Chapter Text
From the Account of Maester Vaegon
84AC, 4th day 5th moon
Left Gulltown with the morning tide on the fourth day of the moon, all aboard the Ice Wolf being ‘ship-shape’ as our captain Ser Corlys would say. The impression I held was the rocky Fingers stretching out towards us as though to pull us back, but then Ser Corlys had my attention.
Having had some time at my disposal afore the trip, I had by reason of family connexion contrived an excerpt of the White Book. Here Ser Corlys showed his own results, having made search amongst the books and maps in Castle Driftmark on the Winterlands, where it did strike him that a smidgeon of knowledge of the Winterlands would help. I found my smattering of Old Tongue very useful here.
“We will have to treat directly with Winterfell,” Ser Corlys made the conclusion. “Neither His Draconic Grace nor Grandsire would have a Velaryon ship above the Neck, not with Morion’s Madness… but no matter.”
“There is a matter,” I pointed out. “Because in Morion’s Madness there was Samson Wihtburg. Of the Hardhome Wihtburgs. Who are kin to the Starks. You may have read of them, ser. They are listed in the Doombooks of Winter.”
“… ah,” came the sigh from Ser Corlys. “The mad one who put a blade at your brother’s throat astride Meraxes.”
…I suppose that was an appropriate descriptor for Samson Wihtburg.
“But Samson Wihtburg lived,” Ser Corlys continued, possibly by sheer determination ignoring when a passing sailor hauling line made the seven-pointed star upon mention of the Wihtburg. “And he got what he wanted – his son to establish a brilliant new line of marcher lords, his daughter to marry the Bloodroyal. Both were natural children by our means – you couldn’t get any higher if the bastard did not inherit the blood of Hagun. And once he was done watching Morion’s ships burn did he promptly get lost on a ship back to Essos. Where they assuredly do not call him a dragon-fucker.”
I suppose my expression must have said it all, for Ser Corlys stifled the chuckle.
“Mark my words, I was there to see the Cannibal slain,” Ser Corlys had a strange expression cross his face. “A fair dozen years back, I daresay.”
“I know,” I said. “I was there. I ate the dragon meat they roasted.”
Ser Corlys gave me a look and harrumphed. “Lad, you speak of experiences men across the Narrow Sea would have killed for. As now – we are headed into the unknown!”
“The Winterlands proper is quite part of the known world, ser,” I pointed out, to which I was ignored.
“It’s the thing they don’t speak of in the south,” Ser Corlys spoke with relish, patting the gunwales of his ship where the vessel slowly rocked beneath us and the misty blanket of fog lingered over the Fingers and into the waters. “Or Essos. The Northmen pop up in the strangest places. In Braavos I wished a ship made to my fittings, and the builders quoted me a Ned Stark – not for sale. How in the seven hells Ned Stark’s name means pricelessness is beyond me.”
–, 11th day 5th moon
It was the dark sort of twilight when the ship pulled into the Bite, and we anchored under the unsettling glare of the Big Ned in the distance. We had been directed to go to Bitebay, where we were expected, for once the harbourmaster had cleared the business there a cheery-looking woman in the chemise, kirtle and long double apron had come. “The Velaryons, aye? I am Pansy, of the One Night Inn, your orderly for your stay. Come, come, the ser has given word to host you all at the Paramount Manse, there is food, and then there will be bread and salt. The mercats are all a-coming for Litha, and there is quite the selection.”
Bread and salt came with a man dressed in the direwolf with the grey eyes of the Starks, and I did stand to bow as did Ser Corlys most eagerly.
“Welcome, guests one and all,” said the Prince of the Moat. “Ser, maester, pray be seated and sup as you would. You will, I trust, excuse me that I do not join, but I had mine own food with the children afore this.”
Pansy then came to serve, and we fell to the food at once, light but hearty as suited for sailors just off the ship – a stew of oatmeal and cockles, wedges of cheese, half-moons of biscuit with a small pot of the potted meat which did give flavour when chewed, and then to be washed down with the nutty dark ale served above the Neck, and thus was our supper this night.
During the time I was eating, the Prince asked many questions as to the journey, to which Ser Corlys spoke by degrees what he had experienced. Only when I had finished the sup did I find the chance to observe Ned Stark.
I cannot deny the thrill in my hand as I scratch the letters. Ned Stark is the name of legend – the tragic, unwed prince locked in an immortal’s shadow; the pagan mystery; the heart lying at the centre of sunken islands. I heard it from my eldest brother Aegon, who heard it from Septon Barth himself; it always starts with Ned Stark dying. This Ned Stark, however, was roughly two-score and ten, being only five years younger than my own father. The prince had not the supernatural vitality of the Einherjar, but none would deny that he kept in good shape, being at nearly half a hundred.
“I know you will take the Kingsway to Wintertown and Winterfell to present your case,” so the prince murmured, “but nonetheless I see not an objection to your voyage, Ser Corlys. You will have to bring it up with Tobi when you see him on the morrow – ‘tis a spring night, and the Watch must sweep the Wall of fallen snow, so I presume.”
I do not presume to know how the Lord Commander would cross the expanse of the Winterlands proper in the space of a night from the Wall to the Moat. No doubt another man might be tempted, but I fear some knowledge may well be cursed, and quite rightly Ser Corlys did not enquire further.
“For the nonce, I would however share some news that came from down south,” the prince had offered quite kindly. “There is of course, the news of young Lady Aemma’s second name-day, and I sent up a basket of herbs. Then we had heard of Ser Braxton Beesbury’s downfall – the Princess Saera was fortunately watched whenever the knave was near, but her handmaid young Lady Turnberry fell in the family way, I fear. Tobi did say that one was a difficult sort. Though your royal mother did mention…” The smile fell from his face. “I am sorry to say, that Prince Valerion is dead.”
With the most solemn of sympathies he elucidated further, and I fear that Valerion falling off of a horse was mayhaps–
“I have no idea what a boy of seven was riding a horse for, he surely was not yet at that age,” the prince continued. “The correspondence from Queen Alysanne, that he was yet of seven name-days… should you wish, Maester Vaegon, I could place the letter to be sent by way of King’s Landing.”
Hence the rest of the night was set to writing my mother.