Tyrion

It was a glorious morning. Albeit a morning that had consisted of him sneezing a great deal early on due to the cloud of dust that was now rising from the inn, but a glorious morning nevertheless. He looked at the inn as it slowly receded into the distance and then looked ahead again and preened more than a little.

The inn was now under new management, although that wasn't really his fault. No, it was instead the fault of the former landlord, a man who it seemed had been incapable of dealing honestly with anyone at all at any time. Short weight, bad food, non-payment… it was a long list.

And it had therefore been a bad idea to try and cheat one of the merchants who sold food to the inn, still less the formidable wife of that merchant. Especially to then double the folly by leering at her and then suggesting that he 'comfort' her.

The result had been her fist slamming into his jaw and breaking it, sending him insensible to the floor, his head entering the slops bucket as his body came to rest. The resulting fight with his people had been short and curtailed by Emmon, who arrived on the scene and knocked the landlord's chief flunkey out with one punch of his own.

As things quietened down it was discovered that the landlord, full name one Edwyn Dickon, had his head in a full slops bucket and had apparently drowned. Which was such a tragedy. Well, everyone had had a moment of silence for him that might have been a heartbeat long, before proceeding to celebrate a great deal.

Anyway, given that the merchant and wife had been owed a great deal of coin by the late landlord, then that made them the new owners of the inn. Which they promptly took control of (as Tyrion and his party watched with great glee) and then started to clean up. Along the way, as things were cleaned, various things were discovered that showed that the late and increasingly unlamented landlord had also been a thief. In fact he had stolen quite a few things, given the cries of furious anger that had risen from various people.

Various other people had been grabbed and forcibly searched before being ejected – and yet more things had been found. Including some of the money that Dacey Surestone had brought.

Saying that she had been angry about this had been like saying that water was damp. A massive understatement. She had raged around the inn before vanishing. He eventually found her in the stables, feeding the thin mare that it turned out was hers.

"I can feed Wanderer more oats now," she had grumped when she saw him. "I have the coin that that thieving bag of pus stole from me."

He had winced a little at the description before bowing and leaving her to it. He had ordered fresh bedding for all his men and wonder of wonders he had not been bitten by anything when he woke up the next morning.

And now they were on their way again, on the road North to Winterfell. Dacey Surestone rode with them, clutching at what looking like a small chest covered in oilskin and glaring at anyone who got too close. Including him. So he had decided to charm her a little.

To tell the truth it was proving to be… interesting. She did not regard him as a freak at all. Instead she seemed to regard him as being something of a fellow scholar, to be regarded from a cautious distance due to academic rivalries. It was most odd.

It wasn't until they stopped for some food at noon that he finally got a decent conversation out of her. Once again there had been a hill nearby with a ruin of some kind at the top and he had finally given in to his curiosity and stumped his way up to look at it.

It seemed to be the remains of a building of some kind, built in stone. He looked around it and then tried to imagine what it had been. It was then that he heard the sound of footsteps and he turned to see Dacey Surestone looking at the ruins. "I was wondering what this place was," he called out to her. "I have seen many places like this on the road North."

A small smile quirked her face for a moment. "'Tis a place for a signal fire Lord Lannister."

"Call me Tyrion, please Lady Surestone. And Lord Lannister is my father." He looked at the stones again. "A signal fire?"

"Lord Tyrion then," she conceded. Then she gestured at the stones again. "We have not always had maesters and ravens here in the North, Lord Tyrion. There was once need for a chain of signal fires for ordinary messages. This would be…" She orientated herself as she looked at the horizon. "Red Hill. That's Broken Crag to the North and Crow's Claw to the South. And then… Surestone Peak beyond that." Her voice wobbled as she said those last few words.

Tyrion did his best not to look at her, knowing that she would not like to be reminded of any such weakness. He could tell that she liked to think of herself as a strong Northern woman. Then he frowned a little. "But surely I have seen more crags and other places then would be needed for a signal network?"

She looked at him and then smiled a little. "Ah. The Elder Crags, as the histories call them. They are places best defensible against the Others. Before the Wall was built this was a place of war in Winter, Lord Tyrion. The First Men had to defend themselves. Many skirmishes were fought here in the Long Winters of old."

Ah. "The Others," he said carefully. "Surely they are naught but legends?"

This bought him a snort."Then why build the Wall? To defend against Wildlings? I think not."

"But the Others have not been seen for thousands of years."

"Lord Tyrion," she said caustically, "Evidence of absence is not evidence of non-existence."

And this shook him. "You have read the works of Toron of Myr then?"

"Him and many others. My father would have been a Maester if he had not met my mother. He liked to read a lot. He taught me much." Her slight smile faded. "And who is to say that the Others have not returned? Not me. Nor anyone with the blood of the First Men in their veins. The Call has gone out Lord Tyrion. You will hear of it in Winterfell."

There was something about her voice that spoke to him of a terrible surety. An absolute certainty even. "The Call? And what was that you said about ordinary messages being sent? Have there ever been any extraordinary ones?"

She just looked at him, something burning in her gaze. "There have indeed. One was sent this past month. The Others come. The Stark calls for aid. You are needed." She spoke the words as if they were burnt into her heart.

And then he remembered that the same words had been spoken by that captain on the sea and that he had heard similar words said by others on the road. That the Stark called for aid. That the Others came. A river of frozen water slid up and down his back for a moment.

For a moment he recalled his dream. And also the moment that he had come awake in his bunk, at sea, at the start of this long journey of his. And the words... they blazed a trail in his mind. A trail of memory.

After a long moment he licked what were suddenly very dry lips. "My lady, will you ride with me? I feel the sudden need to hear more on this matter."

Ned

The selection of items in the secret room within his solar had long defeated him. So many odd things, little but every one of them had been of importance to his ancestors and therefore had to be of interest to him now.

He looked to one side and smiled a little. Howland Reed's reaction had been one of absolute shock at the sight of the room, followed by intense concentration. He had first looked at the little green figure, which he had then tilted his head at.

"I have heard of this," he said slowly, "I think that it is a key. But a key to what - I know not." Then he turned his attention to the bronze mirror. "And this... well, again, I have heard of things like these. Mirrors were said to be able to talk to one another. As long as you knew who held the other mirror you wished to talk to, that is. And when, that was another factor I believe. And I think that there are more of these around. But the strength depends on a few things - like the strength of magic."

That made him smile a little. "Luwin asked the Citadel about that. He was fascinated to learn that the glass candles can be relit. That magic has returned."

Howland nodded slowly at that. "I am not surprised at all by that. I did suspect it - especially after hearing the Call." And then he looked at the little cage with the hand - and he paled more than a little, before rallying. "We have one of these at Greywater Watch. But an empty one. Ned, do you know what you have there?"

"I have not the slightest idea."

"'Tis the hand of a wight. Well - a very dead hand."

Ned stared at the skeletal hand and then shuddered away from it. "Are you sure Howland?"

"Aye." He reached out and then brushed the dust from the front of the cage, revealing some writing in the form of runes. "See?"

Ned peered at the runes carefully. The runes were now clear and he frowned a little as he recalled his runelore. "Cage- erm, firm?"

His old friend smiled at him. "Almost. Cageproof. An old term. But one that is apt for this. The cage is said to slow down the process of rot. A part of a wight is placed in it, like a hand or a foot, and the cage's magic preserves it, so that it can be passed to the South, to prove that the Others have returned, that the wights exist."

Ned stared at the cage. His ancestors, he thought, were smarter than he had first thought. Then he set his face and pulled out his dagger and jabbed at the bones in the cage. They did not move at all. "Dead then. I will give orders to burn the bones."

"As you need to. The legends say that any part of a wight must always be burnt, even after it has rotted down into immobility. Or, in this case, bones."

He nodded. "A shame. I have sent Benjen North of the Wall to get the hand of a wight, so that proof could be obtained."

Howland stared at him in some surprise. "Surely Castle Black has one such cage, or knows of it?"

"Castle Black," he said sadly, "Has forgot many things, I fear."

Another long stare from Howland. "Forgot such things as?"

"The reason why the Wildlings are as they are. I think that originally that acted as scouts for the Wall. But when the Others vanished then the Night's Watch forgot the link. Perhaps the Wildlings did in part as well. And we know from some of the records that the Night's Watch seems to have forgotten what kind of weapons were – are – needed to fight the Others. We know that obsidian, or dragonglass, is a weapon against them. And we need a weapon. Legends say that the weapons of the Others would shatter steel as if it was made of glass."

Howland nodded slowly. "I see." Then he paused. "I take it that fire would work against them then, as some of the legends say."

"Aye," Ned replied. He leant back in his chair again. "I have done much thinking about that. We know that the Others have returned, so at some point I will have to call the banners against them and help man the Wall. We will need all we have against the Others. Obsidian, fire…but what else? What else can we use? I have pondered much on this."

A silence fell, as they both thought and then Howland broke it. "There is a reference in the records of Greywater Watch," he said almost reluctantly, "A record that is a fragment of a fragment. And it mentions 'swyrds mayde from ye fyre, ye fyre of heavens and of ye fire-wyrms'. I have no idea what that means. Yet it meant something to our ancestors and so it must have been important."

Something tickled at the back of his brain and he pulled at his nose with his finger and thumb as he thought about it. But then it was gone. "Something to think about and to consider," he said eventually. "In the meantime there is much for us to discuss. But perhaps later – you look about to drop old friend."

Howland smiled tiredly. "I am a little weary," he said in that flat voice that he could put on when he was dissembling a little. "Perhaps a little food as well?"

"I think that could be arranged," Ned replied with a smile. "And you haven't met Cat for a long time, still less some of my children. Come, let us eat."

Jorah

The difference between the statue of a young Illyrio Motapis and the man who now sat opposite him was quite astonishing, he thought as he sipped his wine politely. The wine was superb. The conversation was not. Motapis was calm on the face of it, but he could tell that there was something else broiling below the surface. Worry? Anger? A combination of the two?

"Varys told me that you were coming to Pentos," Motapis said eventually, narrowing his eyes at him. "To follow the Targaryens I believe?"

Jorah sipped a little more of the wine and then nodded slightly. "The more information I send to Kings Landing of their movements, the greater the chance of my pardon."

"Yes, I heard of your crime. You sold free men to slavers." The words still made his stomach turn over, but he had long practice now in keeping his face still.

"Something that I have long regretted."

"How is your wife?" More words that made him feel as if there was a cold knife in his guts.

"I have nothing more to do with her. She lives in Lys"

"Ah yes, the lover of Tregar Ormollen. I hear that she has expensive tastes. And that she is feared by his wife."

The cold knife transformed itself into sour vinegar. "I no longer have anything to do with her. Now – may I ask what you need from me?"

The Magister leant back a little and looked at him through hooded eyes. "You have certain unique skills. You speak Dothraki and you have ridden with the savages. And you are of the North and for the most part understand their peculiar system of honour."

It was the 'for the most part' that rankled, but he nodded slightly again. "What do you need those skills for?"

Motapis narrowed his eyes again briefly and then ran a hand over his chin. "I require your assistance on two riddles. The first is to find out why the Dothraki are all moving East."

This surprised him. "I thought that you had your own sources of information on the Dothraki."

The fat man fidgeted in his seat a little. "I thought I had too," he said eventually. "But it seems that my sources amidst the Dothraki were not sufficiently adequate to the task of finding out where they were going. And then I remembered that you have friends amongst the Dothraki. Including one Loros I believe?"

"Loros Onehand. Or perhaps Loros Silverhand as he will now call himself. A master in Myr made him an artificial hand with many implements. I met him on the road to Pentos."

"I know that you did," Motapis grunted. "I would very much like to know if he told you anything about why the Dothraki are heading East."

Jorah sipped his wine again as he thought very, very hard and very, very fast. The truth might well be the best way to play this. "They are not so much heading East as being drawn there, or so Loros told me," he said eventually. "He said that he could not explain it, but that despite the threat of being executed if his brother found him, he was still pulled East."

"To the Dothraki Sea? Vaes Dothrak?"

"Beyond that," he said and he saw how Motapis started a little in surprise at that. "To the Grey Waste."

The Magister sipped some of his own wine as his forehead creased in thought. "The Grey Waste? That makes little sense. Horses die like flies there."

He shrugged. "That was what Loros told me. He could not explain it. But he said that the Dothraki all feel what he felt."

A short silence fell as Motapis absorbed this. Finally he nodded sharply. "Very well. My thanks. There is something else that I want you to discover. The Company of the Rose is here in Pentos."

"I had noticed," Jorah replied dryly. "They seem to be trickling in."

"They have arrived in groups," Motapis scowled. "And seek passage to White Harbour. They say that their time of exile is over. I would have you find out why. Why now and not when the Targaryens were killed or driven into exile? I want you to find out for me, Jorah Mormont. For me and for Varys – and your king."

He mulled this for a long moment. "I shall," he said eventually. "Payment must be progress towards my pardon. I too want to go home." And with that he drained his goblet, nodded politely and took his leave.

A servant escorted him out and he noted that there seemed to be a guard – one of the Unsullied no less! – behind him at all times. He understood when he passed a window into a courtyard and spotted a young man with hair so blonde that it was silver sitting on a bench and crooning over something large and black on the bench next to him. It looked like a large stone, but any further perusal was cut short by the sound of the guard advancing menacingly – so he smiled and walked on.

Leera was waiting for him at the doors when he passed through them and she stopped looking worried the moment that she saw him.

"I was concerned about you," she said quietly as they walked down the hill and into Pentos. "That man has a reputation. And an increasingly bad one. He likes to make men and women dance like puppets. And he likes being rich to the point where he will do anything to stay rich."

That fitted in perfectly with his own impressions and he smiled at her. "Fear not. I already had part of what he wanted to know. The other half involves a talk with some people from the Company of the Rose. I need to ask some questions that I was already going to ask to be honest."

She peered at him. "You want to know why they are going home?"

Slightly surprised he nodded.

"Jorah, you can be a very unsubtle man at times. You have been wondering the same thing yourself."

He laughed softly and then they both wandered down the hill. As they walked he pondered. "Perhaps you could come with me? Four ears are always better then two."

"She looked at him and then smiled. "Whatever I can do to help you, I will."

They heard the crowd long before they reached it. The square was largely taken up by a great assemblage of people and horses and as they passed along the edges of it Jorah felt a great pang of homesickness. It was soon evident that not only had the Company of the Rose kept as much as possible to the clothing of the North – adapted for warmer climes, obviously – but they had also kept their accents. He had no idea how they had managed that – perhaps persistent contact with the North in terms of messengers and merchants – but he was unprepared for how the sound of so many people speaking in the accent of home would affect him.

He came very close to crying at one point, but repressed it by blowing his nose and then pretending that the sun had been in his eyes. Not that he had fooled Leera, who had called his attention to a small plant growing out of a nearby wall that had also allowed him to turn away from everyone and pull himself together.

When he turned back he shot a wry smile at her and then they both moved on into the crowd. And as they went the more and more puzzled he became. The Company of the Rose was made up, it seemed, of very sensible people who knew that the North would be nothing like Essos. Far colder for a start. They did not seem to know where they would all live. Nor did they know how they would live, at first anyway.

But they were all sure that they had to go home. It was perplexing. They seemed to trust their leader however. The Stone, they called him. And some even extended that a little to call him Krats the Stone. Which confused him, because Krats was not a Northern name. There many in the crowd who had Northern names – Jory, Benjen, Brandon, Brann, Jeor, Domeric, Roose, Theon, Rodrik, Rickard, Torrhen – but Krats was an odd one. Perhaps something inspired by Essos? But that also made no sense. The Company of the Rose seemed to stick to the old ways and the old names. The Old Gods too, by the way that some of them spoke.

Naturally he got drawn into a few conversations here and there – his accent was enough to make people realise that he had been to the North recently – and he was able to pass on a few pieces of advice here and there. The weather. The feel of snow. How important it was to talk to people about when Winter arrived. The need for good salt in Winter. Little things, but cumulatively important.

And they all seemed to agree on one thing. That they were going home for a reason so obvious that they did not need to talk about it.

It was all most perplexing and even Leera, he could see, was doing her best not to show her puzzlement at the entire thing.

Eventually she wandered off to get some food for them both and as she did Jorah strode off to one side to view the entire assemblage. It wasn't a company of the size of others. The Gold Company were far larger and also far richer. The Second Sons were less rich than the Gold Company and larger than the Company of the Rose again. They were also currently very badly led.

There could be no comparison with the Bloody Mummers as the latter were composed of the scum of the earth. Especially the number of women and children circulating the square. The Bloody Mummers' attitude to women and children could be… vile.

Then he paused and stared a little harder at the square. Oh. The reports were true. There were women in mail in places and he could see two women mock-fighting with wooden swords. Interesting.

"You seem very interested in our company." He looked over and saw a man dressed in brown breeches with a white shirt watching him. He had dark hair and grey eyes and he reminded him of someone that he could not put his finger on.

"I have never seen the Company of the Rose before. I have seen many other sellsword companies but never this one. Especially as I am from the North myself."

The other man crossed his arms and stared at him. "I know that you are. You are Jorah Mormont. Once of Bear Island."

A chill went through him for a moment. "You are very well informed."

"I am the leader of the Company of the Rose. It is my business to be very well informed. The lives of the men and women in the Company depend on it."

He eyed the other man carefully. "You are the Stone. Also known as the Krats."

The other man pulled a slight face. "One is a name that became a title. The other… will soon be lost."

This was odd and he must have shown this on his face, because the Stone laughed softly. "Everything will change when we go home." He peered at Jorah again. "I have often wondered what to say if you had sought us out before this day. If you had asked to serve with us. Before our return I would have said no."

For a moment Jorah felt that chill again. "For what reason?"

"Your crime. You sold free men of the North into slavery. I cannot even describe the magnitude of such a thing. As you know full well."

He stared at the sea on the horizon bleakly. "Love makes sane men mad. I was in love. I was desperate. I was insane. I committed a terrible crime. I did not come to my senses until afterwards." He remembered that day. Well, bits of it. He had gotten so drunk that Lynesse had been hysterical with fear that he was going to die.

The Stone narrowed his eyes. "You regret what you did then?"

"I do." And that was true.

"Ah, but because it was wrong, or because you were discovered in your crime?"

That was good question and he looked at the Stone sadly. "Would it be wrong of me to say both?"

The other man looked at him closely and then smiled slightly. "It would be human of you. None of us are what might wish to be. And your actions since coming to Essos have shown your regret. You have not served with the more… revolting, to be honest, sellsword companies. Which would have been a problem for many here."

Jorah suddenly felt as if he was walking on thin ice all of a sudden. "A problem?"

"Your cousins would have been very angry with you."

And this baffled him. "Cousins?"

The Stone pointed at the two women who had been mock fighting earlier and who were now waving mugs of what looked like ale at the grinning children around them. "The Terrible Two. Lyra and Alyse Mormont."

Tiny ants seemed to climb up and down his spine. "I have cousins here?"

The Stone seemed to find that very amusing, given his grin. "Oh yes. Most of the houses of the North have cousins here. Did you forget why we were founded?"

Why had his father not told him of this? "Which houses?"

The Stone stared out at the crowd. "House Mormont, as you know now. House Umber are the tall group over there. House Karstark. Somewhere in here is a thin-faced man who tells terrible jokes who is a cousin to that cold streak of piss Roose Bolton."

Jorah stared at them all, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. Two questions were on his mind. He voiced them both, the first one the most important. "Why are you going back to the North?"

"Because we have to. We are drawn there. Did you not hear the Call?"

"The Call?"

"Ah. The distance is great and some heard it louder than others. It woke me from my sleep and alarmed my wife and children in the process. Others… just felt the need to be elsewhere. In the North. It calls to us all. It overrides all other things, all other oaths."

The tiny ants on his spine were suddenly joined by a great host. "The pull home. The need to be back in the North. I feel it too."

"Ha. I did wonder. But you did not hear the words then?"

"Words?"

The other man leant forwards a little and his voice became urgent and fierce. "'The Others come. The Stark calls for aid. You are needed.'"

Shock roiled through him. The Others? Stark called for aid? "How is this possible?"

The other man shrugged. "He is the Stark in Winterfell. There must be ways of telling these things. It has been a long summer – a very long summer. Winter is coming."

Jorah ran a hand over his chin and then finally asked the second question. "So what house are you?" And suddenly he feared the answer.

"The Stone is my title. My forefathers have led this Company from the start. We were the lodestone for the company. And that became shortened to just 'The Stone'. And as for my name…" He looked at Jorah again, his eyes blazing. "My first name is Edric. My second name for the time being is Krats. When I return home everything will change back to what it was. Think on that for a moment."

He did. And then he looked back at the man, his eyes very wide. "You are-"

And then Leera suddenly arrived, panting from running. "Jorah!" When she saw The Stone she paused, rocking on her feet. "Your pardon." She strode up to Jorah and then hissed into his ear: "I think that Daenerys Targaryen is in the crowd – if she is discovered there will be trouble!"

Jorah sighed. Life had suddenly become a lot more complicated.