Apologies for the delay on this. Work has been a tad manic of late.

Tywin

He went through the books quickly but carefully. There was a lot of information to take in and as always a lot of instructions to send out. He liked this time of the day. Just him and the books, with a pile of outgoing messages quickly piling up to one side. People to be paid. People who owed him money. People who needed to be encouraged to repay their debts. And others who needed an… abject reminder perhaps, if they were not already aware that it was dangerous to cross him, of what happened to people who got on his bad side.

Besides, it helped to take his mind off the nagging feeling that was still weighing him down. That pull North. That feeling that he needed to be elsewhere in Casterly Rock. That irrational, illogical, maddening pull.

It had to be ignored. That way madness lay.

He worked on, looking at the books, the accounts, the details that were so vital to the proper administration of the Westerlands. And then, finally he was finished. He locked the books away, picked up the messages that needed to be sent, deposited them in a box to one side for the Maester and then strode out. He needed a light lunch.

Instead he found his brother waiting for him outside. Kevan looked… disturbed. "Tywin-"

"Not now."

"Yes, now. I must speak with you."

"And I need to eat. So if you must speak then speak and walk."

His brother rolled his eyes a little and then followed him. "We must speak about what is going on."

"Mmm? And what is going on?"

Kevan scowled at him. "Why do you continue to ignore what has happened? Tywin, the ravens from Oldtown are clear. The glass candles can be relit. Magic has returned, Tywin, magic."

He felt a muscle flutter in his cheek and he sternly willed his face to obey his instructions. "That has yet to be proved."

"Yet to be… Tywin! My brother, why do you continue to deny this?"

"Because it has yet to be proved!" He snarled the words furiously before catching himself and taking a deep breath as they passed down a long corridor.

"The glass candles can be relit. And then there was that voice. That voice Tywin – do not deny that you did not hear it. The Others return – Stark needs our help."

He stopped for an instant and then waved a finger under Kevan's nose. "A mummer's trick! Or something contrived by a Faceless Man from Essos, to panic us into… something that I cannot see."

Kevan stared at him, with wide eyes. "Tywin… why can you not see clearly on this matter?"

Tywin worked his jaw for a moment and then resumed his walk towards lunch. "Because I remember Aerys and his madness. He mentioned dragons a great deal. There were times towards the end of my Handship when I wondered if the tragedy of Summerhall would be repeated under my nose. Talk of dragons, talk of magic."

He waved a finger in the air. "Magic… is inconstant, from the tales. Unpredictable, despite what some people might claim. And it breeds madness. Summerhall again. How many dead, because of that? As magic dwindled so did the dragons of King's Landing. Perhaps it was right that it did so. It left the Targaryens reliant on steel and blood and good counsel. When that good counsel was insufficient, when the steel broke, when the blood failed… well, that saw the end of the Targaryens.

"If magic has returned, then the rules of the Game of Thrones have changed, brother. Changed to a different level. A more unpredictable level. A return of dragons… would destabilise things a great deal. Obviously."

They had reached the room where he had arranged to have lunch and he poured some wine and then nibbled on a piece of fresh bread. Kevan sat to one side and peered at him as if he was trying to discern him properly. "You are worried about dragons?" His brother said eventually.

"No, I am worried about fools who think that they can wake dragons, or rather their eggs. Once word gets out that magic has – apparently – returned, every idiot in the Seven Kingdoms will be dreaming up fanciful and dangerous schemes. Did you ever hear the tale of how Varys became a eunuch? You shouldn't hear it when you have a full stomach, you'll vomit every mouthful out. I have a very good source on that matter. No, if magic has returned we'll get every kind of insanity."

Kevan nodded slowly. "And dragons can be dealt with," he muttered. "And Stark's obsession in the North?"

Tywin felt an odd cross between a sneer and frown cross his face. It unsettled him. "I know not. I want to proclaim it madness, as the Others are no more than a myth, but I still cannot explain it. Perhaps Tyrion will find out something at Winterfell. If he can keep his nose out of a bottle, a book or a brothel that is."

His brother winced. "You do him a disservice. He is your son and dwarf though he be, there is a fine head on his shoulders. He has an excellent mind, Tywin."

Tywin paused to glower at Kevan. "He cavorts with whores, he drinks too much and above all he is a dwarf."

"He is also your heir. Well, once you officially announce it."

Tywin shook his head. "Jaime will be my heir. Once I get him out of that damn white cape that is. Tyrion? Never."

Kevan sighed and then looked about for some food of his own. "Very well. And now a different issue. Perhaps two. The Voice? Can you explain that? Truly?"

"A mummer's trick!" Tywin said in a voice that was part snarl and part sigh. "As I said."

"I heard it. As did you. In different parts of Casterly Rock, Tywin. T'was no trick. Something has changed. Something has called us. The blood of the First Men is within us brother. It may be diluted by Andal blood, but it is still there and it cannot be denied."

He ate slowly, the taste of the food and the wine almost dead in his mouth. "If so," he said eventually, "It was a call from the dead to those who no longer care. The Others are a myth so therefore Ned Stark needs no help from us. Will get no help from us."

This got his brother peering at him again, as something flickered in his eyes. "The North and the Westerlands used to be very close Tywin. What if this call is for the repayment of a debt?"

He stopped eating for a moment as his brain processed this. It was a good point. Then he shrugged. "All debts we owe the North have long since been paid. Now – your other point?"

"I want to reopen the North Passage. I… feel a need to go there."

He regarded his brother with a steely glare. "No." He grated the word out with great finality.

"Tywin-"

"I said no! We are to pay no mind to the fripperies and the fancies that our father held so dear."

Kevan leant forwards. "Tywin, there must have been a reason why he liked that passage so much. And that room. The runes there-"

"Are meaningless! And besides, our father was a weak-minded fool! Now that is my final answer! Get out!"

His brother sighed again, directed a glare of his own at Tywin, but then obeyed his order. As he left Tywin gazed Northwards in the general direction of that damn passage. Then he set his jaw and looked away. No. It would not do. Besides – anything that fascinated his father had to be pure idiocy.

Daenerys

She stood on the balcony on the terrace and stared out at the sea. She was looking North, she could tell that. How exactly she knew that however was a different story and a harder one to explain. She felt this... pull. Which confused her. She'd never felt it before.

Viserys, she knew, felt it as well but he had his own theory about it. It was the pull of destiny, he said, the pull home to King's Landing. Home. She often wondered where that was exactly. She had no memories of Dragonstone, where she had been born, and all she knew of King's Landings were tales and drawings. Those were supposed to be the places where the Targaryens were supposed to be based, were supposed to call home.

She didn't really know where home was. Or what home was like, other than the house with the red door in Braavos, from many years ago. She and her brother had gone from city to city, all over Essos it seemed, with their tiny retinue. Mother had died giving birth to her, Ser Willem, old dear kind Ser Willem, was dead. There was little gold and it seemed little support for her brother's claim to the Iron Throne.

She worried about him. Viserys was a proud man but also increasingly bitter. He had great dreams, but lacked the means to do anything. She'd heard the reports of what the littlefolk called him. The Beggar King. She often wondered if he knew. She daren't tell him. She was too afraid of angering him.

But now things were a little different. Here they were in Pentos, in a great manse that overlooked the sea, under the protection of Magister Illyrio Mopatis, a powerful and very rich merchant. And also a very fat man. He hadn't always been so, because there was a statue of him in armour on the grounds, where he looked, well, almost handsome. Such days were long since passed.

Dany still wasn't quite sure what to make of Illyrio Mopatis. Yes he was very generous and had taken them in and promised them his full support. But why now? Why not earlier? Had it been because Viserys had been so young at the beginning? Boy-kings, she knew, seldom prospered. But why not take them in from the start, until Viserys had grown up? Had it been the danger from the Usurper's assassins? The manse was guarded by Unsullied, the almost emotionless eunuch-soldiers.

And there was the little matter of the man's eyes. They seldom showed much emotion, no matter how much he smiled at her. She wasn't sure how much she trusted him. But Viserys did trust him, so she remained quiet.

She sighed a little and then walked to the little grotto what she had discovered on her third day at the manse. It was quiet there, in that little shaded spot by the trees. Few people went there she knew now, although there was a path that snaked by it, heading down to the sea.

Sitting on the old stone bench she stared North again. She wished she knew why she felt this… pull. It was odd. She also wondered why Mopatis had been so bemused these past few days.

Hearing footsteps and voices she looked around. Someone was on the balcony and the wind was carrying a muttered conversation. Ah. It was the Magister.

"-must be patient," she heard. "He has been patient all this time, he can be patient a little longer."

"He will not like it, but I will tell him," said a resigned and sibilant voice that had a peculiar accent to it. "When should he come?"

There was a brief silence. "In a month's time," Motapis said eventually. "We should have more news by then. Our friend in King's Landing will have sent more word about what in the name of the Seven Hells is going on. And we will have more news of the Dothraki and their sudden move East. I do not like this… this change. There is something in the wind that makes me uneasy."

A gurgling laugh. Then the other voice: "Magic has returned, so you should be uneasy. We should all be uneasy. Word has come from Qarth that the House of the Undying… is no longer dying." A pause. "It is a warm day, but I see you shiver. Are you suddenly cold?"

"You would shiver too, if you had ever seen that accursed place," Motapis growled. "Warlocks. Warlocks and mad men. Anyway – tell Connington to wait. Especially as the Company of the Rose are going home to Westeros. There are just enough men there who might recognise his face. They always were obsessed with the home that they exiled themselves from. More madness."

Another pause, before the other voice spoke again, this time in a lower voice that Dany could barely hear. "And what of the Beggar King and his sister?"

"Not here," Motapis replied almost as quietly and then the two moved away, as she could tell by the sound of receding footsteps.

She sat there for a while, puzzling through what she had heard. She did not doubt that she had not been meant to hear it, the mention of the cruel nickname for her brother told her that at least. Connington… that name seemed familiar. And what was the House of the Undying? And what was this talk of magic?

Once she was sure that there was no-one on the balcony she walked up there and then looked at the Manse. Oh. Viserys was pacing about in front of it, deep in thought and with his hands behind his back. She approached him cautiously. "Are you well brother?"

Viserys started slightly and then stared at her. "Dany! There you are. Have you heard?"

This made her cautious. "Heard what?"

And now her brother's eyes and face came alight with a strange and almost terrible glow. "Why – word has come from the Citadel! Magic has returned, Dany, magic! Do you know what that means?"

Bewildered at his vehemence she shook her head.

"Dragons, Dany, dragons. If magic has returned then so can dragons. And a Targaryen king needs Targaryen dragons. I will instruct Magister Motapis to bring me the biggest dragon egg that he can find. Because I will be able to hatch it!"

She smiled at him weakly as her brother continued to babble, but all of a sudden she was deathly afraid of him. And she did not know why.

Tyrion

The Twins was… well, it wasn't Casterly Rock. It was impressive in its own way, but the home of the Freys, vast family that they were, was basically not a patch on Harrenhall or Casterly Rock.

That said, as the only crossing point over the Green Fork for hundreds of miles it had a number of points top recommend it. Anyone trying to besiege it would be in trouble right from the start – you'd need to assault both ends at the same time to make an impact, plus you'd need to make river traffic untenable.

Tyrion peered at the place as his party approached the South end of the Twins. Oh, he could see why some regarded it as one of the strongest fortresses in Westeros. But then he could also see the weak points. Break the bridge connecting the Twins and you'd halve the job of taking it. Siege engines would work, from the right place. Plus there was a forest to the North. Lots of huge trees there. A few axes, get the trunks to the water - childs play.

He frowned to himself a little. Where had that come from? His thoughts had been decidedly martial of late. Perhaps it had been all the reading that he had done about the North. The links between Casterly Rock and Winterfell had once been far better than they were now. Well, Father had always been too busy rebuilding the respect owed to the Lannister name to really spend the time needed to butter up the other Lords Paramount. His comments about Mace Tyrell could best be described as derogatory and at worst woundingly accurate.

A small party of horsemen were waiting at the gateway and he lifted a hand in greeting at their leader, a youngish man with brown hair and a certain look about him that proclaimed him to be a Frey.

"I bid you welcome to the Twins. You are Tyrion Lannister?"

"I see that word of my approach has spread. Yes, I am Tyrion Lannister. My men and I are on our way to Winterfell, post-haste. I must therefore use your splendid bridge, with your permission, Ser…?"

"Ser Tytos Frey, at your service. Passage is not a problem, not for the son of Lord Lannister. However, my grandfather, Lord Frey, has expressed a desire to talk to you."

Tyrion swapped a look with Emmon, the man that Captain Harklin had chosen to get him to Winterfell. And a damned good man he was too, one able to think on his feet and organise things in a trice. Emmon raised his eyebrows at him and he shook his head. "Get the men fed and watered. The day is only half done and we have a long way to go. I will talk to Lord Frey." Then he turned to Ser Tytos – such an ironic name – and smiled. "Lead on Ser."

The great hall at the Twins was… odd. There was a coldness to it that was not of temperature but rather of the soul. The main source of that coldness seemed to be Lord Walder Frey, an ancient man who sat on his great black chair, with his carved representation of the Twins on it, and stared at him over the table. There was the remains of lunch strewed about the table, and Lord Frey was busy slurping wine from a goblet.

The overall atmosphere was one of fear, namely fear of Lord Frey. Who had eyes that glittered with malice the moment that he caught sight of Tyrion. Malice and something else. Greed. So this was the infamous 'late' Lord Frey.

"So you're the dwarf," Lord Frey barked slightly wetly from his cup, before placing the goblet down and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. To one side a women looked at him timidly. She had long brown hair and a look of abject docility. "Lannister's son. I thought that you were shorter."

"Lord Frey," Tyrion replied grandly. "Yes, I am indeed Tyrion Lannister, the son of Lord Lannister, the Lord Paramount of the Westerlands and the Warden of the West."

Those greedy eyes stared at him. "Big titles," he muttered. "Your father wasn't a bad Hand. What did he do to get a son like you though?"

"Speaking for myself, he must have an uncommon amount of luck to get a son as intelligent as me. May I ask why you wanted to see me Lord Frey? Other than to exchange veiled insults that is?"

"Curb your tongue dwarf," growled a man with a black beard to one side. "Show some respect."

Walder Frey leant back in his chair and beamed at Tyrion. "My bastard son, Black Walder. He has a temper, little Lannister."

Tyrion eyed the man scornfully. He seemed to be angry, foolish and prideful. What a combination. "I'm sure he does. Now – what do you wish to talk about my lord?"

"You seek passage over the river to get to Winterfell. Why?"

Tyrion looked at the men through slightly narrowed eyes. Something was going here, there was a current of something else at work. "House Stark seeks information about the Others. About… the past. House Lannister wishes to help. So my father has sent me, with many books and information. We are travelling fast. Is that what you require in terms of information?"

Lord Frey leant forwards again. "No. I like it not when ravens fly for no reason. Something is going on and I do not know what. The Brackens and the Blackwoods have stopped their great feud and sworn a great oath to protect the land against the Others. Which are a myth! There are reports that some great force of men have forded the Green Fork downstream. Which should be impossible. And now you arrive. Many mysteries Lannister. Many mysteries."

He absorbed the information with a frown. "Blackwoods and Brackens united against a legend? Lord Frey, this is passing odd. I have been at sea these many days. I know little about what has happened of late. However, I can say this much – I am simply on my way to Winterfell with books about legends. No more and no less."

The glittering eyes assessed him and as before found him wanting. "The smallfolk are abuzz," Lord Frey grumbled. "Especially those with the blood of the First Men. A lot of idiots are babbling nonsense about the Stark in Winterfell. Brackens and Blackwoods making a pact? Absurd! And now you come. A Lannister. A tiny stunted thing, but still a Lannister. And now the Maesters say that the glass candles can be relit and that magic has returned. Superstitious balderdash."

Excitement stirred in his mind as he thought about the implications. Magic? This was fascinating. What else had he missed during his travels? What else had happened?

Grumbling from the chair diverted his attention and then he realised that Lord Frey was looking at him. "I see plots, little Lannister. Plots and alarums. All around me. And I do not like it."

"And yet," Tyrion said as he clasped his hands behind his back and then sent a glare back at the revolting old man, "All I seek is passage to Winterfell. On a mission from my father. Lord Tywin Lannister." He thought about adding the words "Who has a very long arm at times" but then decided not to deploy such a phrase.

Lord Frey glared at him again with hooded eyes, thought for a long, long, moment and then shrugged a little as he picked up his wine again and slurped noisily from the goblet. "Send word once you find out what's going on. Are you married?"

Tyrion blinked at the sudden change of topic and then suppressed his bewilderment. "No, I am not married. Why do you wish to know?"

The Lord of the Twins gestured at the women at the table to his left. "I've got a lot of daughters. Always trying to get rid of them by marrying them off. Want to take a look and find yourself a Frey for a wife?"

The various women stirred briefly as a mixture of emotions ran visibly through them, only to meet Lord Frey's glare and then go silent and still.

Tyrion resisted the temptation to grab a goblet and then drink a lot. "Sadly, and with all due respects to the lovely ladies of your house, I have to leave at once for Winterfell. And I must add that not to consult my father as to my choice of wife would be… unfortunate." Tysha's face came to mind for a moment and he suppressed it. However, something of that suppression must have shown in his face for a moment, because Lord Frey paled a little.

"Very well," the old man grumbled. "Go, dwarf Lannister. Go on your trip to chase myths and legends in Winterfell."

Tyrion bowed with just enough respect he felt the horrible creature in the chair deserved and then strode out in as fast but dignified a pace as he could manage. This was a place to avoid in the future.