Lysa

She hurried down the corridor, trying not to sob with pain. The wretched old man had hurt her with his dagger, a long slash on her arm that was bleeding and which hurt. She sobbed for a moment – and then she remembered what it had felt like to see him die in front of her. She'd kicked him in the head twice, as hard as she could – and then pain had hit her.

As she scurried down the corridor she wrapped a piece of cloth around the wound and the hid it under her cloak. There was so much to do. She had a long way to go. Once she was safe in the Eyrie, once she had Sweetrobin back then things would be as they should be. He needed her. Only she could make sure that he got his medicine, only she could make sure that he was protected. He was a delicate boy – her delicate boy – and only she could take care of him. The medicine helped. Petyr had promised her that after she'd asked him for it.

Another wave of rage and grief shook her. Petyr. How could be gone? How? Why had the old man killed him? All those lies about money. Petyr would never steal! He was an amazing man. He should have been Sweetrobin's father, not that horrible old man.

She slipped down an other corridor and along a passage. She could smell fresh air – and then she was outside. Her party was waiting for her there, men and women that she knew could be relied upon. Petyr had found some of them and she wondered for a moment where he was.

Pulling up the hood of her cloak she got into the nondescript carriage. "To the Vale," she snapped at her attendant, who bowed wordlessly. "At once!"

The reins were flicked and the horses started to first walk and then trot. Back to the Eyrie. And then a raven to her idiot sister in Winterfell demanding the immediate return of Sweetrobin. With him at her side… well, they could be together at the Eyrie, and no-one would ever bother them. Ever. They would be together.

She pressed the cloth tighter against the wound on her arm. Damn that old man. She'd killed him though. He was dead. A giggle emerged from her mouth. Who could she marry now? Perhaps Petyr, now that she was free of the old man?

Wait… no. Petyr was gone. A sob ripped through her. Damn that old man. She sat there, confused for a moment. Who was dead again? Wait, they both were.

The carriage rattled across the flagstones. And then they were out of the Red Keep. She was free. Free of everyone. But she had to get her Sweetrobin back.

He needed her. She was his mother. Only she knew how important his medicine was.

Robb

He was pale and trembling as he watched the great Direwolf keen softly as she whelped. A lot of recent events had been… well, he felt as if he had started something that would have a different outcome to the world that had been in existence at the moment of his death. But the arrival of the Direwolves was something else. It meant that time had caught up with him. It meant that the months ahead might see the fate of Winterfell balanced as if on a knife edge.

And then the first Direwolf pup. Despite the wetness from the birthing fluids and the odd bit of blood he knew who it was at once. Grey Wind. His Grey Wind. He felt his hands shake as he looked at the trembling little form, which was being nudged and licked clean by his mother. Yes, it was him. His beloved Direwolf.

The others seemed to follow swiftly, even though he knew that it took longer than that. The memories were too strong, the emotions too heavy. So many images thundered through his mind. The news that Father had been arrested. The calling of the Banners. The terrible day when the news had come that Father had been executed by that little shit Joffrey. Whispering Wood. Oxcross. Theon's betrayal. And then… the Twins. The place where he had died.

He was shaking harder now – and then he felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up to see Father standing there with a look of deep sympathy. "Memories?"

"Aye," he replied with a wry smile. "Memories. Terrible ones – and worse."

"Understandable," Father said softly. "So – which one is yours?"

He pointed straight at Grey Wind, who was sniffing the air, his eyes obviously still shut. "Grey Wind."

"And the others?"

"Lady. Nymeria. Summer. Shaggy Dog. Ghost."

Father smiled. "Shaggy Dog?"

"Rickon was a bit literal. He's still just a child."

And then the world seemed to stop still and shake, because all of a sudden the Direwolf was shaking again and keening – and then another pup entered the world. Robb stared in shock. Another Direwolf pup? What was this? It was a little smaller than Ghost, who he'd always thought was the runt of the litter, and was small and light grey.

"That's new," he said dazedly. "There wasn't another one."

Father stared at the little direwolf as it was roughly cleaned by its mother. "The Old Gods are speaking to us again. I wonder who this one is for?"

He didn't know. And that both challenged him and scared him. The future was in flux.

Shireen

Maester Cressen was in what he often described as being a brown study as she watched him sit in his usual chair in the great hall of Dragonstone. She had always wondered what a brown study was and he had always smiled and said that it merely meant deep in thought.

So it was with a little bit of reluctance that she approached him, the book in both hands. He had told her to tell him when she as finished with her translation efforts, but she still didn't want to break into whatever it was that he was thinking about. "Maester Cressen?"

He looked up, almost startled. "Oh – your pardon my dear. I was lost in thought."

"In a brown study again?"

He smiled fondly at her. "Indeed. How can I help you?"

She placed the book on a small table. "I've finished it."

Maester Cressen blinked at her. "Already?"

She nodded. "It was very interesting."

"I see," the old man said as he leant back in his chair. "And what were your conclusions?"

She sat down carefully as she ordered her thoughts with equal care. "Is it bad of me to be glad that the Doom of Valyria happened and that those people don't exist any more?"

His eyebrows rose a little. "Why do you say that?"

"They were… unpleasant. Slavery. Working people to death in their mines. Conquering places to get more slaves and more wealth. Killing each other to try and gain power. Incest. I wouldn't want to live there, not the way that they were."

"Ah," Maester Cressen said with twinkling eyes, "But if you'd been brought up in Old Valyria, then you would have been brought up with their values – and you'd have thought them perfectly normal."

She thought about this. "I'd rather not imagine that. I know that they built great things. Valyria. The Freehold. Dragonstone, here. But they built it all on blood."

He looked at her and she could see that he was trying not to show too much pride. "Very interesting my Lady. You have a knack of seeing through things to the underlying truth. Very interesting indeed."

She smiled impishly at him. "Thank you." Then she paused. "Maester Cressen? The Valyrians built Dragonstone, but what was here first? The book said that they conquered it from the Lords of the Narrow Sea, but what did they want with the place? And who dug all the tunnels?"

"Ah," the Maester said, "Now that's a matter of ancient history. Let us consult the records." And with that he stood and led the way to what had to be one of her favourite places in the word, the part of the library that held the oldest of the books. He pored over the serried ranks of books with the titles picked out in flaking gold leaf, before finally selecting one. "Let's see how you are with High Old Valyrian."

She took the proffered book and opened it carefully on a reading desk. Oh, this was old. And the writing…. She squinted at it as she shifted his mind into the correct frame to read such an old script. Oh. This was ancient.

"Erm… 'And then… the Lord Velarys… did fall upon the… Sealord? Yes, Sealord Sarilt' – odd name that – 'and did kill a great many of his men and did… seize?... the island which he did…. Erm… recall? No, rename, Dragonstone. And he did… inspect yr – the – old tunnels and ask who had… delved? No, dug them and was told that the First Men had mined them for… dragonglass.'" She looked up. "This script makes my eyes hurt."

"Good. Good that you can read it, that is, not good that your eyes hurt." He sighed and took the book off her. "That's the only reference I've ever been able to find. Obsidian was mined here by the First Men. The oldest tunnels are very old indeed. But there are no carvings in them. No names. And who is to say what was where Dragonstone was when the Valyrians used their magics to build it?" He ran a hand over his face and Shireen looked at him worriedly.

"Maester Cressen, what's wrong? You've been worried for days now."

He smiled at her again. "Concerned, Lady Shireen. Not worried. Just… concerned. The Citadel has said that magic has returned and that every Maester must watch for signs of it. Especially in a place like this. Built with magic. Old, Valyrian magic. I have been… looking all over this place. Asking people about feelings. Dreams. And then there is this." He held up a small piece of paper. "From Winterfell. Asking about how much obsidian we can ship to White Harbour. As it was sent in the 'Old Days'."

She took the message and looked at it carefully. "Ah. What should we do?"

He shrugged. "Mining obsidian is… well, I've never known any obsidian miners, so I do not know how easy, or hard, it is. But I do know that in the lowest – and oldest – of the tunnels there are hundreds of rotted sacks filled with obsidian. Thousands of pieces that could be sent North. I have sent word to your Father, Lord Stannis, but I have already given orders for some of the obsidian to at least be placed in new sacks."

She thought about this. "Why would they need obsidian?"

This question caused him to pinch the bridge of his nose with finger and thumb, a sign that he was curious – and worried. "I have a suspicion. Obsidian has certain properties in the use of magic – or so it is written. And there is another record." He picked up another book and opened it. "This is a history of the Stormlands that I brought with me from Storm's End. And… there. Read that."

She looked down at the faint script. "It's very faded Maester Cressen."

"Aye. I'm having it copied out in a new book."

She peered at it. "Ye oldest carving upon the wall is that of a pledge: 'Glytterglass sent to ye Stark in Winterfell, in memory, warning and protection of ye ancient enemy'?" Shireen looked up. "Memory, warning and protection? What does that mean?"

He pulled at his nose once more. "I think it is something about the obsidian itself. I have been reading many of the older books." He peered at her severely. "Ones that are dangerous in the wrong hands and which will not be read by you."

Humph. She smiled slightly. "But-"

"Don't tell me that your High Valyrian is better than mine, either!" He followed this with a slight smile. "Yours is quite good. But on a more serious note, the books I talking about are indeed dangerous to one of your age."

She sighed and nodded. "I shall start on the next book you gave me then. Patchface has been very subdued of late and Mother has gone to King's Landing to be with Father. She turned a bit pink after that letter from Father. Odd."

Maester Cressen had turned slightly pink as well. "Your Father has had a slight… revelation apparently. I wouldn't wonder too hard at that. It's... complicated."

This was odd, but she nodded. Then she paused. "Oh, and you wanted to know if people had any odd dreams?"

"Aye." Then his gaze sharpened. "Have you had any?"

"I think so." She paused to recall the details exactly. "It was last night. I was in a forest of odd trees. Weirwood trees I think. And it was winter – there was snow everywhere. A man who looked like a thinner version of Uncle Robert was running after a woman with dark brown hair and grey eyes, who was being pulled by – I don't know exactly what. She was trying to tell him something, I know that much. And there was something else. Someone else, I think. It was… it was scary. White, with white hair and blue eyes, like stars."

All of a sudden Maester Cressen was very white himself. "Shireen," he said with real concern in his voice, "You need to tell me if you ever have such a dream again."