The world had turned in a smear of grey and white to Benjen Stark. A week, at least had passed, since he last heard the sound of his sworn brothers of Nights Watch since they had been choked out by the dead. It was now a cold, endless world of snow, and the only sound he could hear was the rhythm of the weary breathing of his horse through the dead silence of the haunted woods. Six brothers of the Night's Watch had started with him. Now, he was the only one remaining.
He had continued to ride with his sword arm aching, sleeping in warm bag, forever haunted by the sounds his men had made when the dead had took them, screams that no living should hear. There was no hope for him in these woods beyond the wall. Only the knowledge that something tireless was keeping pace with him through the trees.
By dusk he found a cave hidden by the fallen pines around it, hiding it seamlessly from the world. He pulled his tired horse inside as far as the beast would go, then hunched into the deep darkness, the cold hilt of his sword close to him.
Then, came a whisper. A rustle of sound, too delicate for the dead and too intentional for any wild animal. Benjen was instantly on his feet instantly unsheathing his sword which was now the only sound in the cave. He knew he would soon be a dead man, alone against the horror that had stalked his men out one by one, but the fight was the only thing he could do, a dying gesture of a brave man.
Shapes moved against the dim light of the cave mouth. They did not look like the Others nor like the Wildlings.
Small figures, barely up to his waist, slipped through the shadows. Their clothing was a patchwork of woven leaves and leather of skinned animals, with their limbs lean and wiry with big ears and their hand having three fingers and a thumb. Their faces were narrow and sharp-boned, holding weapons like spear made of something like glass and bows that looked like were made of weirwood.
Benjen froze, the point of his longsword now lowered to the ground.
One stepped forward, a girl, slim and short like his niece Arya Stark, with long, hair of mixed colour knotted with leaves and lichen, and eyes that shone in the bright golden colour in the dark. Her voice was both soft and melodius, like harp being played over.
"Sit down, Benjen Stark," she commanded. "We have a story to tell you… and help to ask for."
Howland Reed had been riding with a half a score of his men for 3 days before walls of Riverrun finally came into view. The air around the region smelled heavy with the stench of cooking fires and ale of the men.
Outside the castle walls, the great camp sprawled in vast rows holding the wounded, tents patched in the grey of Winterfell, the blue of the Tully, the black and white of Karstark, and Mallister's white. Sounds of men groaning coming from behind the canvas, and many horses standing injured by the temporary stable. The Lord of crannogmen took it all in with his quiet and unblinking steady, he had had long since learned not to be surprised by the cruelty and pleasure of the men.
He rode alone after his cloaked guards were stopped by the tully patrol guards asking him to go alone to the castle. Reed dismounted at the outer ramp and handed his reins to a stable boy before moving on the bridge of Castle of Riverrun.
A broad, grey-bearded man waited there, arms folded.
"Lord Rickard Karstark," Howland said, inclining his head.
Rickard offered a thin smile. "It's been some time, Howland. The Stark boy calls for you now that he's bloodied his hand and been outplayed by men with sharper wits. He thinks your counsel can mend what he's blundered."
Howland met the older man's gaze without heat. "I came when summoned and I will advise as he asks for me."
Rickard snorted at Howland's words but said nothing more, and they passed together beneath the heavy iron gateway.
They found Robb Stark pacing. He was far too young for the weight that had settled on his face, the boy long since burned out by war. A great map of the Riverlands, with boundaries marked in across the borders of Westerland and Crownland, lay sprawled across the main table. Greatjon Umber, Brynden Tully, Jason Mallister, Roose Bolton, and other lords of the Riverland and the North stood around it, their tempers as exposed as their wounds after their last battle.
Robb turned at the sound of the boots, and for the first time in his life, saw the man his father had always spoken of small man, with a limp in his legs.
"Lord Reed—" Robb began.
Before he could finish, the doors opened again. Maester Vyman rushed in, breathless, clutching a parchment heavy with the red wax of a lion.
"My lords," he stammered, glancing round the tense room, "a raven has come from King's Landing. It bears the lion sigil. Lord Tywin Lannister seeks treaty and alliance… against what he names a greater foe. He swears no grievance against us once the enemy is dealt with."
A heavy, sudden silence fell, broken only by the crackle of the hearthfire.
Catelyn Stark voiced her suspicion first. "What enemy?"
Vyman swallowed, his eyes darting to Robb. "He names the return of House Targaryen. He claims they come for vengeance against all who rose in rebellion against the Crown."
Edmure Tully was on his feet at once, his face red with fury. "A lie! Some mummer's trick to gut our resolve! Tywin Lannister does not treat with his enemies, he tricks!"
The Greatjon Umber slammed his great fist down on the table, making the cups jump. "Aye! and if the lions want our swords, let them pay dearly for them. A Northern crown in exchange for our aid and captives including Lord Eddard Stark and his daughter returned!"
A ripple of eager and grim approval swept through the hall. Lords of the Trident and the North nodded. The old words stirring amongst the Northern lords who have lost that crown with the coming of the Dragons.
And one by one, they knelt.
Rickard Karstark bent stiffly, eyeing the boy in front of him with surety. Catelyn watched with her eyes shining bright with pride as her eldest son stood steady and too-tall beneath the sudden, heavy crown that their voices had placed upon his head.
The cry rose, wild and fierce amongst the Northmen and Riverland Lords. "King in the North! King in the North!" Mugs pounded against the table and men and women shouted Robb's name until their throats were raw.
Catelyn's gaze had shifted, drawn by the absence of a sound from one side, and the eyes of the others followed. One man had not knelt.
Howland Reed stood alone while all around him bent the knee, his expression as quiet and unreadable as ever.
"You have not knelt, Lord Reed," Catelyn said, her voice loud enough, carrying across the table to the other end, expressing her displeasure with her sharp voice.
"I have not," he said softly. "Nor will I, Lady Stark. Robb Stark is my liege lord but he won't be my King ever."
Greatjon Umber surged to feet and pushed forwar d with a roar building in his throat, but Rickard Karstark, with surprising speed, caught his massive arm and held him back. All eyes fixed on the enigmatic crannoglord.
"My husband called you his friend," Catelyn started in a slow and dangerous voice as anger started to creep into her tone. "Will you betray the North now that he is gone?"
Howland did not flinch. "Eddard Stark is my dearest friend," he corrected. "But I bent the knee to another king in his presence, and while that king's blood flows, I will not stain my honor with such treachery, brewing here."
A wave of anger, disbelief, and profound insult swept the room, which felt like a slap to many. However before any could speak, Reed continued again in his still mild voice, but cutting through the tension with cold clarity.
"And Lord Stark will be coming here soon. All would do well to wait for his voice before deciding the fate of crowns."