Robert

He glared at Pycelle, who looked… oddly calm. "Say that again, Grand Maester?"

The old man spread his hands. "I cannot predict when Lord Arryn will awake your Grace."

"Why not? I thought you said that he'd live from the dagger wounds?"

"The wounds in Lord Arryn's side are healing nicely your Grace, with no putrefaction. Lady Arryn's vicious attack did not penetrate his ribs. However, it is the blow to the head that I am most concerned about. She seems to have kicked him several times there. And as you yourself know, your Grace, head injuries can be… unpredictable. I believe that two names in particular will remind you of this. Lord Harys Tamber and Ser Orys Emble."

Ah. Robert paused and pulled a face. Yes, he remembered them both. They had both taken blows to the head at the Trident. Tamber had fallen into a deep sleep for fourteen days and then woken up at Kings Landing, scaring the life out of him when he had reeled into the throne room, half-dressed and shouting orders, convinced that he was still in battle. As for Emble, he had apparently shaken off the blow but then dropped dead in mid-song at the feast after the battle, with blood gushing from his nose and ears.

"Ah," he said tiredly. "So we have to wait in other words?"

"Yes, your Grace, I fear so. However, the fact that Lord Arryn has been asleep this long is perhaps a good thing. I simply cannot tell how long his sleep will go on for."

"Is his skull intact?"

Pycelle smiled slightly. "It is, your Grace. It's the second thing I ascertained after his other injuries."

Robert absorbed that and then nodded. "Very well. Thank you Grand Maester."

The old man shuffled out and as he went Robert eyed his back carefully. There were times when Pycelle seemed to be more than he appeared. Odd, that. It was worth keeping an eye on the man.

He turned back to the door to the room where Jon Arryn lay sleeping – and then he looked at the man standing guard there. He knew the signs of exhaustion – the man was pale and wan, almost shaking on his feet with fatigue. He sighed and took a step closer to the man, as he searched his mind for his name.

"Quill, isn't it?"

The Valeman nodded choppily and then seemed to recall who he was talking to and bowed. "Yes, your Grace."

"How long have you been standing guard?"

"Some time, your Grace. Can't remember how long."

"Aye, I'm not surprised. When did you last eat? Drink? Sleep?"

"Ate – erm, some bread and ham not too long ago, and some small beer. Slept…" His eyes flickered from side to side in thought.

"If you can't recall when you last slept, then you need to sleep," Robert said almost gently. "See sense, man. If Jon Arryn woke up now, how much use would you be? I remember you from the Eyrie. You've done good service for him. See sense now and get some sleep."

Quill seemed to almost quiver for a moment. "But your Grace," he said hoarsely, "I need a guard to relieve me from the Tower of the Hand and I cannot leave Lord Arryn unprotected and unattended and-"

Robert raised a hand and cut him off. "Go and send for your relief. I shall stand guard." He stood in front of the door facing outwards, drew Stormbreaker and placed its point on the stone floor, his hands on its hilt to balance it. "No-one will pass me. You have my word."

The Valeman stared at him for a long moment and then swept him a deep bow. "Honour to serve Your Grace."

Robert watched the man walk – no, almost stagger – off with a slight grimace. Loyalty like that was without price. Unfortunately it came at a different cost. Men like that would exhaust themselves without thinking.

He shook his head and then fell into deep thought, only pausing to nod appreciatively when Ser Barristan Selmy, who had watched the whole thing, joined him at the door, sword in hand. "If your Grace will permit me to join you?"

"Of course Ser Barristan."

As it happened they didn't have to wait too long before three men in Arryn colours, all of whom he'd seen before, strode quickly in and then all knelt before him. "Rise," he rumbled. "Guard this room. Guard Lord Arryn."

"Aye your Grace," they all but chorused. "We will."

He nodded fiercely at them, sheathed Stormbreaker and then strode off. As he strode he came to the conclusion that he'd been fumbling towards for several days and sighed, before hailing a passing messenger. "Send word to my brothers at once that I need to meet with them in my antechamber." They'd know where he meant – not his actual antechamber, but a place just off it, a small and easily secured room that had few places for eavesdroppers to listen in.

Ser Barristan Selmy guarded the one door into the place and there Robert waited, his mind more at peace now than it had been for days. Oddly enough his brothers arrived almost together, both looking grimly curious and when he saw their faces he smiled and shook his head.

"Jon Arryn lives. He sleeps and Pycelle is unsure when he'll wake again, but he's alive." He sat down and laid a hand on the table in front of him. "I need to talk to you both. I will be issuing orders today to complete preparations for the move to Winterfell. Renly – as I said before I want you here to complete what needs to be done with Baelish's damned mess. Stannis – I need you to find me a replacement as Master of Ships."

Stannis, being the awkward bugger that he was, bristled. "Have I not done enough a job for you your Grace?"

He did his best not to bristle back. "Stannis, with Jon Arryn injured I need a new Hand. Not an acting Hand – a new Hand of the King. And you are the best person I can think of for the job."

This seemed to stun both of his brothers. "Me?" Stannis gasped eventually. "Why?"

"Even if Jon awoke today, right now, he cannot take up his duties again any time soon. And I need a Hand now. Whatever it is that's coming, it's coming soon, I feel in my bones." He paused. The next words came haltingly. "I… I have not been the best of brothers to you two. Renly, I have not been there enough for you to learn what it is to be a Lord. And Stannis… I have not acknowledged your efforts enough. You have done much for me. I have not done much for you. And I apologise for it. But now I need you as my Hand. Will you accept the position?"

Stannis stared at him, an odd light in his eyes. He seemed to almost be choking on something. And then he nodded choppily. "I accept it, your Grace. There is much to do therefore?"

A weight lifted off him. "Aye, there is. But first – take note of this. We are Baratheons. Our children aside, we are the last of that name. We must trust each other. We must stand together. Because unless we do, we will die apart. There has been too much division of late. I would have us united again. Baratheons against the world if need be, but Baratheons united!"

His brothers stared at him for a long moment. And then they nodded. He grinned fiercely. "Good. Now – I have a voyage to plan!"

"Is Cersei going with you?" Stannis asked for some reason.

"Aye," he grunted. "She'll not like it, but she'll come with me. For one thing I mean to betroth Joffrey to Ned Stark's oldest daughter, Sansa. She'll have to come, just for that."

"Very well," Stannis nodded in what looked like satisfaction, and Robert remembered how his brother disliked Cersei and her whining nags. "It shall be arranged. We can send a proper Baratheon honour guard with you, quiet-like."

"Good!" He beamed at them again. There was nothing quite like having your family around you.

Jory

There tended to be a silly grin on his face at the oddest times, or that was what his grumpy uncle had told him. He couldn't help it, he was too busy being happy. That said, he had a duty to be serious when going about his duties for Lord Stark and he schooled his face to solemnity. Besides, he had a lot of thinking to do. Annah had no family in Winterfell, obviously, so who could he ask for her hand in marriage? Was he moving too fast for that matter? He resolved to have a quiet word with Lady Stark. He needed to do this right.

He strode up the stairs to his post in the main gatehouse. He was going to succeed his uncle one day, but until then he had a lot to do at Winterfell already. Lord Stark relied on him a lot, especially as he was spending so much time researching how to kill Others. The thought still made his breath catch a little. the Others. They had been gone for so long, but now they were back. He had no doubt on that matter, he had heard the Call.

A sigh ripped his way out of him. And then there were the other monsters. The human ones. He didn't like the fact that Roose Bolton was in Winterfell. He'd heard some odd rumours about that man and his unlamented bastard son. He knew that Lord Stark was suspicious about how Ramsey Snow had come into existence. That said, the boy was dead now. Besides, Domeric Bolton was a far better man.

A horn blast above his head made him stare at the ceiling for a moment and then he was out of the room, hurrying up the spiral staircase that led to the highest part of the gatehouse. There was a guard there, Rickard by name – named after the murdered Lord – with the new Myrish glass at his eye.

"What's amiss?" Jory gasped.

Rickard passed the glass over and then pointed at the distant shadow that marked the nearest part of the Wolfswood. "Over there."

He focussed carefully and then paused. Ten people were walking towards Winterfell. They were all leading horses and one of them was holding a banner of parley. As they came closer he frowned. They were a combination of men and women and they were all dressed in the oddest armour he'd ever seen, all mismatched, or that was what it looked like from a distance.

"Strange," he muttered, before striding over to the other side of the parapet and looking down at the courtyard. His uncle was standing there staring up at him. "Riders on foot! Ten of them, bearing a banner of parley!"

"What house?"

"None! They look like Hill Clans though."

His uncle nodded and then hurried off. Jory watched him go and then turned back to the odd collection of people approaching Winterfell. He had an odd feeling about this.

Bronn

He had left King's Landing as soon as he was able to. He'd secured his money carefully with a representative of the Iron Bank at King's Landing, with everything written out in triplicate – a copy for the bank, a copy for him and a copy for the God of Paperwork, presumably.

After that he'd saddled Seeker and left the city. He'd always hoped one day to have a hold somewhere. Even just a small one, a tiny place. Somewhere safe. Somewhere to raise a family eventually. He needed to work a bit on that last part.

Foxhold was a small town, as Lord Arryn had said. It straddled a road that led to the High Road. The castle overlooked it all and the more he looked at it the more he liked it. It was on a crag, had one main gate that looked as if a man with an bow could defend it with his eyes closed. As long as the gates were closed and he had enough arrows, admittedly, but it looked like a strong place indeed.

There was a guard at that gate, a grizzled veteran by the look of him, leaning on a spear with a shield hanging from a hook by the gate right by his left hand. As Bronn approached the sentry shifted his grip on the spear and then called out: "Who approaches the Foxhold?"

Bronn reined in Seeker and reached into his jerkin to pull out the precious scroll with Lord Arryn's authorisation. "I am Bronn Cassley, by order of Lord Arryn the new Lord Foxhold."

The sentry's eye widened for a moment and then he pulled his spear up into a formal salute. "Enter my Lord!"

My Lord. The words rang like a bell in his head and he had to admit to being a little dazed. He really was a lord. His father, had he been alive to see this, would have been grinning like a fool now. He missed the old man, with his tales of the things he had seen.

Bronn rode through the gate and into the courtyard to one side. Several men and women were standing there, as if frozen in place. They must have heard the sentry. On the stairs that led up to the main keep was a black-haired woman in her mid-20's, dressed in an almost formal grey dress and who was directing what appeared to be a look of pure hate at him. To one side stood a Maester who was possibly old enough to shave, not that he would have bet any money on it.

He drew rein again at the bottom of the stairs and then dismounted. An old man with only one eye – the other was sewn shut – came out to take Seeker's reins and lead her away after he had pulled off his saddlebags. Only then did Bronn turn to the woman and the Maester.

"Maester…?"

"Haster, Maester Haster," the boy gabbled. Understandable. What an unfortunate name. "I mean – who are you?"

Wordlessly Bronn held out the scroll. The Maester's eyebrows went up and down like a drunk seagull in a gale before he took it and then, as the woman scowled at it over his shoulder, cracked the seal and opened it. After a long moment they both looked at Bronn, one with resignation and the other with what seemed to be redoubled hatred. "You are Bronn Cassley? The new Lord Foxhold?"

"I am," Bronn said with a slight sigh. A lord. He was a fucking lord. "As appointed by Lord Arryn, under his authority as the Lord of the Vale." He paused. The woman was actually inspecting the seal carefully, followed by Lord Arryn's signature. "Something wrong?"

"Just checking," she replied, before finally adding: "My Lord."

"And you are?"

"Ursula Stone," she said in a voice that sounded rather like her last name. "My Lord. I am the Steward of Foxhold."

He felt his own eyebrows flicker a little. "Steward?"

"Aye, my Lord."

The hate-filled gaze wasn't lessening at all. Very well. "Well now. I am the new Lord Foxhold. I have little in the way of possessions at the moment, so I would be obliged to you if you could show me to my quarters. I need a bath, a meal and then a briefing on my holding."

He was mildly surprised that her glare didn't reduce him to a small pile of ash. "Very well my Lord," she said eventually. "Please follow me."

He followed. It was time to become a lord.