Apologies for the delay in this. It's been a very busy week or two and next week will be even busier.

Tyrion

He looked at the page in front of him and then made yet another note on the parchment to his right. It was yet another unpleasant legend about the Nightfort. What fun. At the rate he was collecting them he'd be unable to approach the place due to the number of dead bodies surrounding the place.

Why there though? Why was the old headquarters of the Night's Watch so important? And why were there so many terrible stories about the place. Was it haunted? He thought about grumpkins and snarks for a moment and came close to scoffing – but then he remembered the red fire in the eyes of Jon Stark. That had been no mummers trick. If that could happen… well, what else was there? Ghosts?

He sighed and then turned the page. It was then that he sensed that he was being watched and he looked up. Dacey Surestone was standing there, one eyebrow raised and a plate of food in one hand. "You missed lunch," she chided. "So I brought you some."

He stared at her and then looked out of the window. Oh. Yes, the Sun had passed its zenith. "Oh my," he muttered as his stomach took the opportunity to complain quite loudly. "Yes, I am hungry. Thank you, Lady Surestone."

The plate contained some fresh bread and some ham, as well as some kind of pickled thing. It was remarkably tasty. As he ate Dacey Surestone looked through the books he had scattered around him. She was making noises of interest and possibly concern by the end of her perusal, which ended as he swallowed the last crumb and repressed a belch.

"The Nightfort. You're researching the oldest castle on the Wall?"

"I am," he sighed. "I will be travelling there soon. Well – soonish. Thank you for the food by the way."

"Ned noticed that you weren't at lunch." She peered at his notes. "As did I. You didn't miss much, apart from the leaders of Mountain Clans of the Vale doing their best to eat in polite company. Lady Stark's face was a picture."

He stared at her as if she had grown a second head. "I beg your pardon?"

"Mountain Clans. Vale. Here. They even have a banner. That of the Griffon King." She sniffed a little. "I wish my father had been here. He would have been taking notes for a week though."

He was still staring at her. "The Mountain Clans of the Vale came all the way to Winterfell?" Then his brain caught up with his mouth. "First Men – of course, they're First Men. But…" Then further pieces clanged into place in his brain. "The people who forded the Green Fork! That was them? They came all the way up here? To fight the Others?" His voice was heading upwards, as were his eyebrows.

"Yes," she replied. "To all of your questions."

He leant back in his chair and reeled, mentally at least. The implications were astonishing. If such people were leaving the Vale to fight for Stark against the Others… This was something that Father would find deeply alarming. He needed to think very hard about if he should tell him. "Fascinating," he muttered. "Fascinating."

"Yes indeed." She was staring at him. "You seem to be taking all of this in your stride. Well, sort of. Why do you need to go to the Nightfort?"

After a moment of furious thought about the Mountain Clans her question finally trickled into his brain and he looked at her. "Ah. Did you hear about my little encounter with Jon Stark?"

"I did." She looked at him very solemnly as she sat down to one side. "The Old Gods spoke to you."

"They did. I very nearly needed the privy in a hurry, but at least it proved that they existed. Exist. Whatever." He paused to marshal his thoughts, failed for a moment, but then pressed on. "It seems that I, as a descendent of Lann Casterley – Lann the Loyal & Clever or something and can't you just hear the capital letters there – need to go to the Nightfort. Hence the research. And also the quiet panic."

"You certainly seem to be intermittently loquacious, which is unlike you." She looked at the next set of books and then pulled a slight face. "Oh dear. 'A Hystorie of the Infamous Night's Queen at the Nightfort' by Archmaester Ch'Vyalthan. Not a bad historian. Horrible writer. Better than his book on sieges though. Spotty at best."

His eyebrows flew up again. "You have read very widely." Then he saw her own upraised eyebrow. "Ah. Of course. Surestone has a large library?"

"Very large." She sobered a little. "Bootle at least saw no profit in books. I was able to get it sealed up tightly. No damp shall damage those books."

"Is there any word from Riverrun?"

"Not yet. When word does come… well I will have to set things right at my home. And Bootle will pay. Ned said that he'd made sure of that."

He nodded at her. "I think that Lord Stark will make very sure of that. As indeed he should." He fidgeted a little for a moment. "Has Lord Stark finished your father's book yet?"

"Almost. Ned's not much of a reader. Or at least he wasn't much of a reader. I think that a lot has changed recently." She said the words almost carefully. "The sad thing is that it's almost a good thing that Ned's in charge in Winterfell and not Brandon. He could be… temperamental. And not much of a reader at all."

"So I have heard," Tyrion said judiciously. Then he sighed. A lot of people seemed to be doing that around him of late. "So, when this Bootle person is brought to justice you will return to Surestone?"

"Perhaps. Ned needs my help on some of the older records." She shivered just a little. "The Long Night comes. So I will advise and copy out records if need be."

"As the last Surestone."

She rolled her eyes. "Aye. Cat keeps dropping hints that she can matchmake for me. Folly!"

He peered at her with upraised eyebrows. "You doubt Lady Stark's abilities at matchmaking?"

Dacey Surestone leant back in her chair. This time she rolled her eyes the other way. "Cat has been here in the North for many years now, but she is still a Tully to her fingertips. A Southerner. I doubt that she understands our ways properly at times. I love her dearly, she can be very kind, but… she is still from the South. She has two daughters and… well, see the contrast there. Sansa has been brought up to a Southern flower, whilst Arya…. Arya is Lyanna come again. If she is a flower, then she is all thorns." She snapped her fingers. "I forgot. You missed something else. Sansa Stark is betrothed to Domeric Bolton. Ned made the formal declaration at lunch, with the Leech Lord standing next to him."

More peering. "You are not fond of Roose Bolton then?"

She laughed a little. "Once you have read about the Stark-Bolton wars for the tenth or so time then a certain amount of dislike can be detected. Especially as I am part Stark myself. Although I must admit that Domeric Bolton seems very unlike his father. He may resemble him in looks, but in character – not at all." She paused and then nodded a little. "As a sign of unity it's well-needed. And perhaps Domeric will remake the Dreadfort, with Sansa at his side. It's good to be optimistic, is it not?"

He thought for a long moment about Casterly Rock and his father. "Yes," he said softly. "It is good to be optimistic." He looked at her for a moment and then smiled a little. "So – perhaps you can help me sort out what is real and what is legend from all of this. Why does the Nightfort provoke such fear and fantastic stories? I mean – look at all this! Tales of the Rat Cook and a, erm, 'prince and bacon pie', my, how lovely. And… a madman called Mad Axe, who killed his brothers of the Night's Watch. And the tale of the apprentice boys against something very eloquently called 'the thing that came in the night'. Oh and the Night's King. That's a tale to make your eyebrows go up and down!"

Tyrion sighed and then ran a hand over his forehead, before frowning. "Actually, that last tale is the oddest. There is no reference anywhere else to even the existence of female Others. They were always referred to as having the appearance of men, except in this one specific case. Why?"

Dacey pursed her lips a little in thought. "Father wondered the same thing," she said eventually. "He theorised that the Night's King did not have a consort who was a female Other, but that instead he fell in love with a woman who worshipped the Others."

He stared at her. "Why would people do that?"

She shrugged at him. "It might go back to the Long Night, the last time that the Others were as widespread as they ever were. Worshipping them might have been seen as a way to try and appease them – well, perhaps make them attack non-worshippers first."

Hmmmm. An interesting thought. "And the other stories?"

There was a pause as she stroked her chin for a moment. "I think that the Nightfort is a place that gathers such stories because of its history. I think that something terrible must have happened there once, something terrible enough to leave an impression that has lasted many centuries. That said, it was in use until just a few centuries ago."

He directed a long look at her. "I am not entirely sure if I should be terrified or reassured at the thought of going there now."

"Both, I think." She looked back at him. "When are you going there?"

"I am not entirely sure."

She pursed her lips a little and he could tell that she was pondering on this. "I am willing to bet that it will be sooner than you think. I have a feeling that things are starting to happen. And that they will take a lot of people by surprise."

All of a sudden he needed a very large goblet of wine.

Cresson

There could be times when it was hard to sleep in his chambers. When the wind came from the North in a certain strength then sometimes it set up a low rumbling shriek through certain passages. Tonight the wind was shrieking more than usual and eventually he gave up and got up.

As he dressed he cocked his head to one side. Yes, the wind really was howling and perhaps there was a storm coming. He sighed and then padded down the corridor, opened the small door at the end and then entered the main passageway. Yes, there was a storm coming. The wind was strong and he hurried down the corridor and turned the corner to the stairs.

He was getting old. He had to admit that as he huffed up the stairs, his knees and ankles complaining more than a bit. He paused what he reached the top, took a deep breath of air and then walked down the corridor. Opening the door at the other end he peered out at the dark room beyond and the great stone arches. The wind was roaring outside, and a gust wrenched his hair all askew. He could hear the sound of waves breaking somewhere not too far away. A high tide then, higher than he had predicted. The fleet should be alright though. Dragonstone was a good anchorage for a storm from the North. He looked at the opening to the outside world. On a fine day you could see for miles. Tonight was different. The moon would appear and then disappear, as clouds scudded over its face. Occasionally something flickered on the Northern horizon. Yes, there was indeed a storm there.

It was only then that he slowly became aware of the noise. Someone, somewhere was screaming in the far distance. Disconcerted he turned and looked behind him. There was something terrible about that scream. It was the scream of someone who was in torment. Moreover, it was a scream that came and then went as if that person was… running around?

As he pondered whether or not to investigate he heard booted feet approach. It was Harys, the second under-castellan, and he looked like a man who had reached the end of his tether. "Maester Cressan!"

"What is that noise? Who is making that awful noise?"

"It's the jester, Maester Cressan! The Fool, Patchface! He's gone mad! Running all over the place and screaming all kinds of wild things!"

He winced. He had been long afraid of this. He had always wondered what might happen to set the poor creature off. He was bad enough at the best of times, with his nonsensical songs and shouted rhymes, and of late he had been odder than usual. He had barely been eating for a start and his skin was starting to sag on him. "Take me to him."

They found Patchface in the Great Hall, the idiotic place that had been built in the shape of a dragon. A small group of servants and guards were huddled by the main doors whispering amongst themselves. They fell silent as Cresson approached – but he could still hear the whoops and curses and shouted nonsense within the room. Patchface.

"What is going on?" Cressen barked as he looked through the doors carefully.

The others looked at each other and one of the older guards took a step forwards. "Beg pardon Maester, byt the Fool's mad. Well – madder than usual. Ran past me screaming something about dragons waking up and then turned around like a child's top and screamed something else about the old cold ones coming. Next thing I know he's gone, screaming as he went. We finally forced him into here."

Cresson finally caught sight of a slumped figure at the base of the chair where Lord Stannis normally ate. He nodded. "Stay here," he said softly. "I'll talk to him. He seems to have quieted now."

He walked in slowly, watching the motionless Fool carefully. His clothes were dishevelled and his head hung low, his chin almost on his chest. As Cresson approached he looked up, his head shaking. "Do you hear them?" The fool spoke in a voice almost too low to hear.

Cresson paused and then sat in a seat. "Hear who?"

"Cresson. Oh. I hear them, Cresson. Oh oh oh. Sharp teeth and narrow eyes and flames in their gullets. They are awake again at last. Dragons. Oh. Dragons."

He peered worriedly at the man. Patchface's eyes were closed and he seemed to be weeping. "Dragons?" He said the word carefully.

"Dragons." It was a whisper. Then his head snapped up and his eyes opened and Cresson swallowed as he saw the eyes of the Fool. They were very wide - and very mad. There seemed to be little sanity in them. "And that is not all. He fights again, he twists, he scowls, he weakens, he hears the other voices, the voices that he thought he killed. Oh, so many voices. He denies them. Denies, denies, oh, oh, oh."

"Who, Patchface?" Cresson asked gently.

The Fool twisted his face away a moment, and then back and force, before wrenching himself to one side and then pulling himself to his feet. His face worked and then something seemed to ripple through it, just for a moment. "Can't you hear them all? All the VOICES! They sing, oh, no, argue. Dark things come, terrible things from the North, from the prison, from the place no-one can ever see! And in the depths the white things come, to slither and quiver and wail at what has been done to them! Wail and rail against their collars! Pushed South! South to the Wall and death!" The fool was almost shouting now, panting as he spat the words out.

"Calm yourself!" Cresson said as soothingly as he could. "Calm yourself!"

"NO!" Patchface howled as he clawed at his face for a moment. "There is not time! No time Cresson! They come and they press and they scream! The other power waxes, in the hidden places, even here, the roots and the branches, but is it enough? Is it? Trees heal and stone kills and North talks to South! Is it enough? I do not know! No-one knows! Everything has changed! The Young Wolf lives! The White Wolf will not take the black! I don't care if he's a bastard, Ned Stark's blood runs through his veins! Greenseers!"

The Fool clawed at his face again, leaving bloody red marks as his nails bit into his skin. "They come! They come by snow and ice! They must be beaten back! Swords! Swords for the North! The East fails! Eyes North!" And then he screamed and clawed at his temples, before stumbling around – and then he ran. He ran like a madman, arms flopping everywhere, gait uncertain at first, but then he tore out of the doors, bowling people over by the sound of the startled oaths.

By the time that Cresson made it to the doors Patchface had vanished from sight. "Where did he go to?"

"That way," Harys said, pointing a trembling finger. "He's gone mad, hasn't he?"

"Aye. Find him! Find him before he harms himself – or anyone else!"

They went, scattering as they fanned out down the various passageways and doors. Cresson paused – and then he thought hard, before walking off down the corridor that he had used to get to the Great Hall. He had an inkling. There were times when he had found Patchface in the room that he had been in earlier.

And true enough he was right. The Fool was standing in one of the great stone arches. He was as still as a statue, even though the blood was trickling down his face from his self-inflicted wounds.

Harys had followed Cresson and seemed to be about to take a step forwards when Cresson held up a hand and then gestured for him to step back. Then he himself stepped forwards. Thunder rumbled somewhere to the North and lightning jabbed into the sea a long way away.

"Patchface? Come down from there please. The Lady Shireen is very fond of you. It will upset her if you fell."

"It matters not," Patchface replied in a voice that almost sounded sane and normal. "It's too late."

"What is too late?"

"Even if glued back together a broken jug cannot contain water again. Tell Shireen to seek out the Godswood." The Fool turned his face to look at Cresson. "Thank you. You have been a good friend to me. I know that others told you to let me die. But it's time to go now. A life for a life, you see."

Cresson's eyes widened and he darted forwards – but it was too late. The Fool stepped forwards swiftly, into the air – and then fell into the darkness. Cresson and Harys dashed to the archway and stared down into the depths below as the wind howled around them, but of the Fool there was not a sign.