went to free the arrow and the apple. With a deft slash of her dagger, she sliced the fruit in equal half. She bit into one and threw the other towards her approaching sister. Sansa caught the halved fruit and frowned a little after taking a tentative bite.

"Rather tart with only a hint of sweetness."

"Because it is yet to ripen properly, stupid." Arya had finished her portion in a few bites.

"I still prefer the lemon cakes over these."

Arya once more ignored her sister's comment. She was looking back at the apple tree.

"I didn't know we have an apple tree here. We do ride past these parts fairly often."

Sansa cleared her throat, "I think our friends have planted this tree." She gave a pointed look at her younger sister. Arya nodded her head in understanding.

"But why don't we see them on our rides now?"

Sansa sighed at the repetition. She had to explain this exact matter to Arya so many times that she has forgotten the number.

"Father has them helping around the Last Lake. Just as I told you before, Arya."

Arya shook her head, brown locks had long become undone from their coif that was made under her mother's gentle combing and ministrations.

"I forgot."

"Arya, you need to remember these facts. You are a Stark, therefore, your lessons consist of these facts. Mother and Lady Ella will take you to the task if you keep forgetting your lessons."

"Lessons are boring and stupid," Arya replied mulishly.

Sansa spoke with a frown, "You've said the same thing about the Septa's lessons. It was mainly because of your complaints that Jon had Father agree to let us be taught by Lady Ella. You will disappoint them all if you lack in your efforts."

Arya didn't reply, she was busy tending to her horse.

"Very well," Sansa said with a sigh. She approached her sister and tried to turn her around to face her, but the younger girl stubbornly kept looking away.

"What is it, Arya?"

"Nothing."

"It most surely is not. You can tell me, sister. What is it?"

Stony silence was all the elder Stark daughter received from her sister.

"Is it about Robb and Jon again?"

This time, Arya gave a hesitant nod.

"I was under the assumption that you have sent a letter to them."

"I tried to," Arya stamped her foot on the ground, "but that stupid acolyte, Meiner, stopped me. He said without knowing the raven's destination, it would be futile to release the bird with a message."

Sansa managed to stop herself from laughing out loud, otherwise, her sister would stop talking with her for making fun of her.

"Did you ask Father for their whereabouts? I mean, he must have an idea about where they can be."

"No, I didn't." Once again, Arya Stark was scowling fiercely.

"Why is that?"

"I am not talking to him, he stopped me from going with Wade." She nearly screamed.

"Arya," Sansa said with all the patience she could muster at her age, "you are not supposed to travel long distances without Mother and Father. You are still very young for that."

"Wade took that stupid boy with him. He was my age."

"So that is why you are mad still? Because of Kurt?" Arya nodded, "Sweet sister, you must understand that Kurt doesn't have his parents. They have died and so did his sister. If Jon hasn't taken him in, then he would've died too. Jon is responsible for him, and he asked Wade to take care of him when he couldn't."

Arya pounced on that, "Aye, that was why I wanted to go with them. If Jon can take care of that idiot, then he can do the same for me too."

"And what about Mother and Father?" Sansa asked with a little heat in her voice, "Bran? Little Rickon? Myself? Would you be happy to be away from all of us? From Winterfell?"

"No," Arya's voice was low in comparison to her sister's, but she still had her back straight and face defiant. "But I would've been with Jon and Robb. They would have taken care of me."

"Arya, you are my little sister and I love you very much. But you are as hard-headed as Hodor used to be. Jon and Robb are not away on a journey of pleasure to only observe the wonders of the known world, they seek adventure. Cley speaks to me about their battles, do you know that? Because they told him about things they did when they spend the year at Bear Island. Things that they didn't think are suitable for us to hear. Cley doesn't speak clearly about those situations either, but from his expression, I can tell they are not appealing. They trained for this, both Robb and Jon did.

Cley had to fend off a few bandits when he was travelling back from Castle Cerwyn last month. You saw for yourself how different he was for those first few days because he had to kill. Do you think you can be yourself after taking a life? We train to become warrior women of the North, aye, but we do that under close observation. We mayhaps are better than Kurt in our skills, but Kurt has already been blooded according to Wade."

Sansa could see the stubbornness that remained in her sister's posture, her eyes were still set with determination, although dimmed. Sighing and cursing the wolfblood in their veins, Sansa enveloped the younger girl in her arms.

"Please, Arya, I beg of you. You know the plans Father had to make the North stronger. You know how Mother and I are trying to help him with them. Please, find it in your heart to not stress us further with your stubbornness, sweet sister. We don't enjoy seeing you unhappy. I promise you, we will go on our own travel once we are a few more years older. I will talk with Father. But I need your word now that you will drop whatever schemes you have running in that mulish head of yours about sneaking off and joining Jon and Robb." She pinned her with her gaze.

Arya squirmed for a little bit before nodding, "I give you my word."

Sansa smiled and kissed the brow of her sister. "Thank you, Arya."

Arya shoved her off of her in return while giggling. Their shoving and pushing came to an end by the shuffling noise from a nearby bush. Both sisters immediately went alert and had their hands on their weapons. They relaxed their posture when two huge direwolves came out of the bush and approached the girls. The she-wolf with reddish-brown fur went towards Sansa while the one with brown, almost black fur pounced on Arya, licking her face.

"Ugh, Nymeria, gerroff! Your mouth is dripping with blood!" Arya shrieked at her wolf.

Sansa's wolf Lady, on the other hand, sat on her haunches beside her mistress and was having her head and neck scratched by her.

"Hello, love. Did you have a good hunt?" Sansa asked her familiar. The way Lady moved her head, Sansa could swear that she was saying yes to her.

Arya was sitting on her knees with the arrowhead amulet clasped in her right hand. Her left hand was on Nymeria's back and her eyes were closed in concentration.

"They were searching for a stag or a boar. But all they could manage to hunt a few hares before they came back. They are not hungry, but they are not satisfied with the hunt." She opened her eyes and looked back at her sister. "Well, Nymeria isn't, at least. What does Lady say?"

Sansa plucked out her own amulet. Nan had crafted them lockets with help from Alastor, the jeweller. All of the Stark children who received the tokens from their friends, now wore them as lockets on fine chains. They could warg into their companions with the help of these lockets. Bran was the best among them by far and was teaching them about it. Both the sisters could now look through their companion's eyes when they concentrated hard with the tokens clasped in their hands. She delved into Lady's mind and the world around her exploded with previously unseen colours and unheard noises. Lady sent a sense of affection for her through their shared link as well as fleeting images. Sansa smiled unknowingly as her fingers sunk into the soft fur of her familiar.

"Lady is of the same mind," Sansa announced coming out of her trance.

The girls were busy spoiling the wolves with their pettings when the sound of hoofbeats alerted them of company. A short while later, Jory Cassel and two more castle guards came trotting into the clearing the Stark sisters were in.

"Miladies, you were supposed to stay with us. Lord Stark won't be pleased." Jory said with exasperation.

"He will be if you don't tell him anything." Arya helpfully provided his option with a cheeky smirk.

Jory looked down at her with a hint of frustration, "He always knows, Lady Arya."

"He is a lord, Jory, not one of the Old Gods. He won't know if you don't tell him." Sansa added her opinion.

"You know I can't do that, Milady Sansa."

"You are getting old, Jory. You used to be fun." Arya pouted.

One of the guards following the Guard Captain of Winterfell snickered hearing that. Jory turned his head towards the culprit with a raised eyebrow.

"What was that Milner, did you just volunteer for a week of night shift?"

"No, Cap'n, I ain't say anythin'." The guard hastily replied.

"Thought so." Jory turned his head towards the chuckling sisters, "Let us turn back, miladies. It has gotten quite late."

The small party, after the ladies from Winterfell, had gotten up on their horses, slowly started to make their way back towards the castle. They had just crossed the treeline when both the direwolves stopped with their hackles raised. The she-wolves were looking a short distance away from where the Winterfell party emerged from the woods, they had their fangs bared and growling low in a threatening manner.

"Lady! Nymeria! What has gotten into you two?" Sansa tried to call the wolves back, but they didn't move.

"Lads, prepare to ride hard and fast! Don't stop for anything or anyone till the ladies are within the castle walls!" Jory barked out his order to his underlings.

"Aye, Cap'n!" Both the guards had their spears ready in hand. Jory had his sword unsheathed.

"Jory, I -"

Sansa was cut off by a sudden commotion in the direction where the wolves were looking, the underbrush rustled and a young woman came tumbling out of them. The wolves took a few steps forward, their growling had increased in volume.

"Wait! Don' kill me! I ain't doin' nothin'! Don' let those beasts eat me!" The woman screamed.

"Who are you? What are you doing here?" Jory pushed his horse a little forward.

"I came from Sheepshead Hill, m'lord. I had a small field there. All of me crops died. So I came here to find works."

"You are a long way from your home, ain't you, lass? Why didn't you go to the Hornwoods?" Jory pressed on. The wolves helped him by raising their growling a notch.

The girl whimpered with her head covered by her hands, "I was, m'lord, I was goin' to the Hornwoods! But I got lost in the woods! I was walking fer days!"

Sansa frowned hearing her answer, "That is quite a tale. You got so lost that you didn't even look up to the sky? The sun would have been on your left if you were going to the Hornwoods."

"Aye, m'lady!" The woman nodded her head fervently.

"Well, what is it?"

"What, m'lady? I don' understand." She looked about confusedly.

Sansa sighed and turned to look at Jory. The Captain of Guards was looking down at the kneeling woman with a deep frown on his face.

"What do you think, Jory?"

"She's either lying or is so confused she doesn't know what she is talking about. I don't know what to do, milady."

If it was two years ago, Sansa Stark would have begged to take the woman with them, and then employed her to work at Winterfell castle. But now, she had lessons in the politics of the North and the Seven Kingdoms. She wasn't a naïve child with dreams of splendour. She was a proud daughter of House Stark.

"She doesn't look to be a wildling. But we cannot be sure of that. She could've stolen that dress. But, we can't just throw her in the gaol as well. This is indeed vexing, Jory."

"Aye, milady."

"What do you think we should do, Arya?" Sansa turned towards her sister, who had been looking intently at the woman with her hand clutching her amulet.

"She seems to be alone," she gave a pointed look to Sansa, making her understand the wolves were not picking up any scent of other humans near them. "I think we should take her back with us." She shook her head to stall the protests from her sister and Jory. "Not to the castle, no. The wolves won't like that. But to Winter Town. We should place her under the watch of the innkeeper there with a guard to help while we go back and alert Father."

Sansa gave her a proud smile, "That is a brilliant solution, sister. Jory, we should do as she suggested. A guard should remain with her at the inn. We will give him a few copper pennies for a drink or two. Not Milner, though, he needs to be with us, don't you think?" She gave a mischievous smile towards the said guard's crestfallen look.

Jory laughed a little, "Aye, milady, that is sound advice."

Sansa spurred her horse forward to a walk and came to stand beside the wolves. She looked down at the still kneeling and cowering woman.

"Get up, slowly. You will be coming with us. Don't try to escape or the wolves will hunt you down. We will place you at the Inn for the time being."

The woman peeked from under her arms, slowly she got up to her feet, not taking her eyes off of the snarling beasts in front of her.

"Thank ye, m'lady, ye saved me life."

"That remains to be seen." Sansa replied sternly, "What is your name, by the way?"

A very wide and disturbing smile blossomed on the woman's face, "Name's Myranda, m'lady."

*Line Break*

Old Town

Despite the guards in employ of House Hightower posted in and around the Citadel, the Maesters, or rather, the Archmaesters – wise old scholars who were in charge of organisational duties of the Citadel, had employed personnel of their own, armed them and had them roam the darkened corridors of the centuries-old keep and its immediate surrounding. The guards roamed about in intervals timed in minutes with each other. Significant places such as the library or the Maesters' living quarters were secured by doors with iron bars and humongous padlocks whose keys were entrusted to a different Maester each night after the business was done for the day. There was no discernible pattern of the person to be chosen as the keeper of the keys. The Archmaesters usually chose someone randomly from within their ranks. The keeper of keys then had the duties of roaming the locked down places with his group of guards throughout the night, in between indeterminate breaks. The security of the Citadel was rumoured to be almost as severe as that of the Iron Banks of Braavos. The reason for this was another rumour, however. It was said that the Citadel had been infiltrated by persons of unknown origins with intentions to rob the knowledge that countless Maesters had gathered over the ages, as well as causing irreparable damages to the keep itself. It was also said that thanks to some timely information and intervention of a then acolyte, who had managed to gain the trust of one of these individuals, the Citadel was saved that night.

Archmaester Theomalt was in charge of the keys for the night. The duties fell upon him about twice a month. He sighed as he rubbed his tired face and set down for a long night. Anticipating the sleepless night, he had taken out a few tomes of folklore and old maids' tales, along with a few of those romantic tales. He had kept this a secret from his brothers in the order. However, it was an open secret as almost each of the Archmaesters had known about Archmaester Theomalt's indulgence. They didn't mention anything to him seeing the old man diligently spent his otherwise every waking moment in his studies of numbers.

It was only for a short while the old Maester could lose himself in between the pages of a tome when a knock sounded at the doors of his solar.

"Enter," he sighed with a mild frustration in his voice.

"Apologies, Maester, but it is the time for our round of the library." Thornigold, the acolyte who was studying for his Iron Link and the man in charge of the guards of Citadel, stood at the doors.

"Is it time already?" Maester Theomalt asked as he closed the book he was reading.

"We try to give you as much time as we can, Archmaester, but we do need to keep our watch."

"Very well, acolyte, lead the way." Archmaester Theomalt walked behind the group of guards as they walked through the darkened corridors of the Citadel.

The contrast between the eerily silent corridors with the hustle and bustle of the daytime when they were filled with scholars of all ages making their ways in pursuit of knowledge was quite prominent. Archmaester Theomalt wrapped the thin cloak around his shoulders a little tighter. The night always brought a wind of chill from the seas, even on the warm summer nights, and Theomalt had bid farewell to the prime of his life a long time ago.

Quite soon, the group reached their destination and came to a stop before a set of thick wooden doors, locked down with a padlock as big as a human head. Archmaester Theomalt took out a ring of keys from within the folds of his robes and inserted a foot-long key into the keyhole. Two of the guards grabbed hold of the key and turned it around. With a muffled gonging sound, the padlock opened and the two guards heaved it down from the doors. The huge, almost floor-to-ceiling pair of doors opened without making any sound due to well-oiled hinges and all but two guards went inside of the library with the Archmaester at the head of the group. The two men outside of the library took their position on either side of the corridor and stood with their eyes peeled.

However, even as alert as the men were, they never noticed a shadow which was following them from a safe distance through the rafters. Once the doors to the library were opened and the pair of guards took their positions, the shadow seemed to melt out from the accumulated darkness near the top of the wall. As swiftly and easily as a lizard, the shadow seemed to find perches on the wall and came scaling down without making a noise. It reached the top portion of the doors and heaved itself over and through the open space to the inside of the room. Soft as a cat, it landed on the floor and scurried away from the approaching lights that emitted from the torches carried by the guards. None of the guards was aware that there was another soul beside themselves within the cavernous room of the library.

"Everything seems to be in order here, Thornigold." Came the voice of Archmaester Theomalt.

"Yes, Maester. We should proceed towards the kitchen from here and then the living quarters on our way to your solar." The captain of the acolyte guards replied.

"Very well. How many more times should we do this tonight, Thornigold?"

"I reckon once more should be sufficient for tonight, Maester."

Theomalt shook his head, he was getting too old for sleepless nights.

"We will come by your solar after about two hours, Maester. It would give you enough time to finish the chapter you were reading?" Thornigold offered.

Theomalt gave him a beatific smile, "I would very much appreciate that, acolyte Thornigold."

Thornigold returned a soft smile to the gentle, old man, "Would it be too much to hope that your appreciation would reflect on my coming lessons, Maester?" He whispered conspiratorially, to the snickering of his fellow acolyte guards.

Theomalt chuckled at the unabashed young man, "If your numbers reflect the diligence that you show in your duties, then you will receive no complaints from me, acolyte."

"It never hurts to have the blessing of one's favourite Maester."

"On with you, you reprobate." Theomalt led the group of young men out of the library amidst the sound of soft laughter.

[CotW]

Jon Snow was lying flat on the top of a bookshelf. He was in no way aware of the random patrols done by the Citadel guards. And to tell the truth, he didn't even have a plan to infiltrate the keep that night when he went out of the Hightower-provided Northern manse for his nightly venture through the darkened city.

That night, when Jon leapt out of the open window of his room, at first, he didn't recognize the faint white glow that seemed to surround everything in the vicinity. After a few tumbles, twists and leaps, Jon skidded to a halt when he realized that the night was not a full moon night. Hence, it was not possible for him to see the faint silvery light that he had overlooked thus far. Cautiously, he climbed up a nearby tree and secured himself in between branches. He had thought about returning to his room, but the strange phenomena had his sense of adventure tingling.

He almost called out to the hooded figure in front of him, thinking it was one of his brothers who had caught wind of Jon's nightly adventure and followed suit. But he stopped himself at the last possible moment when he took in the figure in their entirety. None of his three brothers was that short or skinny. Yet, the figure showed the very remarkable skills that the four of them had practised to the point that they could perform them with their eyes closed. Quietly, Jon prepared himself to follow the hooded person.

He almost lost his footing and was about to fall from a height when another realization hit him… hard. There was a reason why he thought that he knew the figure that had been showing daring skills only known to Jon and his brothers, and possibly, to Wade. The hooded figure was none other than the previously thought lost Lady Mary Reed. Since he had the dreams about her, Jon was very intimately aware of Lady Reed's behaviours, her tweaks and tricks – every nuance of her personality. The memories were still afresh with Jon. If she died, how is it that she is here? And shouldn't she be older than she appears? – thought Jon.

The figure of apparent Lady Reed had gone even further away for the time it took to Jon's musing. Shaking off his stupor the situation thrusted upon him, Jon too started to move – stealthily, with assured footing.

He was almost caught by the Hightower guards patrolling the roads and the surrounding areas of the Citadel. He was following Lady Reed taking the exact steps she had taken, but he stumbled off and almost fell from his perch on the rooftop he found himself to be sitting on when the running figure he was following ran straight to a group of patrolling guards and without stopping ran through them. The guards didn't even show any outward expression that they had seen a masked individual running up to them, and going through their very bodies. Jon shifted back to immerse within the shadow and picked up a loosened bit of masonry, he dropped the rubble on top of one of the men when they crossed his position.

"Wha' the fuck is that?"

"Wha' are ya talkin' 'bout, Jer?"

"Tha' bit o' stone fell on me head."

"Fuckin' manse is crumblin' down. We better tell tha' to Ser Gunthor."

"We gotta see if there's sumfink up there, innit?"

"Wha' for? Maesters are scared 'cause some cunt stole inside some years ago. Wha' do they have in there worth stealin' save fer some books?"

"Tell that ta Lord Hightower then?"

"I like me bronze stars at the end o' the week."

Jon was leaning against the wall as the group of guards bantered their way. His eyes trekked on in search of the figure he was following. Was it an apparition? – he thought. He was raised with stories – stories of snarks and grumpkins; stories about the Others; stories about the Children of Forest and the Old Gods. Three out of those were proven to be true. Also, there were legends about apparitions – Ghost of High Heart; Lady Reed had a meeting with the witch by that name, was she an apparition too? His father's birthplace – Summerhall, was said to be a haunted castle. Haunted by the souls who were burned alive. And didn't the song 'Jenny of Oldstone' tell about ghosts?

Once more Jon forced himself out of his thoughts. He crawled to the edge of the roof and looked up at the wall of the Citadel. His eyes found the spectral figure once again, scaling the wall with ease. Suddenly, he felt a tingle in his wrists. There was a quiet humming noise coming out of his bracers – almost like they wanted him to follow the figure.

Ghost? Or Magic? Was there a difference?

His leg muscles became taught, he got up and pushed against the edge to throw himself into the air, like a bird of prey he soared towards the next rooftop. Strong, sinuous legs bore the weight of the body as the man dove in a forward roll, only to jump back up on his feet and continue running forward. Another jump later, vice-like grips found recess within the stonework, strong arms pulled the body up and on he went, with the apparent ease of a lizard, a black shadow scaled the wall following an apparition with a silvery glow.

Jon once again ascertained the figure's status by her movements. She hid in spaces where there was no cover. It had been over five decades since Lady Reed was here, a lot could have changed in that time, a lot did change in that time. Places where she once sought cover were now open; things she vaulted over were non-existent. But her shadow, the man of the present, did have to mind his surrounding, he needed to remain in shadows whereas the spectre ran through patrolling acolytes. He needed to search for cover when the Lady remained crouched in an open corridor. The chase reminded him of his time at Winterfell. How he and Arya chased the cat. Only the place was a long way from home, and the adventure a lot more dangerous than a child's mischief.

His run carried him towards the famed library of the Citadel. The Lady's shadow didn't have a problem as she strode right in. Jon heaved himself up on the rafters and hid in the shadows, thinking about his next step. He was quite certain that his hidden blades could cut through the wood around the padlock, if not the lock itself. But it would alert the Citadel of intruders, Jon didn't want that to happen.

Fortunately, he didn't have to search for an alternate way to break into the library, for the patrol of acolytes was back, with an Archmaester accompanying them. The old man unlocked the door and all save two men went inside, while the remaining men stood guard on each side of the door, their eyes trained on the empty corridor. Jon silently jumped from rafters to rafters and scaled down the wall, his fingers and booted toes finding perches for him to cling. A silent manoeuvre later, he too was inside of the library as the acolyte patrolling party looked around the darkened tomb of knowledge along with the Archmaester. He climbed atop a bookcase nearby the door and lay in wait.

When he was alone in the pitch-black library, Jon brought out a short stick not longer than his forearm and had one of its ends wrapped in oil-dipped cloth. A few shuffling with a pair of flints, he held a small torch in his hand. Carefully, he climbed down from his perch, which was now even more difficult to do since he had an open flame in his hand with flammable parchments all around him.

Hundreds and hundreds of years' worth of knowledge was surrounding Jon. He felt himself to be quite an insignificant being standing amid the treasure trove of knowledge and wisdom. With a rueful smile on his face, he thought about what the Maesters could achieve if they were not so conservative in their preference of to whom to grant permission to all this knowledge. On one hand, they were to be commended for their diligent scholarly pursuance, but on the other hand, they were to be vilified for their practice of hoarding the said knowledge without using it for the betterment of their lands and its people.

Coming back to the present, Jon looked around for an alternative way to get out of the library. The little he had experienced the spectre that night, it was evident that the spirit of Lady Reed won't wait for Jon to continue his chase. Quite a while had already been passed since the spectre had entered the library, Jon had no idea whatsoever about where she could be by then. He needed to find a way out of the darkened tomb of knowledge.

It appeared that Jon didn't need to worry so, for small, circular windows, wide enough for a slender person to crawl through could be found near the roof. Using the bookcases and the rafters, a skilful man such as Jon could quite easily reach the windows. Jon decided to make a hasty exit, he would come back sometime later if he could mark the windows from the outside.

[CotW]

Dawn was an hour or two away. It had taken Jon a long, long time after he exited the library. He didn't know for how long he just ran around aimlessly while evading the guard patrols before he caught a glimpse of the silvery glow at a far corner. Now, he was scaling the black behemoth that was the Castle Hightower. He was suddenly out of the Citadel and near the castle after he took one of his running jumps. He would need to sit down and meditate quietly before he could form a mental map of the twists and turns that he took inside of the Citadel. He was quite certain that he would need that map in future.

Crawling through a gap on the wall, through which the spectre had vanished a little ago, Jon found himself to be what appeared to him as an abandoned part of the Hightower family residence. The thick layer of dust and the floor-to-roof curtain of cobwebs indicated that he was the first to step on these floors in over a decade or more. He didn't want to leave behind any sign of intrusion, but he didn't trust the rotting woods of the rafters above. Exhaling a sigh of helplessness, Jon trudged forward with featherlight footsteps. A door bent with the weight of its metalwork was half hanging off of its hinges, a slight touch could bring the whole damn thing down and wake the castle. Jon took a running leap and aimed his body through the narrow gap to land on the other side. Once more, the spectre was gone.

He pressed himself flat against the wall when suddenly a faint voice drifted from a little further away. Jon waited a short time thinking that whoever the voice belonged to, would move away. But it stayed where it was coming from. Listening carefully, although he couldn't discern the words, it sounded to him like a song. A strange, haunting melody that seemed very familiar to him. Curious, despite knowing of the danger he would be putting himself in, Jon carefully approached the voice.

Let oss start yfir again

hví megeigir vér live okkarr lives again

please let oss live einn sinni again

vér hafmeirir joys til share

meiri tears til sheð

ef vér erum given khanceinn

vér munu live okkarr lives again

(Let us start over again

Why can not we live our lives again

Please let us live once again

We have more joys to share

More tears to shed

If we are given the chance

We will live our lives again)

Slowly, careful to not make any noise, Jon pushed the doors open. The mourning song of the North, sung only while performing the last rites of one's close family, was drifting out of the room in front of him, sung in the original words of the Old Tongue, not the one that had been translated into the Common Tongue. Throwing caution to the winds, for this was too fantastic for him to even comprehend, Jon rushed inside of the room.

Even in its bareness, the room boasted of its inhabitant. The black stone walls were adorned with brightly coloured tapestries, depicting painted images of Hightower lords of age-old. Events came alive within the images at some of those wall decorations, but surprisingly enough, the events were not of the Hightowers, or of the South; but those of the North. Bael the Bard absconding with Lord Stark's daughter. The Hungry Wolf with his sword raised and ready to disembark his ship and attack the Andals. Andal forces getting lost in the marshlands of the Neck. Lord Cregane Stark kneeling in front of the Dragons. And finally, a young woman's image, half-obscured by another image of a man of the same height and features, again half obscured by the same woman but with different hair colour. It was quite a vivid imagery of Lady Mary Reed and her adopted identities – John Rackham and Anne displayed proudly and openly inside of the room.

The occupant of the room was sitting crosslegged on the floor. One half-finished drapery, which was showing the image of a young man with black hair and purple eyes, and a white wolf sitting at his feet. Its creator was a woman, a highborn woman. If he were to speculate, Jon would say she was near the age of Lady Jonelle Cerwyn. She didn't appear to be sickly, yet her eyes were the sunken pools of dark blue, cheekbones protruding out and her skin was as pale as any who hadn't ventured into the sun in a long time. Jon fingered a dart dipped in the sleeping concoction to render her unconscious if she started to yell because of his sudden appearance, but the woman, who would have been a beautiful lady if not for her unkempt appearance, gave him a bright smile.

"Ljós leggja!" (Light Bringer!)

Startled, Jon took a step back, his left hand searched for the door while his right brought out the dart.

"Please, gereigir líða, ljós leggja. Ek hafmuniðr waiting fyrir þinn arrival." (Please, do not go, Light Bringer. I have been waiting for your arrival.)

Lowering his hand which was about to throw the potioned dart, Jon couldn't help but frown at the plea in her voice.

"Hvernig gerþúr veit ór mik, minn lady?" (How do you know of me, My Lady?)

The lady had gotten up to her feet, but she was swaying dangerously. Jon would think of her as a drunk but her words were free of drunken slurs. Slowly pulling the bolts and locking the doors from the inside, Jon stepped away from the doors. He kept a distance between the two of them. The woman was looking up at him with half-lidded eyes, her wide smile was becoming a bit disconcerting.

"Ek hafdreamsr ór þú. Ek sá þú, á burningr skip. Ek sá þú, koming út ór grrinnœnn fire. Ek sá þú, drinking blooðinn ór slainr beast. Hvile hvítrr vargr howling ok prowling, protecting þú. Birðr ór prey flying hár, watching yfir þú. Ok rikkir fire seeking þú, til bond, til grow, til fjúka." (I have dreams of you. I saw you, on a burning ship. I saw you, coming out of the green fire. I saw you, drinking the blood of a slain beast. While a white wolf howling and prowling, protecting you. A bird of prey flying high, watching over you. And a great fire seeking you, to bond, to grow, to fly.)

Shaking, weak hands grabbed hold of Jon's stronger ones. He could see splattered colours all over those bony hands from the unfinished artwork. But it was not his hands that the lady wanted, but his wrists. She brought the wrists clad in the magical bracers near her eyes and observed them closely. Jon was shocked. She was the first to see his bracers. Not even Lord Bloodraven mentioned them.

"Ek vitumk einn, þat gefumk mik dreams. ok bókr. Bókr ór secrets." (I found one, it gave me dreams... and a book. A book of secrets.)

Jon gently freed his hands from hers. "Sem bók eru þú talking um, minn lady? ok hvat gerði þú vita? Ok hvere gerði þú learn talainn ór gamall?" (Which book are you talking about, My Lady? And what did you find? And where did you learn the speech of old?)

"Koma, koma, ek munu visþúr." (Come, come, I will show you.)

Once again grabbing his hand, the lady led Jon towards the lone dresser in a corner of the room. Apart from a few ladies' garments, the dresser was full to the brim with old drawings, colours and what appeared to his eyes, laces of different colours. The lady rummaged around in that mess for a while before turning back to him with her still bright smile. Jon's eyes almost escaped their sockets when they fell upon one of the objects in her hands.

It was a bracer just as his own. The difference between them was Jon's bracers still retained their suppleness, whereas the old bracer in the lady's hands appeared brittle, with chunks missing from places and the surface flaking off. Jon plucked it out of her hands with trembling but careful fingers. The bracer was indeed the same as his, albeit worn and weathered. Deft fingers found the sheath underneath and a few forceful applications later, a bent and semi-rusted blade came out of its resting place. It was indeed made of Valyrian Steel, but he had no idea that the steel could be bent like tin, or become rusted. Even Lamentation, the ancestral sword of House Royce, after its recovery of over a century, still retained its edge. But this hidden blade, the same as Jon's, was about to break apart. A touch of a naked finger made Jon aware of the faint thrum, something that he was intimately familiar with, something that he felt when he found his own bracers, the same thing he felt when he neared the Wall.

Magic!

But the magic was faint… as if it only remained as an afterthought. Could it be the reason for the blade's broken state? Is Valyrian Steel magical? – Jon wondered.

"Hvere gerði þú vitþatr?" (Where did you find it?)

"Ek gerði eigi. Þat vitumk mik." (I didn't. It found me.) The lady cackled like a mad woman. "Þú eighafar þessi. Þú eigprotectr þessi." (You must have this. You must protect this.) She thrusted the other object in her hands to Jon's chest with such a force that he almost stumbled a step back. Looking down, he found it to be a small rectangular object, tightly and carefully wrapped within a piece of silk.

"Hverr eru þú?" (Who are you?)

The woman threw her head back and started to cackle loudly, "Ek em látumkr birð eigi far fran hannestr. Ek hafmuniðr waiting fyrir ljóanleggjar til komokr leggjmikr peace." (I am a lost bird not far from her nest. I have been waiting for the Light Bringer to come and bring me peace.)

Jon was about to speak when the apparition of Lady Reed came through the locked doors. She stood in the middle of the room and took in her surroundings. Jon could have sworn that he heard her sigh before she lowered her hood. A young woman, with wavy, long brown hair, whose features were not unlike those of Meera Reed, and certainly not older than Jon, looked out of the opened window. Outside, the sun had just started to rise at the horizon. Its soft red light was reflecting on the surface of the sea.

Jon swallowed the lump that formed in his throat. Since he had the dream of her, he felt somewhat responsible for her. A young girl much like Arya, who left her home and family behind, to fight alone against the whole world, only to lose her life because of treacherous men and their betrayals.

"Annarr látumk bird, ljós leggja, hon er ok waiting fyrir þú til leggjhanar aptr til hannestr." (Another lost bird, Light Bringer, she is also waiting for you to bring her back to her nest.)

Jon's reply was once more disrupted, this time, by another voice that came from outside of the doors.

"Malora, sweetling, are you awake? Who are you talking to?"

"Ek em talking með látumkrinn birð ok ljóanleggjar, faðir. Ek em talking með minn konungr, okkarr saviour." (I am talking with the lost bird and the Light Bringer, Father. I am talking with My King, our saviour.)

Jon's pulse quickened, not only there was someone at the doors, who, by his voice, Jon thought to be the lord of the house, Lord Leyton Hightower, but the lady, whom he now knew to be Lady Malora Hightower, Lord Leyton's daughter, had just referred to him as 'My King'. He needed to get out of there… quickly.

Even though Lady Reed's apparition was an imprint of a time long past, her reaction seemed to be of one's who also heard Lord Leyton's voice. Her calm posture changed within a blink as she brought her hood back up. Jon mirrored her actions only a few steps away.

"You know I don't understand a thing when you speak in that language, dear, please open these doors."

In tandem, both the spectre and the human rushed towards the open window and dove through it. The shimmering black water with a reddish glow below was rapidly approaching the falling figure, for the apparition had vanished once again. Even though the whistling sound of the wind, Jon could hear the cackle of Lady Malora as she opened the doors to her room with a bang.

"Fjúka, smár birds, fjúka. Fjúkár windsrinn til leggjar nýr ok betri dagr. með fire ok blooð. með íss ok steel." (Fly, little birds, fly. Fly on the winds to bring a new and better day... with fire and blood... with ice and steel...)

Jon hoped the splash he made when he hit the water couldn't be heard from Lady Malora's room.

[Line Break]

Old Town

The foursome was surprised to find a rather bustling crowd thronging the docks and the pathway to Castle Hightower. A few whispered conversations and close observation let them know that it was due to the arrival of Queen Cersei, along with Princess Myrcella and Prince Tommen. The Pack stayed at a far side and behind some partial covers, neither fully obstructed from view to garner doubt nor were they exposed to the individuals who could spot them from the royal procession.

A wheelhouse soon came into view, flanked by soldiers in Baratheon and Lannister livery. Two white-clad knights could also be seen on horses – one at the front of the party, the other acting as a vanguard.

"Hvítrrinn lion hafráðumkr til komþár." (The white lion has decided to come then.) Torrhen observed. It was indeed quite easy to spot the Kingsguard at the front, what with his hair like spun gold as same as the Queen, and the rampant white lion etched on his breastplates.

"Aye, en hverr er fleiriinn einn?" (Aye, but who is the other one?)

"Ek kouldn't sjá hann quite klearly. En hvat ek villjumk til veit er hví smárrinn fawns einga? hvere er eldestinn false fawn? ek gerði eigi hugslionesanar munu hafleftr hann aptr." (I couldn't see him quite clearly. But what I wanted to know is why the little fawns only? Where is the eldest false fawn? I didn't think the lioness would have left him behind.)

Jon spurred Midnight on, the crowd had followed the royal procession towards the Hightower keep, leaving the path somewhat cleared.

"Ek em munu at vér munu fá til veit at quite brátt œrinn. Hvat gerþúr viljtilr wager at fatinn flower munu announce welcomingr feast fyrir boasting hans wealth fyrir krownrinn?" (I am sure that we would get to know that quite soon enough. What do you want to wager that the fat flower will announce a welcoming feast for boasting his wealth for the crown?)

[CotW]

They had gone for a meal at the local inn rather than returning to their manse. Mainly, they wanted to get a feel about the way the air blew. Information wrapped within rumours was bountiful in the present state of the regular patrons of the tavern. The people of Old Town were excited for the upcoming tourney of Lord Tyrell. The presence of the Queen and her children only added to that fervour.

The serving maid had just brought their ordered food to the table, taking her sweet time when bending over to place the platters and displaying her ample teats for the White Wolf's benefit, much to his chagrin.

"While the precious flower remained cold and distant, even she couldn't take her eyes off of you, Jon. Can you blame this one for her hope of a tumble in the hay with the White Wolf?" Asher's crudeness led to a howling bout of laughter.

"I do hope, for your sake, that you are not taking lessons from Wade, Asher?" Jon smirked at him.

Asher shivered at the implication, "I admit to being a bit reckless, but even I am not insane enough to tangle with Wade. Why did you let him take Kurt, I will never know?"

"I wanted to give the lad a choice - A normal and safe life at Winterfell as opposed to travelling with us for an unknown amount of time. And Wade loves the wee thing. He won't let anything happen to him, train him up to be as irritating as him, mayhaps, but no danger will befall him."

"Pardon me, My Lords," a voice from a few tables away stopped their conversation, "if I am not mistaken, you are Lord Robb Stark, of Winterfell?" The speaker was a man of thin stature. His dark hair and sharp features made him a handsome man. It was also evident that the man was no stranger to hard work in the yard, as the rippling cords of muscles could be seen from under his well-worn tunic.

A gentle tap at his feet under the table from the opposite side where Jon was seated made Robb answer the question, "Aye, I am Robb Stark of Winterfell. But who might you be, My Lord."

The man gave a satisfied smile, he ran a hand through his hair to make himself presentable as he stood up from his table. He came near the Northern table and gave a courteous bow directly to Robb.

"Ser Lyn Corbray, My Lord, heir to Lord Lyonel Corbrey of Heart's Home."

"Well met, Ser Lyn. Please, pull up a seat and join us, won't you?"

Ser Lyn did just that. "Thank you, My Lord. We have just arrived this morning and the commotion due to the Queen's arrival has thrown us a bit off-road, I am afraid." He gave respectful nods to the other three at the table.

"Kindly allow me to introduce my companions, Ser. On your left is Lord Torrhen Karstark, son and heir of Lord Ricard Karstark of Karhold; beside him is Lord Asher Forrester, son and heir of Lord Gregor Forrester of Ironwrath. And on your right is my brother, Ser Jon, the White Wolf."

"It is a pleasure, My Lords," he peered at Jon with a smirk, "and of course you, Ser Jon. Quite a legend you have created for yourself if you allow me to say so."

Jon returned the smirk, "As did you, Ser. Your Lady and yourself do come up in quite a few songs even back North."

"Ah, yes, my precious Lady." Ser Lyn sat back with a pleased smile on his face, "She loves to dance and has a thirst for a few drops of red."

"I take it that you have come to Old Town for the tourney, Ser?" Robb prodded on.

"You can say that I am here because of lamentation, My Lord." Ser Lyn gave a pointed look to the Northern lord. Robb's eyes widened briefly before he exchanged glances with his friends.

"I reckon you have finished your meal, Ser? Would you, mayhaps, like to join us for a mug of ale back at our manse? We would love to hear your tales of battle from the Rebellion."

"You honour me, My Lord. Please, lead the way."

They untethered the horses from the posts outside of the inn when Jon asked, "You mentioned 'us', Ser Lyn, won't your companion be worried about your whereabouts?"

Ser Lyn shook his head, "Young Harry knows where we are staying. The lad will be back once he finishes taking a gander of the Citadel."

[CotW]

They sat comfortably inside of the lord's solar at the manse granted to the Northern party. Each leaning back in their seats with a mug of Northern ale in hand. Ser Lyn took a sip from his mug and nodded his head appreciatively.

"It does one's tongue good to taste something other than Arbor Gold or Dornish Red. And pardon me for saying so, My Lord, but Northern ale is the same as its people, strong and bitter enough to kick your guts in but always makes you come back for some more."

Robb didn't know if he was to be pleased or offended, he confusedly raised his own mug in reply. Jon, who had set his mug down after the first sip, didn't take his eyes off of the Vale knight. He gave his brother a subtle nod to start the conversation.

"Ser Lyn? Could you elaborate on your comment back at the inn?"

The older man nodded and set his mug aside.

"What do you know of me, My Lord Stark?"

Robb shuffled in his seat, "Ser Lyn Corbray, second son of the late Lord Leland Corbray of Heart's Home. The House Corbray was a staunch supporter of the Dragons and fought for them in the battle of Gulltown against the armies of Lord Jon Arryn. Admitting defeat and renewing the vow to the liege lord's house, Arryn of Vale, they joined forces with those of Arryn, Stark and Baratheon. In the Battle of Trident, after Lord Leland fell, you, Ser, had taken up the Lady from his hands and charged. You fought bravely and very skillfully to break the Dornish front and slew a Kingsguard, Prince Lewyn Martell.

Your father, Lord Leland, gave you the ancestral sword of House Corbray – the Lady Forlorn, upon his death. You are the heir to your elder brother and current lord of Heart's Home, Lord Lyonel Corbray alongside your younger brother, Ser Lucas Corbray."

Ser Lyn smirked, "An apt and concise description of my life so far, My Lord. But there are quite a few gaps in your knowledge, I am afraid. Kindly allow me to explain –

I am, as you said, the spare of my father, Lord Leland. When my father granted me the right to wield the Lady on his deathbed, my brother, Lyonel took offence at that. He felt that he was cheated out of his birthright despite him inheriting the title and the lands. I am the heir for now, but Lyonel's wife, the Lady Cama is currently with child.

I am rude, crude and never afraid to speak my mind. I won't ever praise you if there is no full coinpurse for me to do that or if I am not actively pursuing you to get you into my bed. I am like the Dornish that way. I am a gambler and what little monies find their way into my purse, are soon spent in either whorehouses or some gambling dens. I am not your advisor, but if you can satiate my appetite, I am your blunt weapon."

"That is well and good, Ser," Robb spoke with impatience, "but it doesn't say why you are here."

"I am getting there." Lyn took another sip from his mug and smirked at Robb's impatience. He didn't fail to see that the White Wolf was looking at him unblinkingly. Those purple eyes seemed to bore through his skull. He shivered and averted his gaze.

"As I am without my lord brother's favour, I am always in need of coins to lead my life. I was under heavy debts and was only days away from taking up Lord Baelish on his offer to help me out of my debts, when suddenly one day, I was summoned by Lord Royce. I appeared at his court to find that I was selected to carry out a secret task by Lord Arryn. I am to escort young Harry Hardyng to Old Town and establish contact with the Northern party under Lord Robb Stark and Ser Jon, the White Wolf. In exchange, Lord Royce was authorised to clear my debts as well as offer me quite a fat coinpurse. After I carry out my duties, my next set of instructions is to come from Lord Stark at his discretion." He nodded at Robb.

Robb leaned back in his seat, his eyes never left the visage of the older man sitting before him. Robb knew he was expected to answer the man's unasked question. But he couldn't think of a thing that he should say. He was broken out of his rumination by the sudden movements beside him. Jon noisily stood up from his seat.

"A word, brother?"

Robb nodded and followed him out of the room.

They stopped before a window looking over the yard. Below them, they could see the men gathered around watching a bout. Ser Hugh Pryor was fighting one of the Northerners with a stick. Lady Madelyne Pryor was also present, she was shouting encouragement to her brother.

"Your thoughts, Jon?"

Jon put his elbows on the windowsill and leaned down. His brows furrowed in thought.

"That man is either one of the most cunning, or the most idiotic man I have ever met."

Robb snorted, "I don't think he would have been alive this long if he was an idiot, Jon."

"My thoughts precisely." He turned his head to look at Robb, "Which is why we need time to think about what should we say to him."

Robb nodded his head in assent, "I will go back and ask for a little time before I make my decision."

Jon straightened up, "Also, give him about ten dragons as a reward for his completion of duties. Meanwhile, I will go down and get the Pryor siblings away from the front yard. We didn't meet them on our way in, but I would prefer if they do not come across Ser Lyn anytime soon."

"Very well."

"Oh, and Robb?"

"Aye?"

"Ask him about his opinion on Hardyng, will you brother?"

[CotW]

"So what did you do?"

"Followed him from a distance, kept my face obscured so he didn't recognize me."

"Where did he go?"

"Where else? Straight to a whorehouse."

"Aye, I thought he would, just to celebrate his recently received reward."

"He spoke freely. He told us that if we are to avail of his services, we need to keep him well fed. Still, it doesn't help one's mind when you know that he will sell himself to the next man with a better offer."

"It was a veiled threat if you failed to notice that."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that Lord Royce didn't choose the right man. He said that he was about to go to the Mockingbird for help, but from his words, it seemed that he has already done the deed. Those words may come from his mouth, but they were written by someone else, his benevolent benefactor, mayhaps?"

"Fucking hells!"

"Aye, it seemed to me that the person behind the veil was trying to say that they were aware of our scheming with a clear understanding of our motive."

"What about the heir?"

"Also watched him for a bit today. What I saw after what I heard about him, fits him perfectly."

"You mean…"

"Aye, boastful, proud and with a lust for flesh…. Had a whore in each arm and was describing how he alone valiantly slew a clan of Mountain Tribes to earn his spurs."

"No hope then?"

"I am afraid so. Still, we need to keep our oath to the old man."

"How do you propose we do that?"

"Somehow separate the true heir from his mother. I mean no offence, brother. But for that lad to become worthy of his family name, his mother has to go."

"It won't be easy…"

"…won't be ethical either."

"If you will listen to me…"

"Of course, brother."

"Let things lie as they are for a couple of years more. The child is still but a babe on the teat. We will decide what to do about them once we are truly prepared. At the moment, I don't think we can afford to do what you are proposing."

"Aye, that is for the better, in my opinion."

"What to do about the heir in the meantime? Should we drag him with us?"

"No. From the state of things, it seems that the Mockingbird has his fingers almost in every pie. We bring him with us and information about our movements would become common knowledge. I don't trust any one of them."

"Then…"

"Well, I do have an idea…"

"Miracles do happen…"

"Kindly keep your fucking mouth shut!"

"Easy lads! Let's hear this idea then …"

"The Flowers tried to play their games with the Septa. Why don't we return the favour?"

"What do you mean?"

"Think about it. The heir has a lust for pretty things. The Golden Flower is quite soothing to the eyes. If we somehow manage to leave him here, who's to say that eyes won't meet at some corner. Additionally, the heir is a decent swordsman, at least. A few boastful shows in the yard and mayhaps a silken favour changes hands in one of their numerous tourneys."

"Er…"

"I know that the Flowers are quite ambitious. It was said that the Old Thorn refused a betrothal with Daeron Targaryen because he preferred his friend Ser Jeremy Norridge. But rumour has it that it was the Thorn herself who nudged those two together by quite cunningly arranging a few drunken nights and the favourable situation just so she could ensnare the late Fat Flower instead of having him marrying Shaera Targaryen."

"Where did you hear that?"

"The Royal Library has quite a few interesting tomes to read."

"We are drifting…"

"Aye, so as I was saying, the Old Thorne always tries to do the best for herself and her family. The current Fat Flower is but a puppet whose strings are in the hands of the Old Thorn. He dances to her tunes. Think about it. During the rebellion, only Lord Tarly was fighting against the Rebel forces. The rest of the mighty Reach army was busy in the siege of Storms' End? Did it truly take huge manpower to lay siege on a keep that was already depleted of fighting men and under the rules of a lad who was injured and couldn't provide proper resistance? Then, after a year, the siege was suddenly lifted because Lord Stark asked them nicely? I don't think so.

Lord Tarly is the most vocal of the lords who speak against the Flowers. With him fighting the war, anything could have happened on the battlefield. It was his good fortune that Lord Tarly survived, but his army was depleted. Whereas the main army sat pretty for a year, well away from any conflicts. And when the dust settled, they couldn't move fast enough to declare their obedience. Truly? Marrying Selys Florent to Stannis Baratheon after starving him for over a year?

In my opinion, it was all concocted by the Old Thorne. She gambles small with every opportune moment and when it is favourable to her, she aims to kill. Sending the Septa to Winterfell was one of her follow-up gambits in my mind. She wanted the North's position weakened only to make themselves appear a strong contender for the Iron Throne through heirs. I say we strike at the root. We use the heir to root out the Golden Flower. If he is unable, then there is no loss for us as we will be a long way apart. But there will be whispers of likely and unlikely stories about a handsome heir and a beautiful maiden. Meanwhile, while we are here, we will spread rumours about the False Fawn. Not the crucial one of course, but a few general ones and a few embellished ones. We will require our own insane story peddler to return for that, which I hope to happen within the next two days."

"Quite a convoluted plan…"

"Aye, I am not sure I followed it in its entirety."

"We will talk and clear whatever wrinkles we find. But it will have the added benefit of throwing off the hidden benefactor of our trails. They will be quite confused that we schemed to secret the heir away from his home only to leave him behind. If we manage to relieve his minder early, then it will muddy the water even more."

"I am still not quite sure about it, but I move it to further planning. What say you?

"Aye…"

"Aye…"

There was a knock on the door.

[CotW]

(***)

To

Lord Robb Stark,

Heir to Lord Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Lord Paramount and Warden of the North

Dear Lord Stark,

With the arrival of Her Grace, Queen Cersei and the Royal Children - Prince Tommen and Princess Myrcella for the upcoming tourney of Old Town to celebrate the nameday of Lady Allerie Tyrell, Lord Mace Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden, Lord Paramount and Warden of the Mander, would like to invite you and your party to a feast in honour of the Queen of Seven Kingdoms.

Your esteemed presence was requested by Lord Tyrell tomorrow evening at Castle Hightower.

I sincerely hope you will grace us with your presence.

Yours truly,

Lord Baelor Hightower

Heir to Lord Leyton Hightower, Lord of Old Town.

(***)

"What is in the second scroll?"

(***)

Dear Ser Jon,

Pardon me for this short message, but do you know the meaning of the phrase 'Ljós leggja'? If you do, I will be awaiting you for a quiet discussion.

Once again, do forgive an old man for his lapse in cordiality.

Yours truly,

Lord Leyton Hightower

(***)

The three looked at Jon with wide eyes while the man himself had a deep frown on his face.