Game of Thrones: Paladin of Old Gods - Chapter 173: A Raven, a White Tree and a Drunkard... (I)

Chapter 173: A Raven, a White Tree and a Drunkard… (I)

****Merry Christmas, Dear Readers! As promised, a gift chapter for you! Happy reading and happy festivities!*****

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POV: Tytos Blackwood

In a small street on the Silk Road.

Year 290, the sixth day of the first moon.

Three days before the start of the Tournament… (The Morning after the conclusion of the Auction)

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“I am glad you have chosen to walk this road with me, cousin. It is from the day I set foot in the northern lands that I have wished to speak to you…

Your nephews, myself and the lands of Raventree Hall miss you.” So said Lord Tytos Blackwood as the pair continued slowly riding their horses along the straight path, paved with granite and gravel, towards the mansion.

There was no need for an escort; his cousin Haymitch was worth at least ten trusted armigers. There was no sword or bow in the Blackwood lands that could rival Ser Haymitch ‘The Drunk’, the squire who, at the age of fourteen, during the disastrous and bloody battle of the Red Fork between Blackwood and Bracken, emerged like a bloody mushroom, with barely a scratch, from a pile of corpses.

Haymitch was one of the few survivors of his father’s vanguard, consisting of over two hundred swordsmen, thirty knights and forty archers, who, caught off guard on two sides, had been ambushed in a pincer ambush by the Bracken before reinforcements arrived in time. The most shocking thing was that the boy, covered in enemy blood from head to toe, totally drunk and traumatised, re-emerged from a pile of bodies belonging to the Brackens… Haymitch had single-handedly killed at least nine men-at-arms and used the enemy remains as a makeshift shield and hiding place. A few years later, the Raventree bastard again proved his legend, escaping unharmed from an encirclement of more than a dozen bandits seeking revenge. Haymitch was able to retreat into the woods, luring the hunters into his chosen territory, and pick off his pursuers one by one with bows, traps and diversions, transforming himself from prey to hunter…

The man’s true talent was not to kill but to survive in the most desperate situations, an individual simply born for danger and battlefields.

“I will not be returning to Raventree Hall, Tytos… But you can tell Brynden and Lucas that I missed them too.” Tytos lowered his gaze slightly to the head of his steed.

“And how is little Hoster doing?” Haymitch asked after a few seconds of silence.

“Pff, Hoster is becoming more and more of a bookworm… Unlike his brothers, I can’t find a way to get that boy anywhere near a sword or a horse. He always spends his time with his head bent over some tome, hiding in the nooks and crannies of Godswood, out of sight of his master-at-arms.” Tytos replied with a hint of affectionate disappointment.

“Mh mh mh. Just as well… Perhaps there will be at least one Blackwood who will not have to know the horrors of battle. I understand you have sired quite a few offspring during my absence. How many children have you raised?” His cousin asked.

“Five… Alyn is the latest, he just turned one, and Edmund has three. My lady wife has taken up a personal challenge with the Old Gods. Lorena will not stop stealing my sleep until I give her a daughter. And in all sincerity, I also wish to have at least one.” Tytos replied.

“Good for you and your willing bride, cousin. Always keep up the Blackwood name and number until the soldier falls. Ah ah ah!” Tytos joined in the laughter. And then, after another minute of silence, he asked:

“Are you doing well in Winterfell? I hear you are rebuilding your life there… Lord Eddard has praised your valour for House Stark several times and without once even mentioning your ambiguous eccentricities.” Haymitch kept his gaze forward so as not to let some of his distress show.

“I do not fit in anywhere, cousin… But, at least in Winterfell, I can look forward without looking back too much. I should be able to steer clear of a slipknot and a lone tree for at least a while longer…That is if I don’t drink myself to death first.”

“I’m heartened to hear that… I hope you can find the peace you seek in this place. Wishing you always the best, Haymitch.” His cousin smiled faintly at him fondly, replying in turn:

“I wish you both, cousin. You will see; you and your family will do well in the North.” Tytos did not grasp the message.

“… What do you mean? Are you, by any chance referring to your lord’s proposal?” Tytos asked, trying to extrapolate some more information to Haymitch, before this peculiar meeting and without specifics. If Haymitch had not asked him to come without asking too many questions, acting as his guarantor, Tytos would not have agreed.

“Mmm… Aye, we’ve come close enough already. At this point, anticipating some information will be interpreted as a gesture of necessary courtesy.” Tytos attempted to retort, but Haymitch anticipated him. “It is not a meeting with Lord Eddard Stark that awaits you, cousin. I will attend as my lord’s guarantor and witness, but the individual, with whom you will shortly deal in person, is the true mastermind who, for some years now, has ruled unchallenged over the North, acting in the shadows… Do not look at me like that. Before long, you will understand what I am talking about.” Haymitch added, not paying too much attention to the shocking preface he had just uttered.

“And who would this individual be? If we’re not going to Stark Manor, where are you dragging me to, Haymitch?” Tytos asked with more than justified concern.

The man recognised the same superficial tone as Haymitch when, in his youth, his foolish and reckless cousin persuaded him to join him in a ‘Simple and Peaceful’ bandit hunt. Only to find himself in some abandoned tavern filled with thieves, rapists and armed murderers, surrounded on all sides and outnumbered…

“In a mansion in House Tallhart used to house members of the Brotherhood in Black. Lord Commander Mormont will also attend this meeting. But the Silver-Tongued Devil at the head of the negotiation, with whom I advise you to keep your guard up at all times, cousin, and to whom you will most likely not be able to say no, is the son of Ser Helman Tallhart… Bloody Snow.”

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End POV.

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POV: Lord Commander Jeor Mormont

Brotherhood Mansion in Black.

About half an hour after an alarming preface…

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“Honoured to make your acquaintance, Lord Commander.” The man introduced himself in a prominent voice, in his late thirties, almost six and a half feet tall, with long dark brown hair, a neatly trimmed, short beard, and adorned in fine burnished scarlet armour, with silver inlays depicting the dead dam tree of Raventree Hall surrounded by onyx ravens taking flight. But the distinguishing feature that characterised the man as Lord of Raventree Hall was the magnificent cloak of raven feathers. An attire that almost put the remaining hall members reserved for the meeting to shame.

“The honour is mine, Lord Tytos,” Jeor replied in an equally firm tone.

“Well, my lords. Now that the introductions are complete, we can begin this meeting. Once again, I apologise for the lack of notice and the regrettable absence of information. And I thank you for your mutual word in not divulging the topics that will be discussed within these walls.” Said the betrothed of little Dacey. The Hero of the North who, not even a year ago, saved his House from a nefarious fate.

“I would like to inform you that my father, Ser Helman Tallhart, and my Lord Protector, Lord Eddard Stark, have momentarily granted me full authority to deal with each of you. Therefore, my voice will represent the will of Torrhen’s Square and Winterfell for the duration of the meeting. Commander Haymitch here will attend as guarantor and witness to the meeting.” The Knight stepped forward, placing on the long table two scrolls of parchment still closed with two wax seals intact, bearing the emblem of House Stark and Tallhart.

Both Jeor and Tytos nodded, not even checking the documents, which, in all likelihood, gave legitimate validity to the twelve-year-old’s claims.

“What I want… what the North wishes to propose is close cooperation with your order Lord Commander, and a return to the fold of origin, Lord Tytos. And to make that happen, both the Brotherhood in Black and House Blackwood will have to negotiate and agree on a common understanding…” The boy began, opening and spreading a square map measuring five feet on each side of the table. The topographical drawings and names were drawn with enormous care, marking forests, villages, fortresses, hills, mountains, roads, rivers and borders marked with great precision. That was the best-drawn map Jeor had ever seen. A map depicting the northern region of the North: from Last Hearth to the Wall.

“What do you mean by a return to the fold, Ser Duncan?” Tytos Blackwood asked with a sceptical air.

“Just a moment, my lord. I will treat the matter with much care and skill as soon as I can obtain the lands you require.” The boy turned to Jeor.

“House Stark desires the lands of the New Gift, my lord – all its lands.” The Lord Commander did not react at first, remaining steadfast with his gaze on the green eyes with almost hypnotic silver streaks of Helman Tallhart’s son.

“The lands of the New Gift have belonged to the Night’s Watch for over two centuries, Ser Duncan. They were granted to us by royal decree by Queen Alysanne and her husband, King Jaehaerys I… Fertile lands whose gabelle help to sustain the Brotherhood.” Jeor Mormont replied in a firm tone. His son, Jorah, had already partially warned him of this meeting… Jeor was prepared.

He knew that the boy was on very close terms with Barbrey Mormont and that his lady wife, first a simple widowed heiress of a dying House and now the wealthiest and most influential woman in the Seven Kingdoms, owed her fortune to one House in particular: House Tallhart…

Hard as it may be to believe, that twelve-year-old boy could be the key to the North’s recent successes. Maester Aemon had warned him that, though rare, such individuals existed…

Aemon told him of how, during his studies at the citadel, the experienced man had personally known children as young as six or seven with infallible eidetic memories, able to recall every single word of thousands of pages at first reading, or of prodigious geniuses who could perform mathematical calculations simply impossible without paper and ink. But the boy Jeor was looking at was even more special than that… A marvel in both mind, body and spirit… Old Bear’s instincts kept poking cold shivers under his fur, warning him that a predator far more enormous, fiercer and ravenous than himself stood in front of him.

“The Night’s Watch had nearly ten thousand brethren in the days of Jaehaerys I, my lord. And even then, they could not turn their attention to the south. The Brotherhood could man eighteen out of nineteen forts deployed along the Wall at the time. Still, they needed help to afford to station garrisons in the various forts, towers and abandoned villages all along the New Gift.

According to reports received the last moon, the Night’s Watch currently has one thousand nine hundred and eighty-six brethren, of which nine hundred and thirty-seven are Rangers, four hundred and eleven are Builders, and six hundred and thirty-eight are Attendants… barely enough garrison to five of your nineteen fortresses. And as for the taxation in those lands, my lord… Well, the smallfolk number less than eight thousand inhabitants, who manage to contribute, on average, between coinage, goods and labour at no more than nine hundred gold dragons a year. A sum insufficient even to maintain the garrison of the Tower of Shadows.” The boy took out an open notebook with entries and numbers inscribed in it and continued:

“On average, between provisions, armaments, clothing, medicines, horses, firewood, building materials, and many other minor necessities, the Brotherhood must spend gold or labour worth a minimum of five gold dragoons a year per person… Without contributions from the North and the various houses of Westeros, the Night’s Watch can’t even come close to the ten thousand gold dragoons they would need each year. And I’m only talking about subsistence expenses in times of peace and gentle spring breezes…” Mormont remained silent.

Never before had the Lord Commander been so eager for the support of his master accountant and First Steward, Bowen Marsh. In all honesty, Jeor did not know if the figures concerning the lands of the New Gift were accurate, but those concerning the number of his brethren indeed were.

Mormont spent a good hour every day getting to know and learn the name and history of every cadet and member of the Brotherhood. Any good leader who respected himself had to know at least the name of the man he would order to follow him, fight or die for him.

“… The figures are correct, my lord. Indeed, this before you is a copy of your accounting records. But please, my lord, do not doubt the loyalty of your First Aide. Bowen Marsh is an honest man, but… from what I am told, also a man of rather heavy sleep.” Said the demon-witch as if he had read his thoughts.

‘Tsz…! Damn it, Bowen! Innocent, I’ll have your bunk moved to the top of the Wall! Then we’ll see if you can stay alert!’ So roared Jeor inwardly, cursing the brother for cornering the fraternity. Not even a tenth of an hourglass had passed since the start of the meeting, and the Lord Commander of Night’s Watch was already left with no room for negotiation.

“The lands of the New Gift still remain a symbol of honour and prestige for our order, Ser…” Jeor tried to sing, clinging to the few remaining footholds.

“So are Westewatch-by-the-Bridge, Sentinel Stand, Greyguard, Stonedoor, Icemark, Queensgate, the Nightfort and all nine abandoned forts… Tumulus of honour and ruins of prestige left to snow, rats and the passage of time. You have no men or priority to safeguard or prosper said lands. Each year more and more smallfolk, neglected and unattended, choose to migrate south to the lands of the Umbers or Karstarks…” Mormont was unbowed in the chest, taking the truthful blow with silent dignity.

Even the man at his side, Lord Tytos Blackwood, remained in a religious silence, exchanging with him occasional hidden glances of mutual solidarity. The tension in the air was palpable, and the green eyes of that monster in adolescent features glittered with malice and ravenousness… Probably, the man was fearfully awaiting his turn in the imminent contractual fighting pit into which he would soon be thrown.

“… What do Winterfell and Torrhen’s Square offer in exchange for those ‘good fertile lands’?” That was the best Jeor could come up with. The boy, with a show of ‘gallant benignity’, relaxing his voice and gaze and displaying a much more human and genuine smile, enacted:

“In exchange for those ‘excellent fertile lands’, House Stark will relinquish the claim to taxes and trade duties, leaving the burden and privilege of collecting a tribute to the vassal house to which they will be assigned.” The boy cast a brief glance at Blackwood, who involuntarily raised his head slightly as if a cold chill had caught him off guard. “House Blackwood will pay a 1/5 of the gabels and crops collected entirely to the Night’s Watch and remunerate the brotherhood with a 10% share on trade or customs duties.”

“A fifth on the gabelle? And a tenth on duties? Winterfell is already demanding an exorbitant pledge from a house that has not even considered the offer yet. House Tully demands from Raventree only a seventh on gabelle and half on customs and land duties…” Lord Tytos interjected, looking towards the aloof Knight as if seeking confirmation of a possible elaborate joke. It was Mormont who elucidated what Blackwood was missing.

“It would not be so, my lord. In fact, the basic tribute would be higher but lower overall… Barring a change, under current law, if those lands continued to belong to the Brotherhood in Black instead of Winterfell, House Blackwood would be exempt from paying the tribute fee to the Crown…” Ser Duncan confirmed Jeor’s supposition.

“Precisely, my lords. Lord Stark will shortly enter into negotiations with King Robert and Lord Hoster Tully, and I am very confident that Lord Eddard will be able to maintain the same privileges on those lands. House Blackwood would pay 5% less in tribute on both tax and duty.” Lord Tytos fell silent with renewed interest, letting the boy continue.

“In addition to guaranteeing ready military support -in situations of extreme necessity- House Stark and House Tallhart will guarantee the honourable Brotherhood in Black a minimum tax revenue, twenty times greater than your best tax year in the last decade… We speak of a minimum of thirty thousand gold dragoons a year, with no duties or obligations to protect, my lord. All the Night’s Watch will have to do is bestow an indefinite land grant to House Blackwood.” The Bear’s eyes glittered.

‘A sum sufficient to be able to decently maintain at least double our current numbers…’ Reasoned the Lord Commander with concealed avarice and impatience at agreeing. Tytos’s eyes also glittered. If the Night’s Watch had collected such a tribute from his lands, the love of logic must have screamed out a net income four times greater.

Mormont did not doubt the tinkling, golden promise he had just been offered. From what his sister Maege confided to him a few days ago, Bear Island was practically increasing its income a hundredfold, earning almost in a day what Jeor, during his protectorate as lord, managed to save in an entire year…

House Mormont had been inundated with requests for glass from every corner of the Known World. It was literally a race to the Mormont glassworks. A moon ago, Myr’s emissaries threatened to mobilise an armed fleet against Bear Island for such an affront.

With thirty thousand gold dragons of additional revenue, the Night’s Watch could also afford to restore and refurbish Grey Watch and Brine Gate. For some time, the Lord Commander and Master Aemon had been planning a way to restore the strength and glory of their sworn order…

Jeor was about to accept, but his son’s instincts and prior advice suggested that the other side had yet to ask what he wanted.

“That is what Winterfell asks and offers, Ser Duncan… But what does House Tallhart want from the order of the Night’s Watch?” Jeor asked, keeping his guard firmly up. Honour and magnanimity or not, in this cruel world, no meal was free.

“Point taken, Lord Commander… House Tallhart has no direct interest in the New Gift. What Torrhen’s Square demands of the Brotherhood, in return for a generous offer, is safe conduct to the lands beyond the Wall.” Mormont was surprised by the unexpected request.

“A safe conduct…? But the men of House Tallhart already hold the right to freely pass through our gates.” So countered the man, missing the point.

“… Not for the men of House Tallhart, my lord, but for the people who live behind that Wall of ice… I refer mainly to the Free Folks.” This time, not even Lord Blackwood could maintain the silent impartial bearing.

“House Tallhart wants to let those barbaric Wildlings pass south of the Wall, Ser!” Lord Tytos intervened, sonorously resting his hands on the map.

“… The answer is no, Ser Duncan.” Promulgated the old Bear in an iron manner, the man who, after Mors Umber, aka ‘Crowfood’ and Ser Denys Mallister, could appeal as the individual who most of all had met face to face, hated, and warred against the Wildlings for decades…

Jeor almost lost count of the blood spilled, and the multitudes have fallen among his people sacrificed to repel the countless raids and raids of those barbarians on Bear Island.

Mormont knew of the rumours concerning that boy’s mother. Perhaps, in Duncan Tallhart’s veins ran a half, if not wholly, Wildlings blood… Out of respect for the individual who had saved his House from ruin and would soon take his niece, Dacey, in marriage, Mormont responded with harsh, cold words.

“… A very closed and hasty reply, my lord. Do you not even wish to hear my proposal first?” Asked the boy in a calm but more severe voice.

“You would only waste your breath and time, Ser… Since the answer will remain as such. There is no amount of gold or promise you can make to convince me otherwise.” Mormont retorted with a more combative will. There would be no negotiating with those animals. Not after the spoils of that grisly massacre Jeor and his brethren had seen in the now-ruined village of Snowtumulus…

“Nor will House Blackwood ever accept lands overrun by marauders without laws or Gods, Ser.” Lord Tytos walked half a step closer to Mormont, showing his respect and demonstration of full support.

“… I understand. A long and troubled hour lies before us, my lords.” The heir to Torrhen’s Square calmly approached the small table filled with silver jugs and cups. And after pouring and offering a generous cup of red to the silent knight guarantor and witness, the demon boy, with the most fierce and piercing eyes Jeor Mormont had ever seen, asked with eerie serenity:

“Before we begin… Would anyone care for a drink?”

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End POV.

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POV: The Lord of Winterfell

Silk Road, Stark Manor, Lord’s Solarium.

About three hours after alcoholic and spicy drinks were offered…

—–

There was a soft knock at the door; the man put down his quill and answered.

“Come in.” Ned would have recognised the unmistakable rap of Jory’s knuckles from a mile away.

“Commander Ser Haymitch, my lord.” Said Jory.

“Show him in; I was just waiting for your news. Thank you, Jory. Dismissed for the evening.” Jory nodded, bowing respectfully, and then headed off to his deservedly earned time off.

‘… I have yet to arrange the investiture of Jory and many other deserving Stark men… I shall request the Guardian of Beauty to service many more green priests as soon as possible. Poor Welk cannot take on all the ceremonies alone.’ Ned added another item to his agenda.

“My Lord Stark.” Haymitch bowed blandly and walked over to his usual spot of alcoholic refreshment before taking a seat opposite him. Ned had gotten used to it. At least the Knight was designed to show more ‘obsequious’ respect in front of witnesses.

“So? How did the meeting go?” Ned asked impatiently as soon as the Knight had finished emptying Arbor’s cup of nectar.

“Purgh…! I beg your pardon. I really needed that.” Haymitch apologised after the elusive burp. And then resumed, as he poured himself another cup, “A real massacre, Ned… A scene that was nothing short of funereal and pitiful,” Ned stiffened with concern, wondering urgently:

“Meaning? The meeting didn’t go as planned?”

“Oh, no… Or rather: yes, the meeting did not go exactly as planned. In short, they both agreed…” Explained Hayimitch with annoyed condescension. Ned was partly relieved. The Protector of the North had already arranged the meeting with the King and Lord Hoster Tully for the following evening. It would have been disgraceful to take part with something concrete in hand.

“Mormont has agreed. He will grant the New Gift to Winterfell and give the Wildlings safe conduct, Giants or Sons of Forest that they may be… House Blackwood has also agreed. Lord Tytos only requests that the death heart-tree of Raventree Hall be moved to the new abode, along with the remains and sepulchres of the Blackwood family, buried there…” Haymitch explained between sips.

“A more than legitimate request… So I can already give Clan Norrey and House Manderly the go-ahead for restoration work at Queencrown? I have three hundred armed men in escort, a team of twenty master builders and seven hundred pairs of arms, ready for labour, patiently awaiting orders.” The Knight nodded, allowing himself another sip.

“Is there anything else I should know?… What are you omitting, Ser?” Ned asked insistently, tearing with his pincers every word the Knight seemed reluctant to divulge.

“The boy went hard… Bloody Snow showed no mercy, even towards his future uncle. The silver-tongued demon squeezed the poor guy to the bone, repeatedly clubbing the unfortunate man with big words and only aiming where it hurt most… Although I was prepared, by the end of the negotiation, I couldn’t help but see the Lord Commander as the black sheep in the flock of the wicked. The leader of a vile and dishonourable order of men, dedicated to the slaughter of the First Men and our ancestors… and Mormont…” Haymitch had to take a warm breath in addition to the usually fermented juice.

“Mormont…?” Ned asked more insistently.

Haymitch emptied the bag. “Mormont collapsed in tears… Literally.” It took another gulp to continue.

“… I believe the man suffered severe psychological trauma… By the end of the negotiations, the poor man’s eyes were glassy and drained. It was the face of a man filled with regret, who had lost his steadfast belief to fight for… A macabre episode, indeed.” Haymitch showed a look filled with guilt and went on to say:

“And after he tore Lord Crow to pieces, Ser Duncan dropped his sword on my cousin…” Ned immediately withdrew his look of disappointment, showing a more respectful and understanding one in turn.

“Erg, emm… And Lord Blackwood?” Lord Eddard asked in a calmer tone after clearing his throat.

“There, Tytos… He…” Haymitch was struggling to find the right words. “Let’s just say that I had to convince Tytos for a while in not making too hasty-decision… My cousin was seriously considering retiring and leaving the seat of House Blackwood to his son Brynden, a boy of just fourteen…”

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End Part I

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