Apologies for the delay on this - I had a wisdom tooth out this week and it caused much stress for various reasons.

Jon Arryn

Stannis Baratheon, much to his surprise, was a curiously solicitous guest for a man still recovering from a terrible wound. He sat next to his bed and was quiet and thoughtful and didn't raise his voice and boom encouragingly at him in an effort to raise his spirits. Robert had done that the last time that he's been ill. It had taken hours for his ears to stop ringing.

Instead Stannis had come, to inform him about what had been done in the name of the Realm whilst he had been… asleep. The fiorst thing he'd told Stannis had been what had happened.

"It was Lysa," he said in a voice that shook far too much for his liking. "It was my wife, as I told Quill and the Maester. She attacked me with a knife. She was mouthing… madness. Mentioned Baelish's name. She wanted me dead, kept telling me to die. Called me a horrible old man. I… did my best to defend myself. Pulled my own knife. I think… I think I got her in the arm. And then I fell. Last thing I remember is her kicking me in the head."

He sat there for a long moment, his hands plucking at the sheet fitfully. He felt old and frail suddenly. "I did not know. That… that the death of Baelish had sent her mad. I did not know. My own wife."

"You should not blame yourself. Madness is madness. And there are times when my own wife… well I don't know what she is thinking. Even though I have spent more time recently with her than-" And then oddly enough he turned slightly pink and coughed a little.

Jon raised an eyebrow at him. "Are you well?"

Stannis Baratheon stared at his hands intently for a moment. "It's nothing, really. Something that Baelish said, about it being no wonder that my wife has only given me one living child after only sleeping with her once a year. I… I realised that peculating traitor that he was, he might have been… right. About that one thing."

He sighed. "At least you have that. Has there been any sign of my wife?"

"None."

He leant forwards a little. "Is the room secure?" He whispered the words.

Stannis looked about and then nodded, before lowering his own voice. "Yes, but it would be wise to speak quietly. If you wish to speak of the Great matter… well, it remains unresolved. You were wounded and even though I had been made Hand there was never time to tell Robert. He… he has met the boy at the blacksmiths. Met him and sent him to Storm's End." Stannis paused and then shook his head a little. "Something has changed within Robert. He is driving himself hard to become fit again. He thinks that there's a war coming. Something involving this Call. He's been practicing with Stormbreaker. And walking around the practice yard with a log on his shoulders. It's as if ten years have fallen off him."

This was good, in a way. If Robert was throwing off that terrible slough of despondency that had taken him over in recent years… "You have a plan then?"

"I do. I shall be sailing for the North myself in five days," Stannis said grimly. "Ser Davos's son, Devan Seaworth, will captain my ship, a man almost as good as his father in sailing. I should have gone with Robert, but I do not like these reports of unrest in the Riverlands and Crownlands – there is talk of the Faith Militant reappearing. And other talk of… odd things in the places where weirwoods once grew. White saplings."

Jon peered at him worriedly, before nodding slowly. "I need to contact the Vale and discover what has happened there as well."

"Which reminds me - your man Quill has a stack of messages for you. Are you up to it?"

"I should be. There is much to be done. I do not think that there would be much objection if I brought in more guards for protection."

Stannis looked at him. "More Baratheon guards as well perhaps?"

"Aye."

"Good, then that is the first part of my plan. More men here in King's Landing, men to gain an advantage of any Lannister trickery. Cersei and her faithless brother will be isolated in the North. Between the men I'll bring and Lord Stark's men, we will have the advantage."

"Ned knows something. He sent me a letter some months ago warning me of Lannister plots. I know him better than you do – if it will help I can give you a letter to show to him that will confirm what you tell him and secure his complete co-operation."

There was the faint sound of teeth being ground together and then Stannis nodded slowly. "Very well. You are right that I do not know Stark very well. Robert knows him best."

Jon thought back to the angry argument that Ned and Robert had had on the day that Tywin Lannister had presented the latter with the bloodied bodies of Rhaegar Targaryen's wife and children, before sighing. The two of them had been closer once. That day had driven a wedge into their friendship. Hopefully time had healed much.

"The Great Matter must be resolved. And then there is the matter of the Call. I sense that it is just as important."

"Aye. And the Realm kept together – which will be the hard part. I admit that."

Before Jon could reply the sound of shuffling feet pronounced the arrival of Pycelle, who beamed cheerfully at him. "Ah! Looking better already My Lord? Yes, yes, there is more colour in your cheeks."

Jon smiled slightly, unwilling to show how much he distrusted the man. "I am stronger, Grand Maester. Lord Stannis here was just telling me of matters of the Realm. The unrest in the Riverlands."

The old man blew his cheeks out with a wheeze. "Religious affairs are not my purview of course, but they do worry me My Lord. Much hatred of old things and disbelief in new. Now – how is your head. Does it ache still?"

"Not at all," he said honestly. "Although I still do tire easily."

Pycelle smiled a little. "The body is an amazing thing My Lord. It can recover from the most grievous injuries – but fall victim to the tiniest of things. I think that your body has been taxed mightily, but that you will recover. Time and rest is the answer. Time and rest."

"I wish my son was here," Jon admitted quietly. "Seeing him would rally my spirits mightily."

"Grand Maester, will Lord Arryn be fit enough to sail for the North with me?" Stannis asked unexpectedly. "His son is in Winterfell."

The Grand Maester harrumphed at this, before poking and prodding at Jon's healing wounds carefully and then looking into his eyes. "I think that that is a decision for tomorrow perhaps, my Lord Hand. We must judge matters carefully."

Jon looked at Stannis and was about to open his mouth to disagree with Pycelle when he heard boots running down the corridor, boots that stopped suddenly at Quills barked command to stop at once. There was a gabble of low voices and then the door creaked open to reveal Quill with a young Maester.

"A message from Dragonstone, for Lord Stannis Baratheon! Marked most urgent!" The Maester waved the message around and Jon could see that it bore a red ribbon – something that made Stannis Baratheon stiffen in alarm.

"Approach!" Stannis barked. "That's the ribbon marking a priority message. Cresson's own invention. Something important has happened at Dragonstone." He was white as a sheet now and his hands trembled a little as grabbed the proffered message with a grunt of thanks and then opened it quickly. His eyes flickered as he read the message – and then he froze into place, his eyes wide and his skin pale, as if in shock.

After a long moment Jon exchanged a worried glance with Pycelle, who was also peering at the Lord of Dragonstone with great concern. Then he looked back at the new Hand of the King. "Lord Baratheon? Lord Hand? Stannis? STANNIS BARATHEON!"

The younger man started a little – and then handed over the message. "Read… read that."

He uncurled the message. "'Godswood discovered on Dragonstone by Shireen Baratheon and Gendry Storm. Old passageway in cliff, sealed for centuries. Weirwood trees found. Shireen possessed briefly by Old Gods. Greyscale scars all gone, burned off by red fire that left no mark. The Call has been heard in Dragonstone. Shireen well. Command us.'"

There was a long moment of shocked silence – and then Pycelle emitted yet another harrumph. "Impossible! There is no Godswood on Dragonstone, no Weirwood trees! Your Maester Cresson, Lord Stannis, must have been drunk or addled in the head when he wrote this!"

"There's no Godswood on Dragonstone, Grand Maester," Stannis muttered in a voice that sounded dazed. "You're right about that. But Cresson might be old, but he has never been addled. He would not have written that message, or assigned that ribbon to it unless he meant every word." He passed a shaking hand over his face. "If my daughter is indeed now unmarked by greyscale… how can that be?"

Pycelle sighed. "My Lord," he said sorrowfully, "There is no way to remove the scars from the disease. Much was done to arrest it on your daughter. But to reverse it? It's just not possible."

Stannis took the message back gently from Jon's fingers and then leant back a little in his chair, the message waggling slightly as his hands shook. "Cresson… Cresson would not have lied. Not Cresson. He all but raised me after my parents drowned. What should I do?" He whispered the last four words.

Jon answered his question for him. "Sail for Dragonstone at once. At once, Stannis. There can be no other option for you. If your daughter is indeed free of the greyscale… well, you must see her at once."

"Aye," Stannis said dazedly. Then he paused. "No… I am Hand of the King and I have my duty here. Perhaps if I send my wife-"

"You planned to go anyway – just go earlier. Be flexible and adjust your plan! I can give orders on your behalf from here. Your duty will be done – but your daughter needs you more now than she has ever done before. If this is true then her life had changed. If it is not true then you have merely advanced your planned move North. Either way – go, my friend."

Stannis looked at him again, an almost wild look, or as close to undecided as he had ever seen Stannis Baratheon look in his life. "If that message was about my son then I would go at once myself. I want nothing more than to see him again. You can do your duty and see Shireen at the same time. Go."

There was a long moment – and then Stannis swallowed convulsively and looked to the door. "I need messages sent! One to my wife, to come here at once. And one… one to Devan Seaworth. We sail on the next time." And his hands shook no more.

Aemon

The ravens cawed quietly as he fed them the scraps that had been placed in the bucket. Feeding them was something of a challenge at times – it helped when there was someone else there – but it also gave him a chance to think. And he needed to think.

The chests were not even partway emptied and their content studied, but what he had found – or rather what had been read to him – was enough to confirm many of his blackest fears. Objects had been found, things that were supposed to have been passed down from Lord Commander to Lord Commander, things that were supposed to have given them warning that something ancient and evil stirred North of the Wall.

But these were also just a fraction of what had been lost – broken or thrown away or misplaced or just ignored. The last Lord Commander at the Nightfort had realised that memory was something that constantly ebbed the more time passed after an event – and as it had been many centuries since the Others had been seen, the memories of what to look for had faded and dimmed down to the merest spark.

By the time that had become necessary to abandon the old headquarters of the Night's Watch there had been a danger that that spark might gutter completely. He'd had the words of that last Lord Commander read out to him. It spoke of his worries about if the Targaryens would understand the need for the Night's Watch, if they would listen – or if they would let it dwindle away.

That Lord Commander, one Tyrek Lannister, had been right. His ancestors… they had not listened. Not really. Oh, they had paid lip service to the Night's Watch and their ancient duty… but with the exception of the New Gift and the jewels of Alysanne, they had done very little. The Watch had dwindled down almost to extinction.

So he knew why those boxes had been bricked up. Precious knowledge had been preserved. But there must have been some plan, some hint, about it somewhere in the records. Some object or record that would have told future Lord Commanders where to look and what to do. Any help would have been better than no help at all.

He huffed in exasperation. Well, at least they knew now. Which didn't make it that much better, given the amount of work that needed to be done on the abandoned castles on the Wall.

Floorboards creaked as a pair of boots clumped closer to him and he paused. "Yes?"

"It's me, Aemon."

"Lord Commander. How may I help you?"

Jeor Mormont seemed to sigh as he leant against what might from the sound of it have been a post. "That last raven from Winterfell brought news from Ned Stark. He's ordered the Lords of the North to meet here, at Castle Black, as soon as possible."

The hairs on the back of his neck rose. "He has called his banners?"

"Nay – just a council of war, or so the message says. He intends to give us all available help."

He nodded thoughtfully. "A shame, then, that the First Ranger has left for the South already, and that the other cages have been sent off to South."

"I know." A pause. "I have been thinking about sending out a party to the Overlook, with orders to follow Benjen's instructions about that place to the letter, in order to find one or two wights. We have more cages available for… parts to exhibit."

Aemon pursed his lips a little in thought. "I have a better idea – why not ask Mance Rayder about sightings of wights and help with that? If, as seems likely, we need to work with the Wildlings… well that might be a useful first step."

A long silence fell. "A good idea," Jeor said reluctantly. "Let me think on it for a day."

"Lord Commander… we need to put aside old hatreds. Both we and the Wildlings live. The true enemy is the dead – and the Others that animate the dead and desecrate them."

"I know," Jeor Mormont groaned. "But shaking off the habits of a lifetime and of past Lord Commanders – it is easier said that done. Far easier indeed."

"And yet – it must be done. I have much research to carry out. There are many chests still to go through."

"Aye – which reminds me. One of them contains a journal. That of one Tyrek Lannister, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch."

Excitement flared within him. "The man who ordered the abandonment of the Nightfort?"

"The very same. Why?"

"I was hoping to find more of what he planned after the chests were bricked up – if he left some record or artefact that we somehow missed about the cache."

"Then I shall read this journal aloud to you. Shall we start in an hour?"

"Aye – we shall indeed!" And he felt curiously alive.

Daenerys

The sea. It sighed to her, called to her. That blue expanse beyond the headlands. The place where the ships vanished into the far distance. She could feel that pull more strongly now. Westwards. Why? What was it?

She sighed and then looked about the grounds. She didn't look at the house behind her, where the repair work was still going on. Somewhere someone was watching her. From a distance. She wasn't used to people being afraid of her. She'd seen people acting nervously around Viserys, but then her brother had always had a short temper. For people to all but tiptoe around her though… well, it was strange. And uncomfortable.

It was the dragons. They were curled up in a ball of multi-coloured scales wings and snouts in the padded sling that she had around her neck and over one shoulder for comfort. It was a temporary solution, and one that she needed to find an answer for, as they were growing. Slowly, but they were growing.

But… she had to admit that it wasn't only the dragons that people were afraid of. She'd heard a few people talking about her. Most called her Daenerys Stormborn. But there were others who called her Daenerys Silvereyes, and that frightened her more than a bit.

Her memories of that night were… mixed. Confused. She didn't remembering the madness that had consumed her brother, she didn't like to remember how he had talked of killing her. She didn't like to remember how Magister Mopatis had saved her life – by killing her own brother and perishing in the same flames.

And then afterwards – flames around her and the smell of smoke and other, more terrible things that she didn't want to remember smelling and then… then that cold, strange moment when she felt as if something very old and very surprised (and more than a little insane) had suddenly noticed her. It had only lasted a moment but it had been enough to terrify her – or had it been just a moment? She couldn't remember getting rescued afterwards. She'd just suddenly woken up after someone had wrapped a cloak around her nude body – and then realising that she had three live dragons on her.

Dragons. The thought of it still stunned her. Her family had bred them, flown them…. And then died trying to get dragons back again. She knew why Viserys had been so desperate to get a dragon. She knew what had been behind his madness.

At least she had a lot of information about dragons. Many books had been brought to her by the Magisters, many weighty tomes on the care and management of dragons, or at theories about the care and management of the dragons of Old Valyria, before the Doom.

She shook her head a little. The scroll had shaken her deeply. She'd found it in her room that morning, in with one of the books. And what it had said had shaken her.

I write as a friend of Illyrio Mopatis, and also as a loyal counsellor to your Royal Father. By now you will have been given many books on dragons by the Magisters of Pentos. Do not trust the Magisters – they have their own reasons for giving you those books. They have little intention of helping you reclaim your father's throne. Instead they will want your dragons to attack Braavos, so that they may have their revenge. And then they will use them to attack the other Free Cities. There will never be enough time to help your campaign for the Iron Throne. Be careful, be cautious and be wary in what you promise. There is much you do not know about what has happened of late in Westeros. You are not alone – I will soon come to offer what help I can give you.

It was unsigned, but she knew after some thought that what it said had a great deal of merit. The Magisters had asked her quite a few questions and then asked her seek the answers in the books. How much damage could the dragons cause if they got loose in the harbour? Were there any defences against dragons that were widely known? Could dragonfire melt stone walls? Could she control the dragons to, hypothetically speaking, command them to target exact buildings?

Those were not the questions of those looking to protect Pentos. Those were the questions of those who were seeking to use her little charges. She looked at them and sighed. She needed names for them. And then… then she needed advice, perhaps from this unnamed writer. Advice – and then a plan.