Ned

The direwolf was nursing the pups as he looked into the expanded stall. The little mewling bundles didn't look like much, but based on what Robb had told him of Grey Wind's exploits on the battlefield they could be formidable fighters. They'd been suckling on the direwolf's teats earlier and now they were a slowly subsiding heap of sleeping figures. He smiled down at them. He'd assign to the children in a few days, once they were a little older. The issue of that final pup was still niggling at him, but he thought he had the answer.

The great head of the direwolf swung towards him and he once again engaged in one of those staring competitions with the creature that he'd been having recently. It was almost as if it could read his mind at times – and that gave him pause for thought.

"The blood of wargs runs through my veins," he said softly. "But how did they do it? How can a man swap minds with a wolf?" The direwolf tilted its head to one side slightly, before making an odd 'huff' of noise, before carefully standing. It nosed the pups, sniffed at them and then padded over to the door way and looked into his eyes – before looking to one side.

He also turned his head and saw Jory Cassel hurrying towards him. "My Lord!"

"What is it Jory?"

"Horsemen approaching! They bear the banner of the Dreadfort!"

Ah. Roose Bolton. "Admit him. And have you seen Robb anywhere?"

Jory pointed at Robb, who was sparring with Jon and Theon again.

"Good. ROBB!" He followed the roar with a wave of his hand to join him.

His eldest son stepped back and stared at him, before throwing his practice sword at Theon (who almost dropped it) and running towards him. "Father?"

"I need you to go to my solar and get the Fist. Clear your head at the same time, because Roose Bolton has arrived."

Robb's eyes flickered and he set his jaw a little, but he then nodded shortly and took off at a run. Good. The lad had a good mind for such things. He sighed and then set his own jaw. This would be an interesting conversation. Then he paused. The direwolf was walking by his side. He looked at it for a moment and then shrugged a little. Yes, that might help.

Roose

He had to admit to being a little nervous as he rode in through the main gates of Winterfell. There was a lot riding on this. The future of the Boltons was at stake. It was just him and Domeric now – no other Boltons lived. Oh, there were some cousins here and there that might make a claim if he and Domeric were both killed right there and then, but they didn't bear the name.

He dismounted – and then he froze, just for a heartbeat. Ned Stark was walking towards him – with a direwolf at his side. A huge direwolf. He'd read Domeric's letter about the night the creature arrived several times, mostly with bemusement. It sounded almost too bizarre for words.

He no longer thought that. The direwolf walked next to Ned Stark as if it was his protector, as if he had raised it from a pup. But it was full-grown. On the other side stood young Rob Stark, who normally looked like a Tully but who today looked like a stone-faced image of his father. He schooled his face as he stepped forwards to meet them, before going down on one knee, his awestruck men following his example.. "Lord Stark, House Bolton stands ready to face the Long Night. Command us."

"Rise, Lord Bolton." He stood. Ned Stark was looking at him, with a look on his face that seemed to be concealing something. "Welcome back to Winterfell Roose." It was only then that he saw the huge mace at Ned Stark's waist, and he thought furiously for a moment. What was that? Where was the usual sword he bore?

"Thank you Ned," he replied as they clasped forearms. Whatever it was Ned Stark was thinking, the look on his face had gone. "I think that we have a lot to discuss."

"We do indeed. But perhaps not with my friend here." He turned to look at the direwolf, which tilted her head at him and then huffed a little. Before it padded off back to wherever it was going to it stared at him, a long and intent stare. A stare that made him nervous for some reason.

"My solar, I think," Ned Stark said and then led the way there. As they walked Roose looked about and at one point caught sight of Domeric in the far distance, talking to a small boy on a horse.

"Why the new mace?" Roose asked as they entered the room and partook of bread and salt. Then he paused. There was a doorway to one side that he didn't remember from previous visits to Winterfell, and every table seemed to be covered in books.

Ned Stark pulled it out and hefted it in front of him and as he did, by some trick of the light, Roose seemed to see a flash of red in his eyes for a heartbeat or two. "It's not new at all," he said quietly. "It's old. Very old. This is the ancestral weapon of the Starks. This is the Fist of Winter."

Roose stared at it in disbelief. No. No, that was impossible. That had been lost, long centuries ago - hadn't it? No Stark had bourn it in... how long again? He cleared his throat. "Truly?" He hated the way that his voice seemed to catch a little. He was Roose Bolton. He made people nervous with the quietness and intenseness of his own voice. He did not get all shaken up by the presence of the weapon that the Starks had once wielded in battle against the Others - and also the Bolton Kings of old. It was the weapon that had united the North. And it was a symbol of Starls authority.

"Truly," Ned Stark said with a certain amount of quiet intent. He placed it to one side and then sat at his desk, before leaning back and fixing him with stare that made his skin crawl for a moment. "We need to talk, Roose. As you know your son Domeric has asked for the hand of my daughter Sansa. I have to tell you that I considered the matter most carefully before giving my consent. Especially given this other matter. The one involving your bastard son, Ramsey Snow."

Roose nodded shortly. "A bad business, that."

Ned Stark leant forwards a little. "More than bad, a crime in every sense of the word. His actions were unforgivable."

He made himself unclench his fists a little. "He was mad." He stated the words simply, but with the feeling that he was treading on very thin ice all of a sudden, that there was a lot at stake right at this instant. "I found his journal in his lodgings. If it can be called that." No, it had been a collection of mad scribblings. "He wrote out his plans. He hated Domeric - wanted to kill him if they ever met. He envied him his position as my trueborn son. He resented me as well. He wanted the Dreadfort. And wanted to be... powerful." He said the word carefully. Oh yes, Ramsey wanted power alright. And the crown of the Bolton Kings. Mad - but a dreamer.

And dreams like that were very dangerous, especially on a day like today.

Ned Stark looked at him, his eyes searching Roose's face for something in it... and then he leant back again. "Well. He is dead now. So the circumstances of his life should be laid to one side. Such as the matter of his birth."

Part of him wanted to snap that the honourable Ned Stark had a bastard of his own, but the more sensible rest of him buried that part hastily. So instead he just nodded shortly.

"Roose," Ned Stark continued, "I wrote to Lord Redfort about Domeric, asking his opinion on him. I would have done the same of anyone who sought to marry one of my daughters. He replied that Domeric was a good and honourable young man."

Perhaps more Redfort than Dreadfort, Roose thought wryly and then buried that thought as well. He still had that feeling of thin ice under his feet. Yes, Domeric was a good lad. "I am glad to hear it."

"You should be, for it was part of what convinced me to allow the marriage. The other was the fact that Domeric swore an oath that he would never harm or betray Sansa. And he swore it on the Fist of Winter, of his own volition. I did not suggest it at all and was surprised when he did so. But he still did it."

Shock and then nausea roiled through him. Domeric had sworn on the Fist? Something must have broken through the impassive look he usually wore on his face, because Ned Stark raised an eyebrow at him. He mulled it over and then replied. "There are... tales... about the Fist of Winter, Ned. About the import of oaths sworn on it." He hesitated for a moment. "A Bolton once swore an oath on it and then later broke his word. He died inside a month."

A second Stark eyebrow was raised and then lowered. "Well then. Domeric knows the potential cost. I am satisfied though. Are you?"

He thought very hard and very fast. Here was the danger point, the moment that he had been thinking about. His son wanted to tie himself to House Stark in such a way that would make it very hard to unbind. And the news of the oath... well, Domeric was now committed. And he knew that his son had different views on the future of House Bolton than he had. Did that matter? Should it matter? There was a weight of history and tradition and influence behind him, but on the other hand there was the very survival of House Bolton at stake. And the other threat as well.

"I am." For an instant he thought that he could hear a howl outside the walls of the solar and he wondered if the direwolf had uttered it.

Lord Stark smiled briefly and then leant back in his chair for a moment, before standing and pouring wine for them both. "Then we are agreed." They clanked goblets and then he drank politely. He seemed to be on surer ground again and he was glad that sweat wasn't roiling down his face, because when Ned Stark had stood, then for a moment his face had been in shadow - and red fire had blazed for an instant in his eyes. The Old Gods were here. Here in this very room.

"We need the North to be united," Ned Stark said quietly after drinking some of his own wine. "Especially as the Others have returned."

"Aye," Roose muttered, shivering a little. "What is the latest news? And how did you hear of it?"

Ned Stark paused and seemed to think very deeply for a moment. "It's a long story," he muttered after a moment. "But to cut a part of it short... nay. First I must tell you something. I saw you staring at the doorway over there. It leads to a room that my ancestors built. A place that held records and artefacts from the days of the First Men."

He coughed a little. "There is a similar room in the Dreadfort," he confessed. "Filled with things that I don't understand."

"My father never told me about the room." Ned Stark said the words with a certain amount of gritted teeth and he stared at him as a consequence.

"He didn't..."

"Oh, he told Brandon, on his coming of age, or so we think. But I came of age in the Vale, at the Eyrie. And then..."

"Your father and brother died," Roose breathed. "Murdered by the Mad King." He felt paler than he had ever felt in his life, as shock took over. Oh, by the Old Gods. Damn that mad man. Damn him to the lowest hell that existed. "Then you knew nothing? About what to look for?"

"Nothing. But... I had had a warning. From the Old Gods themselves. The Others awaken. I have seen their home, in a vision. GreatJon Umber brought the Hearthstone to Winterfell. And that allowed me to send out the Call."

He nodded, remembering the moment that he had heard it. The shock of it. Oh, the shock. He'd almost thrown up. And the impact on his retainers... well, the Call had been heard in the Dreadfort. But... the Old Gods? Domeric's letter... oh, why had he not believed it more? Was his pride such a burden?

"We heard in the Dreadfort. What do you plan to do?"

Ned Stark sighed. "A good question. The Call seems to have been heard in many places. Volunteers have been flocking to the Wall to help the Night's Watch. But it will take more than that. Far more." Then he gestured at the map on one wall. "You have a mind for strategy Roose. Come and give me your thoughts at what the map says."

He strode over at Ned Stark's side and then stared at the map. Wait... "What are all those settlements North of the Wall?"

"Wildling villages and settlements," the reply came. "More than we ever thought - or feared."

He swallowed some more wine in what he hoped was a nonchalant manner. "Ah. Yes."

"A few weeks ago Mance Rayder, the King Beyond the Wall, sat in here and told me that if needed he could call upon a force of a hundred thousand Wildlings."

The number rang through his head a few times as he desperately forced his mind to get back up to speed following its moment of paralysis. "A hundred thousand?"

"Aye."

"I take it that Rayder was here because the Wildlings are moving South?"

"Being forced to. By the Others."

He looked at the settlements and came to an obvious conclusion. "Then I hope that your plan involves letting them through the Wall and into the Gift and New Gift. Because that's the only possible option open to you that makes the least bit of sense. "

Lord Stark nodded grimly. "Aye. That number of men and women - and the others that must be there to support them - means there is no other way. If the Others sweep South, transforming dead Wildlings into wights... well, then the Night's Watch will be overwhelmed. The Wall will fall. And we will be fighting for our very lives against the dead."

Roose nodded. "Does the King know yet?"

"I think he suspects. I think that he heard the Call, in a way. He wrote from Storm's End and then Dragonstone, saying that he had found the ancestral sword of the Durrandons. Leastways, I intend to meet him soon, perhaps at Moat Cailin. Howland Reed is here at the moment, and he said that he had started to rebuild parts of it. People to the South are... restless. Even the Ironborn have started to fight each other over who heard the Call. But first I intend to go to Castle Black and talk to Jeor Mormont. The Wildlings must be allowed safe passage South of the Wall."

"He will not like it. Nor the Umbers or the Karstarks. No-one will."

"GreatJon Umber is here still and has been persuaded. The Karstarks... again, will be persuaded. The same with the other Houses. The numbers speak the truth. The dead march on the Wall."

"Aye," Roose breathed as he looked back at the map. "They do." He took another gulp of wine. Then he committed himself. "House Bolton will back you to the bitter end, Lord Stark. As you said - the dead march. The living must fight them. And the North must be united. You are the Stark in Winterfell. Lead us."

Brynden

The fisherfolk of the village had a ship that was big enough to take two horses and their riders. He looked a little askance at that, but then shrugged when Robar Glovett had just grinned at him and mentioned that the Isle of Faces had many friends. Secret friends.

He looked at the horizon to the North-East and sighed. "Are you prepared for your enemies, if they come?"

"We are. A lot of people hunt near here. A handful of men with bows can cause carnage if you're not expecting it."

He eyed the man carefully. "A handful?"

The grin came again. "Well, perhaps more than that. As I said, the Isles of Faces has many friends. Some are secret - some are not. Now - let's get you on your way."

He nodded and then paused. "Robar - I meant what I said. King Robert gave me permission to knight you. He did not rescind that, he just told me to knight you when I saw you next. If it will help..."

The other man went pale for a moment, before shaking his head. "When you return perhaps. Not yet. The ones who come... well, they will not listen to any kind of knight. I think that it would take the intervention of the Warrior himself, and even then it might be nip and tuck."

"Later then," he said, hoping that this would not be the last time that he met the man, alive at least. There was a fight coming, he could almost smell it in the air and he was sorry that he could not be there for it. Robar insisted on them leaving at once however. "Stay alive Robar. The world needs stubborn old bastards like you."

"And you, Ser Brynden. I hope you find what you're looking for on the Isle of Faces."

"So do I, given that I have no bloody idea what I'm doing here."

"Eat the paste." And with that enigmatic statement Rober Glovett went striding off, to chastise a young man who seemed to be holding his sword 'like a bloody stick'.

Brynden jumped over the side of the ship, assessed the wind, nodded approvingly at the way that the horses had been guided into the belly of the ship, grinned tightly and then tied his long hair back in a queue. "Let's be about it then!"

The captain seemed to know his business, because he eased the ship away from the jetty with little enough assistance from anything other than the wind and then sent the vessel heading straight West across the lake. The wind was set fair and as the boat surged across the water he found himself remembering the last time he'd seen the lake this close. It had been after the Trident, a day of blood and triumph.

Brienne of Tarth appeared at his shoulder. She seemed sombre. "What do you think we'll find there?"

"I don't know," he said after a long moment of deep thought. "I just know that I have to go there. You?"

"The same," she said tersely, before sitting down on a stanchion and gripping a rope tightly. "Why here and not the North?"

"We'll soon find out." The Isle of Faces was drawing closer and closer and as they approached he could see the weirwood trees ahead of them.

They docked in a little cove, where what looked like an ancient stone jetty jutted out from the shore. Ancient it may have been, but it looked well-maintained, and he wondered who had been doing the maintaining. The fisherfolk got the horses ashore with little fuss of bother, and when Brynden asked how they could send them a signal when they wanted passage, the captain of the ship shrugged. "We'll know," he replied. "We'll know." And then he had reset his sails a little and then taken his ship off to the South-West, ready to beat up before the wind back to the village.

As they led their horses up the worn stone path from the jetty that disappeared between the trees they both fell silent. This was... a place for quiet. The white trunks of the trees and the red leaves made the place unlike any other he had ever seen. There was no sound in the trees, other than the noise of leaves rustling in the wind, with the occasional movement as a squirrel leapt from branch to branch. The air felt close and he had the oddest feeling that he was not merely being watched, but closely inspected. By what though?

The answer, he discovered was by whom. Brienne spotted him first and then nudged him in the ribs. He looked to one side and then saw the man. He was old, very old, and he was sitting at the base of one of the trees that lined the path. He was also wearing a green cloak, green breeches, a green tunic and large black boots. Something appeared to be attached to the hood of his cloak, but he couldn't quite work out what.

He was also either asleep or dead, and it was hard to tell which. Brynden swapped a confused glance with Brienne. Then he finally coughed slightly.

This made the eyes of the old man flicker open. He looked around at the path and then he noticed the two figures. "Ah," he said in a wheezy voice that grew in power as he spoke. "You're here. About time. I was just resting my eyes." Then he turned to look at the tree and frown. "It's true! I wasn't asleep. Well - not all the way."

Brynden swapped an uneasy glance with Brienne. The old man did not seem entirely in his right mind, but he made an effort anyway. "Good sir, I am-"

"You are Ser Brynden Tully, also known as the Blackfish. And you are Brienne of Tarth. Welcome both. Your arrival was foreseen." The old man stood up and then smiled toothily at them. "I am Tallard, son of Rickon. The Old Gods have remade the gameboard and the pieces are moving. Good. You have a lot to do."

He stared at the man. "Are you the reason why we were called here? Why we felt this pull?"

"Pull?" The old man seemed to consider this. "Nay, I did not send out the Call. The Stark in Winterfell did so, and it was right that he did. The Others come. There is much that needs to be made right. You and your wife are a part of it."

Brienne turned pink with embarrassment and he sighed. "We travel the road together. We are not married."

"What?" The old man scowled at the tree again and then sighed. "Oh stop laughing! Bloody tenses." He turned back to them. "Your pardon. You'll learn, soon enough. Follow." And with that he lead the way up the path.

He swapped another confused look with Brienne, who shrugged, and then followed the old man, who was tugging at his cloak a little, before pulling his hood up onto his head. It had antlers attached to it and the pieces finally clicked together in Brynden's head. "You are a Green Man then."

"I am."

"I thought that you had all long since passed from this world."

The path crested a slight ridge and then went down, giving an excellent view of a clearing within the forest. There was a long building there, made of well-crafted timbers of weirwood, which looked ancient. Men and women were carrying out various activities around it.

"You thought that, did you?" the old man said with a slightly unnerving grin. "Well now - you were very wrong. Welcome to the Green Hall. Welcome to the old heart of the lands of the First Men. The Old Gods have you in the palm of their hand now. As I said - the Others come. The Stark has called for aid. And you... you are needed. But for other reasons."