“Are you troubled my Lord?”

Maester Bertram was only a year older than his lord, but looked many his younger in recent times. Lord Walderan’s face was lined with stress, and the dim light of the fire illuminated a man whose eyes seemed lost. The lord smiles slightly as the Maester walked in.

“Perhaps I am Maester.”

He rose to his feet gradually and walked towards a table with a Barrel of wine. The Maester watched as he filled his cup with the sweet red drink.

“Can I be of some help my Lord? In such times of trouble I find that sound advice can be of great use in relieving them.”

The lord nodded. He had declined invitations to the weddings in Casterly Rock. The Lannisters and Reynes had not objected but it had surely been a slight.

“Take a seat then Maester, a cup of wine if you will”

The Maester nodded and accepted the wine. He pulled a seat from the window and sat himself across from the Lord, near the steadily dying embers of the fire. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, Lord Walderan did not believe in the luxury of pillows.

“So what might be the cause of your troubles, my Lord.”

He spoke slowly, watching his Lord's face as he spoke.

“I have received dreams. Messages perhaps.”

His eyes darted across the Maesters face, searching for any sort of sign. Doubt? Perhaps he felt the Maester might mistrust what he was about to say. Fear? Should the maester tell the world that his Lord had gone insane?

“In the dream, a voice appears to me.”

The lord hesitated, taking a swig from his cup.

“I’ll be blunt Maester, the voice in my dream tells me of misfortune to come to my house. As it speaks the Father walks towards me, his arms open to receive me. As he approaches me he begins to crumble, his arms first, becoming black and falling to dust until all that embraces me is the choking black Coal.”

He eyed the Maesters cup. Bertram had not been thirsty, and had no particular taste for wine, but he took a sip as if to calm the Lords nerves.

“The Mother follows the Father, she carries a bundle in her arms, which she hands to me. Inside it is a pup, dead mind you. Bite marks across its broken body. Gifts from its brothers the voice tells me. Finally…”

Walderan stopped and swallowed heavily. He sunk back into his chair and his eyes dropped, staring deep into the cup of wine.

“And finally I look up. The Mother’s face is rotting away. Before my very eyes I see skin become bone. Eyes, once caring, become little more than black holes. It speaks a word, what I cannot recall, and then I am falling. I do not fall for long before I awake in a sweat.”

Walderan dropped silent, his eyes did not raise from the cup. Maester Bertram did not say anything for a some time. A cold breeze chilled him slightly and he rose to close the window, before turning and resting a hand on his Lords shoulder.

“Lord Walderan, there is not much I can say beyond that it does no good to dwell on Dreams. I know you a Pious man but urge you not to read anymore into these night terrors.”

Bertram returned to his seat and leant forward. He was not a man of notable belief in the Gods. The realm of science and reality. What he could see with his own eyes and explain with his own mind. That was what Maester Bertram liked to deal in. He knew his lord received (or believed he received) messages from the Gods, and that his convictions were strong. He may not convince him, but he might stay his mind in place.
Lord Walderan finally stirred in his place.

“Perhaps”

He mumbled.

“If My Lord would like I can put together a tonic to help his sleep?”

Lord Walderan nodded, and Maester Bertram rose to his feet.

“If that should be all I shall take my leave My Lord.”

He did not respond.

Bertram woke with a start, shouting from the Courtyard. He rose steadily, and glanced out the window, men rushed, buckets in hand, across its stones and into the old sept. He glanced at the windows, light danced behind the stained glass, leaping from left to right in a hypnotic pattern.

“Fire”

he muttered. His eyes bolted open.

“Fire”

He leapt from his bed, with the energy of a man much younger than himself, and quickly dressed in a robe before running quickly down the stairs and into the courtyard. He ran towards the sept, dancing between men in mail and cloth running between the well and the Sept. Men shouted directions around him

“Septon Erwin is still inside.”

“It is much too late for him now, we have to stop the fire spreading”

Bertram stopped beneath the great sept, the oldest building in Tarbeck hall, alight with flame.

“Should I pay no heed to this as well Maester?”

Lord Walderan stood beside him, his eyes filled with tears, both of rage and sadness.

“My Lord I did not…”

“Did not what Maester, mean to insult me?”

The Maester shrunk back. His lord was taken by anger and frustration, there was little he could do but slow the bleeding.

“My Lord I assure this is no message”

“What else could it be, Maester. The pride of my house lays aflame, and a good man, a holy man, burns with it.”

He took a step forward, Maester Bertram feared he might jump into the burning flames but instead he fell to his knees, praying.

“No Maester, what could this be but a message from the Gods.”