It wasn't until late evening the next day, when they made one of their rare, full-night stops upon finally reaching the Kingsroad, that Luwin could talk about it properly with anyone else. No efforts had been made to keep any part of that exchange private, so everyone knew what had happened. Amazement, fright, disbelief and many other opinions flew back and forth between the maester hopefuls. The consensus was that Lord Stark had sounded impulsive to the point of madness, but that it was completely intentional. Probably. Mullin was the one whose conclusions probably hit closest to reality.
"Lord Stark is insane," Ryben said gleefully over a strip of jerky.
"Watch your tongue!" Umber growled. Luwin was surprised he still spent more time with them than the other northmen.
"Oh shove off, Whoresbane. 'Get out of my way or I'll assume you're part of the plot to murder my wife' is what he basically said. He threatened a blood feud. A war between House Frey and all the North! Even you have to admit that sounds mad, unless Luwin's looking to get a link in tall tales now?"
Luwin gave Ryben a most unimpressed stare. He did not appreciate being thrown in front of the horse. At all.
"Or he wants people to think him a mad dog," Mullin mused. He was in his smallclothes, lying bare-skinned on the snowy floor of the hut with his hands under his head. He wasn't muscled quite like a maiden's fantasy yet but he was getting close. "Either news hasn't caught up, or it has reached the Twins and Lord Frey made a rash decision. Both options illustrate the current state of the new home we're traveling to. The foreign dealings of House Stark and the North are balanced on an edge. On one side is all new interest by everyone. On the other side is business as usual, if only for southron peace of mind. Though less 'nothing to see' and more 'don't want the trouble of the mad dog's nose twitching in my direction next.' Say your guard dog breaks something precious. You can't just kill him or your property will get invaded by thieves and robbers or what have you."
"Lord Stark's not a dog," Hother grumbled.
"But he wants to be thought as one, methinks," Mullin replied. "Or maybe a wolf. A mad wolf. The Mad Wolf of the North. And then there's who he showed this false front to."
"House Frey," Ryben said mockingly. "A glorified tollman just six centuries old. Mean-spirited, uppity weasels all of them. Mistrusted by practically everyone. Disliked too, and not just because Old Walder's a miserly cunt. But because they always reach above their station."
"Genna Lannister," Rhodry said. Luwin carefully didn't react unduly to him speaking up, lest he sabotage his progress. Mullin had done well to start training him in the arts of war. "And now, this."
"Trying to force the Lord Warden of the North to divert from his path and pay their toll," Ryben said. "Or that's how Lord Stark will be able to spin it in the future, if he wants."
"Nobody will believe the Freys over him," Mullin said, rolling onto his front. His back was a bright pink instead of the red Luwin still went after the first quarter of an hour. He had no goosebumps either. "Or they won't openly believe them. They may even be inclined to think well of Stark for being at odds with them. Lord Walder's just a couple of grandbastard generations away from fielding an army out of his own breeches, yet they have no feats of valor or honor to their name. Even though the last war happened pretty recently, as these things go."
"Should even be enough confusion to deter any other nosy cunts from bothering him and us for a while, least from less than great houses," Ryben mused. "Meantime, House Tully's been given a reason to publically censure House Frey without losing face. Then there's the Iron Throne. Stark's mad dog reputation may even be a balm to house Hightower's image. He broke the Citadel. Half or more of the realm are liable to think Stark and Hightowers are themselves in a blood feud now. But if this incident reaches King's Landing before Lord Leyton is inevitably summoned there to account to the King..."
They talked of a lot more than that, especially about the long-term strategic implications of souring relations with the House that could decide whether or not you could cross the Trident. But that wasn't likely to become too important in their lifetime. After all, what were the odds of the North waging war on the south?
Luwin still thought their conclusions were a bit simplistic. Or perhaps not simple enough? It could just be that Lord Rickard was merely venting. He clearly hadn't planned for the encounter. But Marwyn agreed with the broad strokes during dinner.
"They'll call it the Hour of the Wolf again and just be glad it's over," Marwyn grunted over his soup. "Put it out of their minds lest they need to take even the briefest break from that game of thrones they like to play so much. Dismiss it as Stark being a snob at worst. Even then they'll say it's to be expected. The real question is whether Hoster Tully will really let it pass without any resentment over Stark causing tension between him and such a strong bannerman."
It should have been the end of the matter. And it was, for most of them. But Luwin thought his Master in the Mysteries also seemed a tad distracted. Not that anyone else noticed, except Mullin maybe, but Luwin was becoming a dab hand at detecting what few subtleties were speckled amidst the abrasiveness. He lingered behind when the others dispersed and took a seat next to the archmaester on the log. If not Luwin, who else was going to inquire after his wellbeing?
Luwin thought that was immensely sad. "Master, is everything alright?"
Marwyn turned his face away from the fire pit and looked up at him with a strange expression.
Luwin would have been intimidated by the sight once, but this time it only spurred him on. "You seem out of sorts. Can I make you some tea or…?"
"… You're a good boy, Luwin."
Now he felt outright alarmed. He didn't know how to follow up though, so he just sat and waited. Looked around while the world reoriented itself. Lord Rickard was at the edge of camp, talking to the smallfolk again. They were a pittance compared to High Heart or the Blackwood lands, but groups of them still cropped up to talk to Lord Stark even now, whenever they stopped for more than an hour.
"The High King's words do travel far, borne by the winds of winter," Marwyn said with uncharacteristic melancholy. They sounded like the lines of an old song, its true meaning lost in translation. "I wish I could believe my own eyes."
"… Master?"
"A highborn that treats honestly."
As opposed to one who'd just pre-empted the destruction of his own reputation by way of faking it to the one house in Westeros guaranteed to bungle it all the way around back in his favor.
"What if he does though?" Luwin pondered. "Treat honestly. I don't think there's anything of what he told Ser Frey that he didn't mean."
"But he'd have refrained if it were anyone else, and he'd have meant that just as much."
Luwin didn't know what to say when he saw the man descend even further into gloom. He didn't know what he needed to say. What he should say, to dispel this fey mood. He didn't even know what had brought it on. It couldn't be just politics. He'd already tried to think about everything he could think of but still didn't see the way. It was a common thing for him, much to Luwin's dismay. To never get the right ideas when he needed.
But he had a way to deal with that now too. So he didn't try to think anymore about it. He just waited and watched. And waited still.
Then it came to him, like a revelation. And it didn't take a whole day this time. For the first time, he managed to harness his subconscious penchant for puzzles in time for it to be of actual use. "You told me before, that you don't make nearly as many rhetorical questions as you seem."
"I did say that."
"Master… This wasn't a rhetorical question just now, but…"
"Spit it out, boy."
"Might… there be anything else you wish you could believe your own eyes on?"
Marwyn looked past the fire at the white raven preening itself on the log across from them. He was silent so long that Luwin thought he wouldn't answer, but then… "Have you ever been inside the Starry Sept?"
Well, that came out of nowhere. "Once, just to see what it looked like on the inside."
"What stuck with you most?"
"The candles." Luwin said immediately.
"Aye, the candles," Marwyn said. "Such a grand edifice. Made of black marble and arched windows and lit by thousands of candles to represent the stars. It's almost like they're meant to be a grand, uplifting symbol for those who gaze upon them. Candlelight. Fire turned into a symbol of the beautiful life waiting for the faithful past the heavens. Such beautiful things, stars. So bright. So enlightening. So noble."
"… Aren't they?"
"They're a pile of shit."
Luwn gaped. He couldn't help it.
"The Rhoynar taught the Andals steel and warcraft. This happened just as Valyria was turning its eyes west in the waning days of their war with the Ghiscary. What does that tell you?"
Luwin's mouth clamped shut, but it's not like he would ever deny a maester an answer. "They wanted allies against the Dragonlords."
"Aye," Marwyn said, taking a large bite of sourleaf. "Then a new religion suddenly comes out of nowhere and spreads as fast as plague through rats. It's the most prescriptive, most organised religion of all of written history. Then the Andals promptly pick up and leave Rhoyne in the dust and cross into Westeros with seven-pointed stars cut into their flesh and streaming blood."
"… What does the Andal Invasion have to do with anything?"
"You still look only at the surface. Listen and learn. No religion has ever saved anyone from death and suffering. No god ever came down from heaven to save mankind. It's always man that has to solve his own problems. And yet you still get an uppity cult somehow erupting into that plague known as organised religion," Marwyn spat the words like they were snake venom freshly sucked from a bite. "Always it's carried on the back of one thing: symbols. Legends. Stories. Omens. Warnings to scare you into doing what they want. Interesting thing, it always comes down to your money and your life. For our age, dragons are the symbols – they brought with them the decay of our highest born. Decay in power. Decay in morals. Decay in wisdom. In the time of Hugor and Argos, the seven-pointed star became the symbol of decay for the common born. You think the Faith of the Seven started out preaching about protecting women and children? They wouldn't have conquered even half the Vale before their men revolted! The seven-pointed star brought submission to those born under it, and it brought war and death to those not born under it. It brought ruin and subjugation too, to the children of those brave and wise enough to know there is no god coming to save you. Isn't it strange that the Andals started getting subdued by the First Men just around the time they stopped cutting that symbol in their flesh? You think it's a coincidence that it took the Hightowers on the other side of the world from Andalos with no blood of Hugor in their veins to finally turn the Faith of the Seven into something productive?"
"… Are you saying the Faith of the Seven used blood magic?"
"You still aren't listening. Or I'm an even worse teacher than I thought. The answer is maybe, but that's not the point!"
"I'm sorry master, I don't understand what you want me to see."
"Stars, boy. Stars. It's starlight that guides the worst predators of the night. It's by starlight that the Deep Ones come out of their seas to feast and raid. It's for a sunless sky that the abominations of Leng wish to trade away the sun. It was a red star that heralded the Long Night. When the Bloodstone Emperor of eastern myth killed his sister the Amethyst Empress and caused a generational darkness, it was a black star that came down from the sky for him to worship and work evil magics. When the second moon flew too close to the sun, it was a red star that broke it and brought dragons raining from the sky. Even the exception to this trend only proves the rule. House Dayne's sword is said to have been made from a fallen star. Depending how you read the legends, Dawn may have been Lightbringer itself. The flaming sword wielded by the hero of the Dawn. Hyrkoon the Hero, Yin Tar, Neferion, Eldric Shadowchaser who used a sword pale as ice to beat the Others back! But you need only study the myths to realise the star came down before the Long Night even started. One of those dragons that rained down perhaps? If the moon shattered, maybe the dragons were just meteorites? They'd certainly look like flaming beasts at night, wouldn't they?" Marwyn spat a glob of red phlegm into the fire. It hissed like roast pig. "Stars, Luwin. As portents go, they are not good ones. Never. They don't bring light and love. Especially when you're not born under them to begin with. They herald doom. The more they figure in a cult's symbology, the bigger the odds of butchered bodies in the cellar. And the farther East you go, the closer to Asshai you chase rumors and spellcraft and arcane stories, the more stars you'll see in your dreams as warlocks, blood mages and shadowbinders try to reel you in. Promises of answers. The wisdom of the stars. Signs. Dream visitations. Just a small price for their knowledge. Just a bit less small the more you ask. Your gold. Your time. Your blood." Marwyn's face twisted into a strange, grim smile. "Docksite temple sacrifices."
Luwin felt a terrible chill run down his spine and it had nothing to do with the cold winter. "… Master," Luwin ventured, thinking he might finally see where this is going. "The vision in the candle. What did it really mean?"
"That's the question, isn't it? The old man that died. What did you feel from him at the end?"
"He was… joyful." Luwin answered. He didn't think he'd ever forget it. "He didn't want to go on being so small. He was glad when he didn't have to, I think. Content. Excited, even, to be more than he was."
"Joyful, huh?" Marwyn wondered. "More than he was, huh? Is that what happened, do you think?"
The words were the same as every other time Luwin failed a test of some kind, yet the tone wasn't. "I think so?" But it was as much a question as an answer, wasn't it? "What… did it look like to you, master?
"I saw a dying man," Marwyn said, sounding more like the ghost of High heart than anything else. "I saw a creature of the night ready to take him. I saw a vision of heaven that promises everything as easy as dreaming. After all, with the right dream everything can be real. Oh, what a wonderful vision. A creature of the dark and void and it was good. Sure, he wants your soul, but he'll pay you with so much enlightenment that you'll leave it behind anyway. After all, isn't the soul just a different sort of body? The world is made of Substance, Motion and Consciousness, isn't it? If motion is what governs life and ends with you leaving your substance behind, why should consciousness be the end of it?" Marwyn sounded like he actually wished he could believe it. Wondering. Awestruck, almost. But his final words were neither easy nor hopeful. "Whatever that was… that's what blood sacrifice wishes it was."
"Master…" But Luwin didn't know what to say.
They sat there alone at the fire until the embers burned low and Lord Stark had almost finished with the smallfolk. Luwin wondered about the distance the guards kept from them still. He wished it was just lingering mistrust after the Citadel's treachery and nothing darker.
"Do you still want to learn from me, Luwin?" Marwyn asked suddenly, though he didn't face him. He was watching the white raven still. "Do you want to learn deeper of the mysteries?"
"… I think so."
"Well I need you to know so. Going in cokeyed won't cut it anymore. Not where we're going. Now with what we might be getting into."
Luwin felt alarmed all over again. "… What do you mean? Why would you say this?"
"Because that warlock or sorcerer or whatever it was had a cloak of flames, but underneath was a void. In all my learning and my travels, I only found three things that appear that way in the dream realm. It could be a deliberate seeming, in which case he or she or it is beyond us and possibly not human at all. It could be a dream dear to their heart, and therefore closest to the surface of their thoughts. Or it could be a wound." Luwin hadn't heard Marwyn so grim even while he was vowing revenge on the citadel traitors. "Substance is Substance, Motion begets Motion, and Consciousness suffers vacuums even more poorly than nature does. Connection, relation, that's how it exists at all. That thing will be influencing the dreams and thoughts of everyone around it and no mistake. I don't know how, I don't know why, I don't even know if it's doing it knowingly. Or at all, outside that dream specifically. What I can say, though, is this: the net it casts is wide. And while you were too put-upon in to ask anything of the wolf-pup, I was not so far gone. And what it told me is this: that thing was its sibling. And the 'old ones of the forest' had barred it from the Greendream because, in its own words, 'they think he will break everything.'"
The white raven stopped preening itself and hopped over the fire to land on Luwin's knee, though it was Marwyn its eyes were locked upon. What a strange and friendly bird, Luwin thought. Lord Stark had excellent tastes in pets, if nothing else.
Marwyn, bizarrely, returned its stare with one just as intense. "I am going to Winterfell after all. Either to treat with whoever that dreamer is, or to kill it dead."
"Dead! Dead! Dead!"
The raven flew away from them, back to the shoulder of the man whose letters it bore and whose food it ate. Lord Rickard was rubbing his eyes when the bird reached him. And then the man dismissed the last commoner, looked across the camp straight to Marwyn and nodded in the direction of his personal snow hut.
Luwin felt a puzzle he didn't know he was working on all but smash into his brain.
Marwyn saw the look on his face and laughed deep in his belly. "Hahaha! Ah. Thank you Luwin. Truly. It's that look of dawning realisation I live for. Cherish that feeling, lad. It will serve you well. Take it from someone who knows what its lack brings. Ignorance isn't bliss, no matter what priests say. Dawning realisation should always be your purpose. When things link up in a way never before seen, that's when we truly glimpse the mechanics of the universe. The results of logic, of natural progression? Boring! An expected result? Dull! An obvious next step? Bah! Where's the point in that? We want to see the unexpected! The strange and terrible! A dream may soothe, but our nightmares make us run and cry 'BEHOLD!'"
Easy for him to say. After this, Luwin didn't fancy he'll ever want to dream dreams at all! "You know what, no. Just no. No." Luwin grumbled, not even knowing what he was about to say until the words were out. "We've gotten far to accustomed to making plans based on suspicions and assumptions. I'd much rather act based only on what I know instead."
Marwyn laughed. It sounded startled, like a sleeping hound that had just been splashed with a bucket of water. "Oho! Indeed! Gorghan of Old Ghis once wrote that a prophecy is like a treacherous woman. She takes your member in her mouth, and you moan with the pleasure of it and think, how sweet, how fine, how good this is . . . and then her teeth snap shut and your moans turn to screams. Hah! That's what I like about you, Luwin. You have such wonderful common sense." The Mage pushed himself to his feet, though he paused before leaving. "You'll be Maester of Winterfell, I hope you realise."
All talk of dreams and prophecies and demons abruptly scattered to the seven winds. "What?"
"You'll most likely be Winterfell's maester, if anything at all survives of the Citadel's customs by the end of this trip." Marwyn had the gall to look surprised that Luwin hadn't known this. "Oh come now, lad. Who else could it be? Hother's got his own family loyalty and Qyburn is unfit."
Luwin was reeling. "But… I thought…"
"You thought it would be me?" Marwyn seemed far too amused for someone who'd just stated his plan to possibly murder someone in their master's employ. Oh gods, Marwyn planned to murder someone in their master's employ! "Luwin. Lad. Lord Stark's wife is on her death bed and his heir was almost murdered because his maester decided he knew better than him. Lord Stark wants someone humble, loyal and obedient. I can at most be one of those things, assuming I live to see the morn anyway."
Having finished his spiel, Marwyn turned to stomp after Lord Stark as summoned.
"Master, wait…" Luwin jumped to his feet, but found them locked in place.
"Sweet dreams lad," Marwyn grunted fondly as he walked away. "May they be cut and dry. But just in case they aren't, remember this: dreamers are aware of a lot more asleep than awake. That goes for you just as much as for anyone trying to make your dream their own."
The dark end to that conversation left Luwin feeling worried, fretful and completely out of sorts in every way he didn't have mind to find words for. He didn't even care about the strange looks being sent to him by the stark guards in earshot. The mage's words sounded like they had multiple layers of meaning loaded onto them.
Then it occurred to him that he might have just heard Marwyn's last words.
The horror and terror he experienced were beyond description. The despair he felt next was almost as terrible, upon realising that he couldn't do what he usually did in this situation, which was go running to the maesters for help.
Then he walked back his own thoughts and literally slapped himself.
He'd completely forgotten about Qyburn!