Sorry about the delay on this. My magazine is going to press this week and life has been a bit crowded. Enjoy!

Jonos

The rider reined in his horse from a gallop in a great clatter of hooves and then leant over it to look at Tytos Blackwood. "They come my Lord," he gasped. "They come. By the main road. They are kindling torches as they march. As to their numbers, I counted perhaps three hundreds. A hedge septon leads them, as was reported."

Blackwood nodded at the rider. "Good lad. Take your horse to the stables and report to the Steward."

As the rider walked away with his horse Blackwood looked at him. "It was a good thing that we came here together. Rumours are flying about the land like sparrows in pursuit of food."

"Aye," he replied, with a grim smile. "Always good to disappoint people by showing them that we meant what we said when we swore that great oath. Idiots think that our word is good for nothing."

"Aye," Blackwood rumbled. Then he frowned. "That hedge septon… he's too young to be doing all of this. And to strike here of all places, at Raventree Hall…"

"There are reports of another Septon, an older more influential one, near God's Eye. He sounds dangerous. I've heard of him before – he panders to the smallfolk, always criss-crossing the Riverlands and the Crownlands, helping with funerals and the like. The High Sparrow some call him."

Blackwood pulled a face. "Aye, that black-footed swine. I've heard of him too. Pious on the outside and riddled with ambition on the inside. The face of the Faith Militant in these lands."

He nodded sombrely. "He'll have to be stopped. By any means."

Blackwood sent an strained look in his direction. "By any means? Don't get me wrong, I agree, but you follow the Seven."

"I do indeed, but what he does is not right. Not right at all. He pits man against man and would have me kill you because you worship the Old Gods – and he would give people permission to kill or repress others based on their religion. And how high that would lift him amongst the Faith. He's a greedy bastard who appears pious."

Blackwood nodded, before looking back at the road. The sun had just set in the West and as they both looked they could see the speckles of light first appear on the road.

"They come," he grunted, loosening his sword a little in its scabbard. "The rider spoke truly."

"We'll count their torches as they come."

A short silence fell between the two men as they watched the speckles grow. The men were ready – both Bracken and Blackwood. Many were pale but at least they no longer snarled at each other behind he and Blackwood's backs. He'd made it very clear that there was far more stake then they knew. The Call. It all came down to the Call.

"Word came from Stone Hedge, by the way," he muttered quietly with a grim smile. "My daughter Bess… she wants to know about, well, the Old Gods. And worshipping them. I don't know what to tell her. I was hoping that you might be able to give me a suggestion."

Blackwood nodded sombrely. "My Bethany might be able to talk to her. Write to her I mean. She's a good girl. Has a kind heart. Likes explaining things."

"Aye, that would be right kind of you. And of her." He shuffled his feet slightly. Small talk could be difficult at times. Then he sighed. The torches were coming straight for the main gate.

"Stand ready – but only act on my command," Blackwood called out, and Jonos nodded fiercely. This was Blackwood's lands. It would come down to his decision and no-one else's.

The torches came on – and then as the dim figures approached the gates to the wall around Raventree Hall the crowd seemed to see the sight of the spears and then helmets and the men on the wall and in the gateway. A muttering went up that sounded more than a little surprised. He narrowed his eyes a little. Yes, it sounded as if they were surprised. Perhaps they'd expected to find just the usual guards – and not a small host of grim men.

Blackwood stepped forwards. "Who comes to Raventree Hall in such numbers? And armed as well?"

There was a confused rumbling from the crowd and then a man dressed as a septon stepped forwards with brand in his hand.

"And who is this? Do you lead this… rabble?"

The septon looked at him. He was indeed young, younger that he might have thought. But there was something in his eyes, a kind of intensity that bordered almost on madness.

"We are men of the Faith!" The Septon announced loudly. "We are men of the Seven! We may be lowly but we speak with one voice – that of the Gods themselves!"

He spoke the words almost by rote, as if he had either spoken them many times before, or listened to them being spoken many times. Jonos looked at the man. This one was trouble. "You claim to speak for the Seven?" He asked caustically. "I think not."

The septon glared at him. "What would you know of the seven, pagan? We are of the Seven! We are true believers!"

"And why are you here?" Blackwood spat.

"The tree!" The septon bellowed the word – and after a heartbeat there was a ragged echo from the crowd. "We are here for the tree! The pagan tree!"

This did not get the reception that the septon was probably hoping for from Blackwood, who burst into laughter. After a moment Jonos realised why – and joined in. "A pagan tree? Trees are just trees! They do not believe in any god, other than rain and earth and sun!"

The septon glared at them both – and then he rallied and a strange, almost sly look crossed his face. "The tree is dead! And besides, we have permission to destroy it!"

"Permission from who?" Blackwood took a step forwards and placed a hand on the pommel of his sword. "I am Tytos Blackwood. LORD Blackwood! I am the lord of Raventree Hall!"

The septon took a step backwards – and then again rallied. "Lord Bracken himself sent us!"

His eyebrows flew upwards. Then he thought about it. Oh. Someone was trying to be clever, exploiting the old enmity between the two houses. Too bad that they were acting off old information.

"Liar."

The septon swelled like a frog and just as he was about to shout something out Jonos opened his mouth again. "I called you liar. I am Jonos Bracken – Lord Bracken! And I name this man as a liar!"

The septon gaped at him as the crowd muttered. "No! You lie! Why would Lord Bracken be here?"

"To protect this place against idiots like you who claim to speak for the Seven!" Jonos roared at him. "I believe in the Seven too! But Lord Blackwood believes in the Old Gods – as did our ancestors! What is wrong with that? We have the blood of the First Men within us all, some in a torrent, others in a trickle, but we all have it!" He looked around at the suddenly silent crowd. "How many of you heard the Call? The Call to Winterfell? I know the words, they are carved in my heart – 'The Others come. The Stark calls for aid. You are needed.' Who else heard it? 'Tis a part of me as it is of you all. And now how many would listen to this fool? Why is he here? Who has sent him? Did he hear it? Did he deny it? Deny that call from our ancestors?"

The septon was jiggling on the spot in what was either fear or frustration. "Lies!" He finally squealed. "All lies! Pagan lies! There are no Others! They are naught but a Northern legend and a lie! The High Sparrow has the right of it! We must purge the pagans! Burn the trees!"

Jonos looked up and then suppressed a fierce grin. Behind the septon, in the crowd, the darkness was growing – because torch after torch was being extinguished as people slunk away.

"You want to burn the tree? Then try to," Blackwood growled. "But know this much – both House Blackwood and House Bracken are here. United. We stand together. We all heard the Call. And whoever draws a blade against us will answer to both us and to Lord Tully in Riverrun. Answer with their lives. This is not a time for men to fight each other. The Others are coming. Some of us have had the dreams. So tell me septon – where do you stand?"

More torches vanished from sight, like fireflies being snapped up by the night. The septon wavered – and then turned to face the diminished crowd. When he saw how few there suddenly were he seemed to shrink himself. When he turned back Jonos could see the sudden fear on his face.

"Be not afraid," he told him as he walked up to him and placed a metal gauntleted hand on his shoulder. "You are a man of the Seven, as am I. But – tell me who this 'High Sparrow' is."

"Aye," Blackwood said as he approached. There was a squad of men with both spears and bows with him, and that seemed to hasten the disappearance of the crowd. "I would also like to know."

The septon gave them both a look of uneasy terror – and Jonos smiled at him.

Jaime

He hated travelling by sea. It was very hard to tell exactly where the ship was, unless it was sailing off the Westerlands, it was very hard to exercise properly and above all else it was dull to the point of being terribly boring.

He leant on the railing and watched as some island or other in the Vale passed by. Very boring place, the Vale. Very rocky in places. All mountains in places. Other places were fetlock deep in horses. Very big on horses, the people of the Vale. Apart from those people at Runestone. They liked runes. What a surprise.

He sighed. He still wasn't sure just why His Fatness had decided to go and see his old friend, the Bore of the North. Terribly boring man Ned Stark. All honour and enough stubborn rectitude to choke a pig. All that Cersei – and Selmy later on – had told him was that Baratheon had decided to relocate the Court to the North. Some crisis in the frozen wastes there, or beyond the Wall – as if anything could ever really live there!

Hearing cheering from the right he sighed and looked over at the deck. Robert Baratheon was standing there in breeches and a shirt and no boots. To one side Ser Barristan was standing with a slightly long-suffering expression. And on the other was the bosun, a large man with a big grin.

Baratheon clapped his hands together and then rubbed them, before grinning around him. "Right then! A straight race, up the rigging, to the crow's nest and then down again. Ready?"

"Ready your Grace!" The bosun had an almost identical grin.

"Ser Barristan, if you would give the signal?"

"Very well your Grace. Do you both stand ready? Then – GO!"

Jaime watched bemused as each man ran to opposite sides of the ship and then jumped for the rigging, before swarming up it. The boson was a fast man and his hands were deft and sure on the ropes. Baratheon's hands were less deft, but his arms were strong and he pulled so hard that at times he almost seemed to fly upwards. His legs were powerful as well. And he was grinning like a fool the entire time, as if he was having the time of his life.

The bosun was more experienced at the rigging though, as he reached the crows nest first and then started down. However, Baratheon wasn't that far behind and as he started down he started to catch up, by the means of simply throwing himself down at regular intervals and using his arms to catch himself on the ropes. The crew were cheering them both on and much to Jaime's surprise they reached the deck in a dead heat, before standing there, gasping for breath.

"A draw – an honourable draw!" Ser Barristan bellowed, and Baratheon straightened up and grinned again, before walking over to the boson.

"You're a fast man, bosun Jermyn," he gasped. "Very fast. A good race!"

"Thank you your Grace. If I may be so bold, you were bloody fast too."

Baratheon laughed and then shook the bosun's hand as the crew cheered like lunatics.

Jaime watched with a raised eyebrow as the assembled men broke up and Baratheon went over to talk to Ser Barristan. They both seemed to be interested in the rigging.

This was the fourth – no, the fifth – times that such a race had happened and Baratheon seemed to be faster and stronger than he had been that first time. He seemed like a man transformed from what he had been just months before. Oh, he was still large – but the muscle was back in many places. And he was driving himself hard. Very hard. Hours of practice with the sword. Sword practice on a ship at sea seemed like a bloody awful idea, and that was why Selmy was insisting on practice swords with weights on them, but it was actually an interesting challenge in terms of balance and keeping your focus. Jaime was learning a lot. For one thing he was learning that Baratheon really was a fast learner himself. No mistake was ever repeated these days.

It worried him at times. The Demon of the Trident seemed to be emerging again and there had to be a reason for that. Baratheon might seem like a creature of whim at times, but there had to be a reason for this new drive behind him now. Why the North of all places? What was all this talk about a 'Call'?

He shifted uneasily for a moment. Something had been rubbing him the wrong way in King's Landing, he'd had a nagging feeling that something was wrong, or that he was somehow in the wrong place.

Cersei hadn't felt it of course. He wondered if Tyrion had? Or – and this was an amusing thought – Father perhaps? He suppressed a snort. Father? Admit to something as vague as a nagging feeling? Nonsense! Uncle Kevan perhaps and his late and very much lamented Uncle Gerion most certainly, but Father – no.

He looked back out at the far-off passing cliffs of some godsforsaken promontory or other in the Vale. The other ships of the squadron that carried the Court were also ploughing their way North and he looked at them idly. Why did he had the oddest feeling that the nagging itch at the back of his head was diminishing with every mile that passed?

The snort finally escaped him. Madness. He could imagine what Tyrion would do at hearing such folly – laugh until he cried. He was looking forwards to seeing his little brother again. Even if he would have to protect him again from Cersei's petty cruelties.

The things he did for love.

Sandor

"This is a very bad idea." It was a simple statement of fact, but the little brat simply stopped and sneered at him.

"Nonsense, dog." The brat looked both excited and terrified at the same time as they stood outside the King's cabin. "It's an excellent idea. I finally will get a chance to hold my birthright!"

From the way that the boy hissed the words he was so excited and yet terrified that Sandor strongly suspected that he was about to piss himself. Well, no matter. He was there to protect the brat and also teach him. There were times when he felt as if he should be protecting the brat from his own stupid ideas. This was one such time.

"I still say it's a bad idea. His Grace said you needed more muscle on you before you can hold it. You've got arms on you like celery."

"Silence, dog!" Joffrey Baratheon hissed. Then he looked about and turned the handle. The door opened easily enough. After all, who would be stupid enough to walk into this cabin? Oh wait, the brat. His father was upstairs practicing swordplay with the two men who Sandor genuinely respected at times with the sword, and they were skulking below like rats.

The brat darted into the cabin and then make impatient gesturing movements. Sandor shrugged internally and then walked in, closing the door behind him. The sword was on the King's bunk – and a very dishevelled bunk it was.

As the brat walked up to that bunk Sandor looked at the sword. There was something about it that put his teeth on edge. It looked… somehow more solid than anything else he had ever seen before. That was the only way he could put what he felt into words.

"That sword is dangerous," he finally said. "Your father can wield it. I don't think you should. There're something… strange about it."

The brat stared at him – and then curled a lip. "Strange? What does that mean?"

Sandor glared at him. "Janos Slynt. When his head was cut off by your father do you remember what the blade looked like? Clean – no blood. There's something odd about that thing. Selmy's always talking about it. Sword of the Storm Kings."

This bought him a roll of the eyes. "Oh not you too! Selmy says this, Selmy says that – bah! Selmy's an old woman! He's just… old!"

"He's a good swordsman. He against the Kingslayer would be a close thing."

"Selmy against Uncle Jaime… why am I even still talking to you?" The brat gestured dismissively and then walked up to the sword and stared at it greedily. "You see this, dog? This is the sword of the Durrandons. The sword of ancestors. My sword!"

"Your sword eventually. Your father's sword for now."

"The blood of the Storm Kings runs through my veins, dog! This is Stormbreaker! This is the sword of my family and I am fated to wield it one day! And I will be the greatest king that Westeros has ever known!" And then he placed a hand on the grip.

As the brat's fingers closed around the leather bindings he stopped dead as if paralysed. As Sandor eyed him with a tough of worry – was this a fit of some kind? – he then jerked once, twice… and then light briefly filled the room. There was a noise like a tiny bolt of lightning descending and then two things happened. The first was that Sandor seemed to hear a voice shout 'FALSE!' in his ear. The second thing was that Joffrey Baratheon flew across the cabin and crashed into the wall.

He stood there paralysed for a moment – and then he darted across to the brat, who was sitting there, staring at the sword as if stunned whilst holding his hand. As Sandor reached him he looked at it. A red welt was starting to rise across the palm of the brat's hand, as if he had briefly touched a red-hot poker.

The brat's face worked in terror for a moment and then he looked down at his hand for a moment. "It… it bit me. The sword… it bit me!"

"Let's get you out of here," Sandor muttered, taking a backwards glance at the sword. "That sword is your father's and it knows no other man. Or boy. And this never happened, right?"

The brat nodded jerkily and then scrabbled to his feet and fled. As he passed Sandor sniffed slight. Oh, someone needed new smallclothes. Too bad. The little shit should have listened.