Sorry for the delay on this, but I have been fantastically busy of late and I will be going to two conferences over the next three weeks that will eat my brain. So - enjoy this for the time being!

Willas

He wanted to pace, but that would not have been a good idea. His leg would not allow for it – not at the rate at which he wanted to pace, anyway. He was still baffled as to what was going on. All he knew was that he needed to be both at Highgarden and somewhere North. It made no sense whatsoever and made him also fear that he was losing his mind.

Closing his eyes he leant back on the stone bench that he'd been perched on for the past ten minutes, after limping around the courtyard until his leg hurt too much to bear any more. Why here? What was it about this place? This small old courtyard with the weathered statue of Garth Greenhand, set next to the oldest part of Highgarden. And of course the Weirwood tree. The old tree, with the faded face carved into it.

Hearing the clack of a cane he looked up and then smiled slightly as his grandmother entered the courtyard. "I should have known that you'd be here," she humphed after a long moment. "You feel it too, don't you?"

He looked at her, slightly confused. "Feel what, Grandmother?"

The end of the stick was suddenly right under his nose for an instant. "Don't you start sounding like your idiot of a father all of a sudden!" She glared at him before sitting on a bench by the Weirwood tree. When she spoke again, it was more softly. "You feel the need to be here, in this place, don't you? And the pull North. Don't deny it Willas, I see it in your face. I cannot explain it, other than it must be a remainder of the First Men blood that flows through us both. And last night I dreamt a dream – such a dream that I have never had before. Garth Greenhand himself was talking to me, but as if from far away. I could not hear a word, but his face…"

Willas stared at his grandmother in shock, as she visibly pulled herself together. "But what does this mean?"

She shrugged. "I know not. But I do know that something is happening. I can feel it in the air. So it seems can the Florents. Your fool of a father is complaining about them now. Something about sending a raven to Winterfell. And then there is the little matter of the raven from the Citadel, claiming that the glass candles can be relit. Your father laughed at the message. I did not."

Willas thought this over for a long moment. "Magic has returned then," he said musingly. "But why? And what must we do here?"

Another shrug. "What do you feel?"

"I need to walk," he replied, bowed respectfully to her, which bought him a thoughtful nod of acknowledgement, and then he left. Down the Old Bower Path, around the corner to the Gate of Thorns. And then around again to the Oldgate. But the pull was taking him in the other direction now and he turned and retraced part of his path, before descending a short flight of ancient steps and walking past the Spring Wall. Legend had it that once there had been a little spring somewhere in the area and indeed there was an old and faded channel that issued from one ivy-clad wall, but that had not flowed in centuries.

And so, following his feet and his senses, he found himself back in the little courtyard. Grandmother was still there and she looked at him with narrowed eyes as he limped back in. He closed his eyes and concentrated. I am here. What must I do? He could not explain why he thought those words, or who he thought them to – he just thought them.

Something creaked to one side and he opened his eyes and looked at the Heartwood Tree. This had been a Godswood once, a long time ago. Obeying some feeling that he could not explain he reached out and placed a hand on the tree. Nothing. And then he placed it on the carving of the face.

Death. Fire. Blood. Despair.

He jerked back. The smell of char and destruction had filled his nose for a moment and then the scent of the trees and the flowers had driven it away.

"Willas?" His grandmother was on her feet and was staring at him. "What is it boy?"

"I… I am not sure." And then he put his hand back to the same spot on the trunk.

No. No. This was a nightmare. The sky was filled with death. It was the dragons. Balerion the Black Dread was overhead, incinerating scores of his soldiers. There was fire everywhere, fire and death and scorched remains. His host was breaking, his sons were dead, the Lannisters were either dead or running. This was death and ruin. His sons were dead, oh why had he brought them to this terrible place? His pride, his foolish terrible pride.

He was going to die. He knew that now. The next pass would kill him. And so much would die with him. The knowledge of the Gardener Kings. The secrets passed down by his ancestors. Things that no-one else knew. He could hear the flap of those terrible wings and he instinctively reached for the little Weirwood pendant that his father had handed down to him. Gods of my ancestors, he thought, taking refuge in the old ways for the last moments of his life, the Old Gods, allow me one boon, one gift. Let one of my family know. Let the Garden bloom again. When the Starks sent the call, let the garden bloom again. What did the words mean? Explain to them. He pulled the pendant off his neck, snapping the chain and then he hurriedly stuffed it into the stone bottle of wine at his side, before hugging it close to him. Perhaps it might survive. And then the fire struck and he opened his mouth to scream for an instant before the darkness fell.

Willas fell to his knees and screamed. And then a mist seemed to fall over his eyes, a veil. He watched himself stand stiffly and then walk out of the courtyard, his leg suddenly obeying him. Grandmother was hobbling after him, calling out worried questions as others arrived, drawn by his scream, but he strode on without acknowledging them.

Down the path, down to the Spring Wall. There, where the old channel came out of the ivy-covered wall, he stopped. Drew a dagger. Cut the ivy. That was important, he had to cut it back. The stuff was old and thick, woody tendrils that snaked everywhere, but he hacked it back at the spot where the old channel met the wall. Others to each side helped him as a babble of baffled voices filled the air, but he ignored them all.

And then he saw the bricked up doorway. It was old, weathered, and scarred by the roots of the ivy. "It must be broken down." He didn't recognise his own voice. "Bring me a hammer." The veil before his eyes deepened for an instant and he swayed slightly, and then a gardener was pressing a rough two-handed hammer into his hand. He hefted it for an instant and then he swung. The bricks splintered and then he swung again. And again. And again. Bricks shattered and fell down – and then he saw the blackness on the other side.

More hammers suddenly appeared as others helped to open the doorway. He swung once, twice, three times more and then the doorway was clear.

"Willas?" It was his grandmother. "You have brought us to this place. You must enter it."

Still acting under this strange compulsion, with this veil over his mind, he stepped in. It was a room, about thirty feet deep and thirty across, with the channel ending at the base of the opposite wall. And there was a statue next to it, barely lit by the light coming through the doorway. He recognised it. Garth Greenhand, with one hand outstretched. At his feet was a shrivelled bunch of flowers and a small wooden pendant with a chain attached, and as he looked at it he remembered the battlefield that he had seen. And so he reached down and picked up the pendent, before placing it in the hand of the statue.

He could hear the voice of his father now, behind him, and his grandmother as she barked something acerbically at her son. The veil was fading fast now and he was starting to shake with tiredness. What was this? What was affecting him?

And then the hand of the statue seemed to close around the pendant, as stone eyes opened with red fire. Someone screamed behind him, and then three things happened. He heard a great voice shout: "Let the Garden bloom again! Send help to the Stark in Winterfell!" He heard the sudden gurgle as water suddenly started to flow from the spring that must have been behind the wall. And then he felt something happen to his leg as pieces seemed to realign.

He had just enough time to scream in agony before he blacked out from the pain.

Jon Arryn

Stannis Baratheon had a remarkably fine Myrish spyglass and he was using it now in looking at the ships in Blackwater Bay. After a moment he grunted in surprise and then snapped it shut. "Aye, he has returned," he muttered in a low voice that was barely loud enough to hear. "And he's worried enough that he's used smuggler's tricks to make his ship look different. He's stepped his topmasts a little differently and he's using different colour sails. Looks more like an old scow from Braavos now."

"Then he is worried about being recognised by someone in King's Landing," Jon muttered, before looking about carefully. That was the problem with the Red Keep, you never knew who was watching who. There might be half a dozen eyes on them right now. "Lead on."

Stannis nodded shortly and then led him down a short path to a flight of stairs, where they found a small group of men in Baratheon livery, all of whom looked as if they had been through the school of hard knocks before going to sea a lot. By the fact that one of them bore a close resemblance to Seaworth, if far younger, he could guess that they in the presence of one of the Onion Knight's sons.

"Where?" Stannis asked quietly.

"The Old Path," the boy replied, before leading them off down another set of stairs that snaked downwards.

"Devan Seaworth," Stannis muttered to Jon as they pattered down the stairs. "Squire to me."

They kept heading downwards, by stairs and passageways that Jon had never seen before in his life. "Who found…. This passage?" he panted after a while, conscious that his legs were starting to complain.

"My father, my Lord Hand," Devan Seaworth called up softly. "But I pray that you keep silent, if you please. There are other passageways and tunnels throughout this place and not all of them are known, by us at least. And we know that the Spider has his own paths though these places. 'Tis best to pass through in silence, 'lest we attract attention."

This was a good point and he nodded in acknowledgement before concentrating on where to put his feet. Down and down they went, their way now lit by lanterns with cunning faces that revealed just a little light and which provoked a snort of amusement from Stannis. Smuggler's lanterns unless he missed his guess.

Down again, until his feet wanted to fall off his legs and then, mercifully, a level section. And then suddenly he could see light ahead and smell the sea and hear waves. He walked forwards and then blinked as a little jetty came into view, cunningly hidden behind rocks at the entrance.

"My Lords, my father will be here soon. My men and I will guard the tunnels. Please do not raise your voices too loudly – we do not know who else has been here recently." The young Seaworth held up a small piece of wood. "Something from a wooden chest, unless I miss my guess. Someone has been here in the past month. We will guard."

As the men walked back to the tunnel Jon looked at Stannis. "You have good men in the Seaworths."

"Aye," Stannis replied as he stared at the entrance. "And I wish that I had more of such men."

Jon sighed a little and then sat upon a handy rock. This was a secret place for secret deeds. He wondered how Seaworth had discovered it. And then he wondered who had built it. And of course who used it now. Varys? Probably. The Spider knew so very many things, secret things. Secret places.

And then he heard the sound of oars. No, wait, an oar. A shadow appeared on a rock and then a small dinghy waggled its way into view. A man in a cape and hood was sculling it into the cave with the swift sure strokes of a man who knew how to use an oar. As he entered the cave Jon placed a hand on his dagger, just in case – but then relaxed as the man in the boat pulled down his hood. Yes, Seaworth.

The former smuggler navigated his way to the jetty, moored the small craft quickly and then leapt ashore. "My Lord Hand," he greeted Jon, before bowing to Stannis. "My Lord."

"Welcome back Ser Davos," Stannis said quietly. "We had word of your safe arrival in White Harbour. Why then this sudden need for secrecy?"

"Because of what happened on the voyage to White Harbour my Lord," Ser Davos said just as quietly. "My Lord Hand – there was a failed attempt at abducting your son."

Shock roiled through him. "What? By who?"

"A man named Mikon, who joined here in King's Landing just before we left. My Lord Hand, we left under such conditions of secrecy that I would have thought that no-one could have learnt of the departure of your son. But someone indeed found out. Someone talked."

And now shock was replaced with rage. "Indeed, and I will have their head!" He closed his eyes for a moment to repress the rage. The attempt had failed. Robert had made it to White Harbour and Lord Manderly had sent him North to Winterfell with a strong guard. Hopefully a raven was winging its way South from Ned to tell him of the successful arrival of the party. "Go on."

"The man Mikon is on my ship, under close guard. And while he knows not how someone knew that your son was being taken North, he does know who gave him his orders."

There was something in the voice of the Onion Knight. Something that made him pause for thought. "Who was it?"

"The Master of Coin. Lord Petyr Baelish."

The shock was so great that he took an involuntary step back, his legs shaking. "What?"

"I am afraid that you heard me correctly, my Lord Hand. T'was Lord Petyr Baelish who gave this man the command. He disabled the chain pump and planned for the ship to lose an anchor, which would have forced me to seek the nearest port. Well, that would have been in The Fingers. Where he then planned to set a fire on the ship, to knife Lord Stark's man and then escape in the confusion with your son."

This made no sense. No sense at all. There had to be a mistake somewhere in that line of thinking. Surely such a thing could not be possible. "But… he is one of my bannerman! Not a major lord, but he is of The Vale! He has sworn allegiance to me!"

"And yet he spreads coin in this city, and buys influence, working towards something," Stannis said heavily. "My Lord Hand, Baelish is a man who I have never trusted. There is much about him that is false. But still, this is… beyond belief. There must be a reason for this. We must question this Mikon."

"My Lord, here is his full confession," Seaworth said, holding out a letter. "As written down by Lord Manderly, who was most angry to hear of this plot, and witnessed by myself and Lord Manderly's son. And as this Mikon pointed out to me, if he is placed in a black cell then he will die with a few hours. He said that Lord Baelish has eyes everywhere, paid with by good coin and soft threats."

Jon felt his skin crawl for a long moment. "Perhaps then this Mikon must be kept somewhere safer. Dragonstone perhaps?"

"Aye," Stannis said after a long moment. "I agree my Lord Hand. Ser Davos, do you need to provision your ship, or can you sail there on the tide?"

"We have enough to get there my Lord."

"Good," said Stannis – and then he frowned. "By the look on your face there is something else. What is it?"

Ser Davos cleared his throat slightly. "My Lords, there is indeed something else. Another plot, a murkier one, was discovered at White Harbour."

Jon stared at the former smuggler again. "A plot against who?"

"Your son again. When we discovered the plan to abduct him I doubled the guards on your son onboard my ship. In the process some of his medicine was knocked over and ruined. When we got to White Harbour I took the rest, along with your son's nurse, to an apothecary that I know there, one Barlan by name, so that we could obtain more. But when he examined it he said that it was not medicine, but instead a form of poison. Something to weaken the lad and make him dependent on it – and that it caused fits of shaking."

So great was his horror that Jon's legs nearly gave out beneath him and Stannis and Ser Davos had to escort him to a low rock to sit whilst he collected his scattered wits. "Poison?" He eventually gasped. "Someone has been poisoning my son? My heir? My little boy?"

"Aye my lord," Ser Davos said gruffly. "I told Lord Manderly all – here is his letter." And he handed over another letter. "He delivered it to me just before we sailed. A copy has also gone to Lord Stark in Winterfell. The good news is that my lessening the dosage of the powder every day it is possible to wean your son off it, and just such a process had started when I last saw him. By the time he gets to Winterfell, if he is not there already by now, he should be free of it."

Jon opened the letter hurriedly, brought it close to his face and then read hurriedly. Yes. Yes, by all the gods, old and new, it was true. He saw how his hands shook as he lowered the letter and then saw the look of sympathy that both men were giving him, Ser Davos openly and Stannis in the form of various facial tics.

"My son will indeed recover," he said weakly. And then the rage came back. "Who could have done such a thing? To poison a child?"

"My Lord Hand," Ser Davos said quietly. "Where did your lady wife get this medicine from?"

He opened his mouth to reply – and then he paused. "Lysa," he said, after a long and stunned moment. "My Lady wife said that she was given it by a Maester that she consulted."

"Did you ever talk to this Maester? What was his name?" Ser Davos asked shrewdly. "Speaking as a father myself, my Lord, I have every wish to help you to get to the bottom of this matter."

He thought about it for a long moment, his wits all over the place. "Nay," he said slowly. "Lysa never mentioned who he was. Just that the medicine would help." And then various horrible suspicions raised themselves in his mind. "Wait… wait… Lysa knew Baelish. They were always close when they were children as he was brought up at Riverun – their fathers knew each other. What if she got it from him? What if this too is a part of whatever plan he has made?"

And then something truly terrible entered his mind. "She was frantic when I told her that young Robert was going to be fostered in Winterfell. Angry beyond belief. Almost mad with anger. But then she calmed down after I bade Baelish talk to her in an effort to calm her down. Why? What did he say to her? If he was plotting to abduct my son then… No. No, this cannot be!"

The other two men looked at each other and then fell silent As Jon put the pieces together in his head and came to a conclusion that he did not like. "It seems," he said in a calm but brittle voice, "That I cannot trust my wife on this matter. Not until I have talked to her. As for Baelish… well, he belongs in a black cell, guarded by men that I trust absolutely. And then I can question him about what he knows. Ser Davos – you have my deepest gratitude in this. Your devotion to duty and your discretion are most appreciated. You will have a suitable reward."

The former smuggler flushed slightly and then bobbed his head in salute. "I have but done my duty, my Lord Hand. I could do 'naught else. Now, if you will excuse me my Lords, I must get back to my ship and make for Dragonstone."

"Safe passage," Stannis said, and then they both watched the man leave the way that he had arrived.

"Lord Baratheon," Jon said heavily after a long moment. "Given the… great matter that we have been looking at, I have had an unpleasant thought. Should anything happen to me before it comes to a conclusion and before I can ascertain what has been happening within my own household, I think that I must need to place a codicil in my will. You are a man of some legal substance I am told. Will you witness it? I mean to place my son more fully in the hands of my goodbrother and his wife, should the worst happen. Until I know better, I cannot trust my wife."

Stannis nodded shortly. "Aye, I will, my Lord Hand."

Which just left the long trudge back up the stairs. Fortunately Devan Seaworth could see that he was tired and had them pause more frequently on the journey upwards, until they finally reached the Red Keep. Once the matter of the codicil was completed in a small side room, and Stannis Baratheon had left with his men, Jon walked tiredly back to the Tower of the Hand, where his men greeted him with concerned looks.

"Some food and wine," he told Quill after the man had asked if he needed anything. He waited in the topmost room as he waited for it to be brought to him, his mind astir with worry and conjecture. So, he was dancing on the edge of a narrower blade than he could ever have imagined. Peril now lay to every side. But his son was safe. That much was certain.

Now – who could he trust? Truly trust? Because the stakes were now so very high. When Quill slipped in with a plate of roast chicken and a small flask of wine he nodded his thanks and then raised a finger for the man to pause.

After he had swallowed a bite of chicken and a gulp of wine he wiped his mouth and then beckoned for the man to approach. "I need the services of a man who can be devious and if need be very violent," he whispered. "A man who when bought stays bought, by me at least. Someone intelligent, who knows that the Hand of the King can deliver far more than a man – no matter how rich – on the run. Do you know of any such man?"

Quill, who had raised his eyebrows briefly during this, showing how surprised he was, paused for a moment and then frowned. "I believe that I might just know of such a man," he said eventually. "He is a sellsword and he has done some work for many people on many things, without saying much about it. Given a sufficient… incentive… he can be trusted. I like him not, but he has his talents."

"Is he in King's Landing?"

"Not too far from it. I believe that he has just finished a job killing bandits just to the South."

"Excellent. Bring him to me. What is his name?"

"Bronn, my Lord Hand."