Prologue

LUWIN WAS TIRED.

It disturbed him, that exhaustion. He knew that it should not, knew down deep in the bones that ached. He was old, after all, one of the oldest men he had ever known, even considering the archmaesters of the Citadel, men who had never swung a hammer or pulled a plow, men who had lived almost their entire lives surrounded by practitioners of the sharpest edges of medical knowledge. In the days since he had been sent away, since he had been chained and sworn, he had seen men cut down in their prime, women young and wide of hip cut down by the milk fever, hale and hearty children felled by plagues that had left lowborn waifs with little more than unpleasant memories. More than that, though, he had seen so many people, men and women both, highborn and low, come face-to-face with the Stranger and fail to walk away unscathed. He knew everything there was to know about how age sapped one's strength, how what seemed easy at five-and-twenty was all the harder not a decade later, and worse still a decade beyond that.

And I am more than a decade beyond that.

And yet, he felt tired, more tired than he had ever felt, and it disturbed him.

It was for a good cause, he felt. So much rested upon his shoulders. He had all his usual duties, the education of the young, the ministering to all who needed it, the sending and receiving of ravens, duties that would have worn out the strongest of men. But he had new duties now. The Lady Stark was gone on her desperate pursuit of justice, Lord Stark was gone on his mad pursuit of duty, and so it fell upon him to stand beside the Young Lord, to guide and him and counsel him and help him. Robb was a strong boy, just turned eight-and-ten, strong and hale and hearty and with a good head upon his shoulders, but he still needed help and wisdom. If Lady Stark had been there, she would be the one to nudge his elbow and guide him towards the light, but Lady Stark was gone, young Rickon wailed while young Bran glared and brooded and so her duties fell upon him, and he was a maester, chained and sworn, and he could only do his duty.

But it was hard, and it was long, and it left him tired, and it was the last that shamed him, for all he knew that it was pure vanity, for all he knew that he was being a tired old silly fool. But he was only human, and so he sighed and rubbed his eyes and ran his fingers down his face and picked up the latest pertinent scroll and tried to focus.

The words kept skittering off, the letters blurring and blotting together, but he had been tired before and he would be tired again and Winterfell needed him, so he set his shoulders and glared at the parchment and waved off the far-too-young scribe who offered to help. He almost had it, almost grasped what the paper was trying to tell him, when the door flew open with a bang as loud as thunder and the childlike scribe (or maybe not so childlike, mayhaps I'm just too old) gave a yelp as the Young Lord strode in and shoved a piece of paper in Luwin's face.

"Maester Luwin, I have need of a raven." Luwin set aside his parchment and leaned back in his chair, tried to ignore the pop and crack of his tired old bones as Lord Stark's heir dropped the letter onto Luwin's paper-strewn desk. "The fastest one you have, to fly to Castle Black."

"Tonight, my lord?" Luwin asked, ignoring the tired rasp lurking at the edges of his words.

"Yesterday would have been better, months ago even more so," the young man Luwin could not help but think of as Little Robb intoned, the boy doing his best to make his northern brogue sound lordly. "The raven never having need be sent? That would be best of all. Tonight, though, shall have to serve."

Luwin nodded, picking up the letter and focusing. It was not so hard as the dry, dull parchment he had just been hacking his way through. Young Robb's hand was not as refined or neat as Luwin or Lady Stark would have liked, but Luwin was used to it, and his interest was piqued. "And what shall I be transcribing onto the raven's scroll? Something for your brother, I assume?"

The Young Wolf set his shoulders and laid a hand upon the hilt of his sword. "Read the letter, Maester, and see for yourself."

Luwin spared a moment to examine Lord Stark's heir. The boy looked as if he was as tired as Luwin felt, though Luwin could not help but notice that the exhaustion sat better on him. Marwen was right, youth is wasted on the young. Luwin pushed the unhelpful thought aside, examined the boy more closely. Young Robb was tired, yes, but there was light there, too, deep in his eyes, a fire that spoke of a hard decision carefully considered and firmly made. The young man's thick red-brown hair was unkempt, his chin unshaved, but his hand rested with a light but firm touch upon the hilt of his sword, and he stood with back straight and chin out.

And just like that, Luwin knew what the letter would say. He still read it, though.

He had to be certain.

"Are you sure about this, my lord?"

He looked up in time to see the Young Wolf deliver a sharp nod. "As certain as I've ever been of anything in my life."

Luwin sighed, set the letter down. "Your brother might already have taken his vows."

The boy shook his head. "He has not; Jon would have written to tell me so, and if he has, then the matter is settled and the letter will be pointless."

Luwin fixed the young man with what he hoped was a hard stare, unsoftened by the weariness he felt in his bones. "But my lord will still have the raven sent."

"Tonight."

Luwin nodded. "Tonight." He let out another sigh. "Your lady mother will be very cross when she hears of this."

The boy shrugged. "Probably, but she is not here, and I am. Father has commanded preparations be made to call the banners, every rumor out of the south paints a picture of a pot about to boil over, I have been ordered to set a watch at Moat Cailin, and war is in the air." He stopped, leaned forward, set both his hands flat upon Luwin's desk. "I am the Stark in Winterfell, am I not?"

Luwin could only nod. "You are, my lord."

"And in the absence of my lord father and lady mother, I speak with my father's voice, do I not?"

Luwin gave another nod. "You do, my lord."

The boy shoved off the desk, and his right hand found its way back to the hilt of that sword. "Then if it is to be war, I would have my brother beside me. He should never have been packed off to the Wall; that was a grievous mistake, born as much out of Mother's hate as it was of any desire of Jon's. Send the raven, now, and call him back."

"He may refuse," Luwin pointed out. Young Jon had grown tired of being little more than the Bastard of Winterfell, had grown weary of Lady Stark's ill-concealed glares, even a blind man could have seen that. On the Wall, even the lowest of the low could rise high, and Lady Stark was never like to see Castle Black, much less visit it. "The boy has a strong sense of honor."

Luwin was not prepared for the glare. "Read the letter again, and you will see that I command him, as his liege lord, provided he has not yet sworn his vows, to return to Winterfell with all haste and prepare to defend our hearth and home beside me."

Luwin looked down, read the letter again, and sighed. "So you do, my lord."

"Will you send the raven, then?"

Luwin took up the nearest little raven scroll, dipped his quill in the ink pot, and set to transcribing.

"As my lord commands," he said, and hoped, deep in his most secret of hearts, that House Stark would not have reason to regret the words.

The raven flew within the hour.

What is this? What is this?!

That's a good question. Tune in tomorrow to find out. See you then!