Chapter 16 : The Bell at Wickhall
Two days after leaving the Fossaway abode, the road began to change. The round, generous green of the Reach slowly gave way to paler hills and long fields of silver-green grass that moved in sheets beneath the wind. Low white-stone walls ran along the road, old and sun-worn, dividing pastures where sheep grazed among yellow weeds.
Ash trees appeared more often now, their grey bark smooth as bone, their leaves whispering in a drier voice. Beyond the hills, far to the south and east, the road would eventually bend toward rougher ground, toward the Dornish Marches.
By the second day, the Fossoway fields were only memory, though the shape of that memory remained warm in Alysaane’s chest. The breakfast laughter, orchard lit up every evening, Rowan’s hand closing firmly around hers, Rickon’s babbling, Raymun presenting polished green apples like tribute.
One of the horses had begun to suffer, at first it was only a slight unevenness in its step. By midday, the animal had begun to breathe harder than it should have, its sides working too quickly beneath the saddle. Lyonel dismounted twice to run his hand down its legs, checking for heat, swelling, tenderness.
“It may only be strain” Dunc said, crouched beside the animal’s foreleg. “Or a stone bruise” Lyonel muttered, lifting the hoof and scraping out packed dirt with the edge of a small knife. “Road’s been uneven since morning.”
Alysaane stood a little apart from them, a strange unsettling feeling was taking over. She could heard them behind her, but the sound reached her strangely, as if through cloth, the land ahead seemed to pull at her attention. She started moving forward, walking a little ahead while Dunc and Lyonel kept their attention on the horse and Egg fell into step beside her.
The road dipped curving down toward a narrow stream crossed by a white stone bridge. She had stopped on the near side of the bridge, her eyes had fixed on the middle stones, “There is a crack” she murmured, Egg turned and asked, “What?”
Alysaane took a few slow steps onto the bridge, then there it was, near the center, a thin dark line through the stone, half-filled with old moss, running like a crooked vein beneath her foot. A little girl’s voice whispered softly from somewhere impossible. It looks like lightning.
Beyond the bridge, the road climbed gently again, and not far ahead, ash trees stood in a loose line leading toward a stark white keep, a watchtower appeared on ridgelines.
White-stone walls, weathered almost silver in places, gathered around an ancient beacon tower at its heart. The tower stood above the rest of the keep like a pale finger held against the sky, crowned with a bell tower over the gatehouse and a small iron frame where a beacon might once have burned.
They had slowly stepped off the bridge now, Egg watching her curiously. Beside the road, just beyond the stream, an old ash tree leaned over a low stone wall. The wind moved through them, and for one brief, impossible moment, Aysaane heard a little girl’s laughter, breathless and bright, carried on a swing rope creaking overhead. Her fingers tightened against her cloak, “There used to be a swing” she murmured.
Egg glanced at Alysaane, then back at the trees, “Alysaane?” he asked quietly. She shook her head and moved ahead.
Dunc and Lyonel followed some distance behind Alysaane and Egg. “She is favoring the left” Dunc muttered frowning down at the mare, “She needs rest.”
“There is a keep ahead.” Lyonel nodded his head towards the keep. Banners hung from the walls, newly shaken out, their cloth catching the sun: a tall white tower crowned with a golden flame on a smoke-grey field. At the base of the tower, a little black wick burned in the embroidery.
“That is Wickhall, I think.” Dunc followed his gaze, shielding his eyes with one hand against the sinking sun. “A Hightower seat, no?”
“A branch of them,” Lyonel said. “Not close enough to inherit Oldtown unless half the Reach falls into the sea and the gods get creative. But old blood, old pride. The Hand’s sister is wed into this branch, if I remember right.” Dunc’s expression tightened, “The Hand?” instantly being concerned about the little prince.
“I do not like being near the Hand’s kin but the mare does not care about our discomfort with politics.” Lyonel said glancing toward the keep again. They continued toward the village that had gathered itself around the road before the keep.
Small stalls had been set up near the outer road: a woman selling ribbons, boys carrying baskets of flowers, a man unloading barrels from a cart, maids in rolled sleeves hurried through the yard outside the walls with bundles of linen and flower garlands. Guest horses and carriages were tied near a stone trough. More banners lay folded over a cart, waiting to be hung.
A villager came from a nearby stall, wiping his hands on a cloth, his eyes went immediately to the mare. “She’s not stepping right,” he said, “May I?” Dunc nodded so he crouched, feeling along the mare’s leg with practiced fingers.
“She needs shade, water and no weight for a while. There’s a stable beyond the bridge, outside the keep wall. Old Merro keeps it. He’ll know better than me.” The old man explained standing up straight.
Lyonel looked toward the keep. “Will he take strangers?” The man snorted. “This week? He’ll take anything with legs and coin. Wedding guests have been arriving for days. Half the yards are full.”
Dunc nodded toward the banners. “What is the celebration?” The villager’s face shifted, “The heir is marrying this weekend” he said, “Lord Garmon.”
“Garmon Hightower?” Lyonel asked. The man looked faintly impressed, “Aye. The old lord’s son. Should have been wed some months back, but there was death in the family, so they delayed.” Dunk’s hand stilled on the mare’s neck. Lyonel glanced at him, then back to the villager. “Death?”
The villager’s mouth pulled down. “A sister, they say. She had been gone from home many years, and then when they were finally bringing her back for the wedding but misfortune struck on the way. No one truly knows what befell her, never a clear tale once grief and rumor start drinking together.” He shook his head.
The villager kept speaking, “Anyway, wedding’s on now. Guests already filling the place. Guards are sour as old milk, so mind yourselves at the gate if you mean to ask for shelter.”
“We need only the stable,” Dunc said. “Aye, follow the road over the bridge and keep left before the main gate. Merro’s yard sits under those ash trees.”The man pointed. Lyonel thanked him with a coin. Dunc began leading the mare forward again. Lyonel followed, but his eyes looking for Alysaane and Egg.
Alysaane and Egg were far too close to the entrance now. Lyonel looked ahead and frowned. “Why are they at the gate?”
The bell tower above caught the sun, and the sight of it sent a strange cold through her. Looking up at the bronze bell “It rings before the gate opens” she said softly. Egg turned to her sharply.
For one heartbeat, nothing happened then the bell rang. A single deep note rolled out, the sound struck the air and spread over the road, over the ash trees, vibrating through the stones beneath their feet. Egg froze turning his face sharply toward the bell, then back to her, “How do you know that?” he whispered.
The guards at the gate noticed them before Dunk and Lyonel could catch up. Three men in smoke-grey and white turned sharply. One of them stepped forward, hand resting near the hilt of his sword, “Halt.” Egg moved to Alysaane’s side before she could answer, “We need only speak to someone about our sick horse,” Egg said, a little too loudly. The guard’s gaze flicked to him, unimpressed, then to Alysaane, whose eyes had not left the gatehouse stones, “Names and business” the guard demanded. Egg lifted his chin. “You heard my business.”
“I heard a boy speak out of turn.”Teh guard dismissed him, Egg’s face darkened at once. The guard stepped more firmly into Alysaane's path, “You. Woman. State your name.” Egg snapped, “Do not bark at her.”
“Is she deaf?” The other guard mocked. Alysaane blinked, but the guard’s words did not settle into meaning quickly enough. “Step back” he ordered and reached to push her away from the threshold.
Alysaane caught his wrist and the guard grabbed for the edge of her cloak as she pulled away. In the brief struggle, the clasp near her throat slipped loose. Her cloak slipped back and her red hair tumbled loose into the late afternoon light. The wind caught it at once, lifting strands around her face like flame and through the red, bright and unmistakable on the side of her hair, the thick white streak she so often kept hidden beneath pins and folds, shone free. Egg grabbed for his arm. “Let go of her!”
Then hoofbeats sounded from the road behind them, a small party was approaching from the western lane. Three riders and two men on foot, dust on their boots, a grey-and-gold cloaks on one side of their shoulders. At their center rode a man, his smoke-grey doublet embroidered in white and gold, his auburn-brown hair wind-tossed, his face drawn with the exhaustion of a groom whose wedding household had turned into a battlefield of guests, flowers, servants, tempers, and endless demands.
Garmon Hightower had the look of a man who had spent the morning solving other people’s problems and had no desire to find another one waiting at his own gate. As he reined in “What now?” he muttered, not loudly enough for everyone, but with the bone-deep weariness of a man who meant it.
One of his men gestured toward the gate, “My lord....” Garmon swung down before the explanation came, brushing dust from his sleeve with controlled irritation. “If this is about the flower carts again, I will personally throw them into the stream.”
The guard turned quickly. “My lord, these strangers...” Garmon's eyes went first to Egg bristling like a little rooster, and Alysaane half-turned with her cloak fallen back and his mouth tightened.
“Stand down,” he said to the guard, “I said stand down. We have guests arriving before sunset and I will not have shouting at my gate.”
The guard stepped back, jaw tight. Garmon rubbed a hand across his brow, tired and annoyed, then looked again toward Egg. “We are preparing for a wedding. If you are guests, present your names properly. If you are travelers seeking shelter, you will wait until I decide whether we have room. If you are in trouble....”
Alysaane turned to face him, her red hair shifted over her shoulder and the white streak caught the lowering sun. Garmon saw her and the color left his face. He stared at her as if the earth had opened and returned a ghost.
Alysaane stared back at him, breath trapped somewhere between chest and throat, for a moment she saw only the man then the light caught the faint scar near his forehead, almost hidden at the hairline.
She could hear a sound of a girl crying so loud it almost rung throughout the keep, a boy falling backward, blood between his fingers, and still crawling toward her when adults rushed. Don’t take her. Please don’t take her. She didn’t mean it.
Alysaane’s breath vanished and her knees nearly gave way. His lips parted, but no sound came at first then he took one step toward her, as if approaching a ghost he had loved too much to fear, “Oh gods” he whispered.
Alysaane’s fingers trembled at her sides, the bell rang again above them. He moved closer, eyes fixed on her face, searching for the child beneath the woman. “Little flame?” he whispered, the nickname breaking on his tongue, “Is that you?”
Her lips parted, “Gari...” she breathed. The man flinched, his eyes filled with disbelief so deep it looked painful. Alysaane took a step back at once, terrified by her own certainty, “No” she whispered.
She stumbled but Lyonel's arm caught around her waist, steadying her firmly against his side, “I have you,” he said low, for her alone. Alysaane gripped his sleeve as if the road had fallen away beneath her. Lyonel had just reached the gate, he had noticed too late that she and Egg had gone ahead, then seen the guard reach for her, seen the cloak fall so he had rushed to intervene.
Lyonel’s gaze cut toward Garmon, “Enough!” he said, voice hard, “What did you say to her?” hedemanded, voice low and dangerous. Garmon barely heard him, he stepped forward again, desperate now, “Alysaane,” he whispered, and the sound of her name from his mouth nearly broke her, “It is me.”
Garmon reached for her hand, as if she might vanish if he failed to touch her. Alysaane gasped, up close, the scar on his forehead was undeniable. Garmon looked down at their joined hands, and a sound left him that was almost a sob.
Lyonel stepped forward sharply, “Take your hand off her!” Garmon did not let go but he looked at Lyonel then and Lyonel saw a man shattered beyond pride. “Ser,” Garmon said, voice breaking, though he had no idea who Lyonel was and no breath left to care. “That is my sister!” his grip trembled around Alysaane’s fingers, “That is my little sister.”
Dunc arrived behind them with the sick horse, breath uneven from hurrying up the road, “What happened?” he asked but no one answered. Lyonel stood frozen, still half in front of Alysaane, his anger arrested by the impossible words.
And above them, the bell rang again, each note falling over the white stones, the ash trees, the cracked bridge behind them, and the childhood Alysaane had not known she was walking back into until it had already opened its gates.
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