Sorry about the delay on this, we went to EuroDisney, where we both had a great time but also caught terrible colds.

Bran

By the end of the first day he was convinced that being the Stark in Winterfell was boring. It involved lots of parchments, some of which he had to sign. It also involved times when he had to listen to Mother and Maester Luwin talk about things that sailed far over his head, like the animal husbandry bits and the work on the Broken Tower that seemed to involve more Language of the Eyebrow on their part. He wasn't sure what was going on there, but Mother had told him very firmly that he was to go nowhere near it.

He had very briefly considered the fact that as the Stark in Winterfell he could give himself permission to climb things again. Then he'd thought about what Father would say about that and the idea very rapidly died.

The days that followed confirmed his decision that this was all very boring.

At least he could escape the tedium at times and go off and train with Robert and Edric. His friends had more freedom than he did at the moment and it rankled more than a bit. Robert was riding Surefoot whenever he could, whilst Edric was being taught about warhammers by Ser Rodrik Cassel himself, who knew quite a bit about it. But then Ser Rodrik seemed to know a lot about every kind of weapon.

He liked the fact that Cassel and his nephew knew so much about so many weapons. That said, Jory did seem to walk about with a silly grin on his face at times. He'd seen him talking to Mother about something the other day, after which he'd walked away so fast that it had almost been a run. And now all of a sudden people were baking pies and being cheerful and talking about torches in the Godswood.

Grown-ups could be very odd at times.

He sat in the chair now and stared dismally at the things he needed to 'sign' on behalf of Father. To one side Mother was sorting through a few things that needed to be organised.

And then Maester Luwin rushed in, looking more than a bit unsettled. "My Lady, ravens have arrived. One from King's Landing and one from White Harbour." He handed them both over to Mother, whose eyebrows shot up as she read them.

"Oh," Mother said eventually. "The King is coming here. Ned expected that. But this other message… The Company of the Rose has returned? Led by an Edric Stark? And with dozens of cousins of the Lords of the North? What is this?"

"The message is from Ser Wylis Manderly, Lord Manderly's eldest son. I have seen his hand before my Lady. And there was news before from Pentos that the Company of the Rose was going there, seeking passage across the Narrow Sea. Lord Stark wanted confirmation before he left for Castle Black."

"The Company of the Rose?" Bran asked. "Father told me about them once. Their forefathers refused to bend the knee to Aegon the Conquerer. I asked him why and he didn't know. Is that about that funny book that was in that pile? I saw it earlier?"

Mother and Maester Luwin both stared at him. "What funny book, Bran?" Mother eventually asked.

"I saw it earlier," he said, rolling his eyes a bit. Part of that pile over there that Father has piled up. It's the red one with all the numbers, that he didn't understand. I noticed it because it's got an embossed thingie on the spine of the book. Well, I mean that I noticed it the other day. The light hit it. You were talking about my duties whilst Father is away. I was… a bit bored."

Mother exchanged a long look with Maester Luwin. They seemed to be amused about something. And also a bit exasperated. After a moment Mother stood up and crossed over to the pile of books, sorted through them quickly – and then came back with a red book, the one that he had been talking about. She peered along its spine. "A rose indeed. You have keen eyes Bran. Well done."

"Better eyes than mine – I never saw that," Maester Luwin grumped, before sticking his hands in his sleeves, a sign that he was thinking very hard. This was a bad thing. It meant more Language of the Eyebrow.

Sitting down she carefully opened it. "I remember this one," she said softly. "Ned had no idea what these figures meant – and the other books were more important. Or so it seemed at the time. I don't think that Ned really looked at this properly."

Bran looked it. There were a lot of lines of numbers. Some were in black ink, many were in green ink and some were in red ink. Sometimes there were notes by them. And the writing was all different. The last page of writing made Maester Luwin gasp slightly. "That is the hand of Lord Stark's father, my Lady. Lord Rickard Stark wrote those numbers – and those words."

He frowned at the numbers and the words. Something about… Braavos? And some kind of protection?

"The dates…" Mother mused. "The last one is dated… it's dated to just before my Goodfather left for King's Landing."

"Left for his death you mean, my Lady," the Maester sighed. "Well now… it must mean something. We must puzzle out the meaning. Especially as this Edwin Stark says that he rides for Winterfell to present, erm, a 'list of those who have returned to their families – and some who will refound lost estates' – whatever that means."

Mother and Maester engaged in another staring competition, whilst Bran yawned so hard that his jaw cracked. Yes, being the Stark in Winterfell was no fun at all.

Jon Arryn

The sun was starting to head down to the horizon as he entered the room where the Small Council was to meet. He was early, but then that was a good thing. It gave him a chance to sit and collect his thoughts.

He tired too easily. He had headaches at times. He felt old and worn out. But he was an Arryn and he was temporary Hand of the King, at least until the reins of governance had been switched to a functioning Court in Winterfell, or wherever Robert decided to base himself until all this was dealt with.

The map on the wall caught his eye for a moment and he sighed deeply. What would it be like to just drop everything after the word came that Robert was ruling properly again, with Stannis as his Hand? To go home. Back to the Vale. Back to the Bloody Gate and the Eyrie, to the Mountains of the Moon and all the sights and sounds and smells of his youth. What would it be like?

If only Lysa had given him more sons. It was just him and Robert though – he refused to call him by Lysa's ridiculous nick-name. 'SweetRobin'. Fah. Robert Arryn would one day rule the Vale. And his son would have to be strong.

He rubbed his head again as the familiar ache appeared and then disappeared, before pouring himself a small glass of watered wine. Pycelle had told him that he had to rest, had to relax, had to wait for his strength to return eventually. That meant waiting. He hated waiting.

Boots sounded in the corridor and he turned to watch Renly Baratheon stride in with the new Master of Coin, Lord Orton Merryweather. It was not exactly an orthodox choice. The big man from the Reach with the truly impressive nose had a good head for law – and oddly enough for numbers. He had not been their first choice, more like their third choice. But another Florent would not have been a good idea, and old Lord Stoutheart… well, Weakheart might be a better choice. The man had beamed at being told that he was being considered for a position on the Small Council – before clutching at his chest and dropping dead on the spot.

Merryweather was a decent choice. A safe pair of hands was what they needed. Not an overly clever man – after Baelish he'd never trust a man who said that he was good with coin. Not after that poisonous little weasel.

So far Merryweather had proven himself to be courteous, reasonably astute, very well travelled and husband to a remarkably beautiful woman from Myr.

"Lord Arryn," Merryweather said with a short bow. "You are well?"

"Tired," Jon replied with a slight smile. "I tire easily. But Lord Stannis made me temporary Hand until he sends word from Winterfell that he has rejoined His Grace, so I must do my duty."

"I am still a little unsure as what your title is, Jon," Renly said with an easy smile. "Acting Hand? Temporary Hand? Second-Hand?"

"Most droll, Lord Renly, most droll," tittered a voice to one side. Varys glided into the room, on silent slippered feet. "I see that we are almost all here?"

A shuffling and harrumphing heralded the arrival of Grand Maester Pycelle, who blinked at them all rheumily, before focussing on Jon. "And how do you feel today my Lord of Arryn?"

Tired of everyone asking me that bloody question, Jon wanted to shout at him, but instead he smiled a little. "Tired, Grand Maester. And yes, I am taking the powders you prescribed for me in warm wine. Heartily foul they taste too, but they are having an effect." What he didn't mention was the fact that Quill had hired a trusted man to test everything. If he died tomorrow then he wanted everyone to know why – and who.

The Small Council found their seats and sat. Jon looked about and then leant forwards a little. "Well, my Lords, The King apparently passed Gulltown two days ago, so he should at the very least be level with the Fingers by now. A few more days and his party will be at White Harbour."

"I found it rather telling that they didn't take the Wheelhouse," Renly said with a slight smile that turned to a grimace. "Although the Queen's reaction once she finds out that it was 'forgotten' will be interesting."

"And loud, I suspect," Varys muttered just loud enough for Jon to hear him. "Very loud."

Pycelle shook his head. "A fast journey. Most inadvisable in the place like the North. Very inhospitable place."

"Grand Maester, that wheelhouse loses or breaks a wheel roughly once every twenty miles," Renly pointed out dryly. "If the road is bad, sometimes even more often. It may be relatively comfortable, but it's damned slow. And Robert's moving fast at the moment. Damn fast, even by his standards. Cersei and the children will get a lesson in riding. That and discomfort. Might do them all some good."

Pycelle harrumphed again, whilst Merryweather looked politely baffled.

Varys broke the moment. "In the meantime my little birds have been singing some interesting tales to me. There has indeed been fighting by the God's Eye. Apparently some claiming to be members of the Faith Militant tried to get to the Isle of Faces to burn the Weirwood there to the ground."

He said it very matter-of-factly, and Jon felt his stomach freeze in terror. "Varys, please tell me that they failed. There has long been an unspoken compact regarding the Isle of Faces. It has to remain intact. It must not be touched. The last thing we need is a war between those who count themselves First Men and those who count themselves Andal."

"Oh they did indeed fail, my Lord," Varys said. "But it is the manner of their failing which is interesting. According to my little birds the Faith Militant was being opposed by some local villagers with ties to the Isle, led by a former soldier. When the Faith brought a number of hedge knights… well, there seems to have been something of an intervention. Erm… mounted men dressed as Green Men from the Isle."

The terror was replaced with astonishment. "Green Men? From the Isle of Faces? On the mainland?"

"Yes my Lord. Led, according to one rather insistent source of mine, by a very tall old man who some said was the Green Man."

The astonishment deepened. "The Green Man. The Green Man?"

"I'm sorry," Merryweather broke in, "Who is this Green Man?"

Jon leant back in his seat and then raised both eyebrows. "I don't know. The Green Men keep very much to themselves. All the Crown has ever known about them is that they recruit from those with the blood of the First Men. Sometimes there are tales about how they are selected. Some say that they are called there. Sometimes they're from the North. Sometimes they're from the Stormlands. A few are Stony Dornish. They go to the Isle – and then they never leave. Never. The Green Man leads them. It's a position, a rank filled by many over the years. How he's chosen is a mystery.

"But there have been tales of those who have travelled to the Isle of Faces to consult with the Green Man. Some say that they have their futures predicted there. Or they're given just a hint about their fate, or if what they do is wise or not. Legend has it that Edmyn Tully visited the Green Man of the time after Aegon burned Harrenhall. What they talked about is a mystery. Legend also has it that Addam Velaryon went there during the Dance of Dragons. To be told what, no-one knows – it's a mystery.

"And there is one final meeting. I have heard that Rhaegar Targaryen visited the Isle of Faces not once but twice – once just before the Tourney at Harrenhall and once just before the Ruby Ford."

Varys nodded sombrely. "I had heard that as well, my Lord. I was never able to find out why he went there."

"Surely all that these Green Men have is, well, superstitious rubbish," Pycelle broke in. "Legends from the time of the First Men?"

"Then why would Rhaegar Targaryen go to them?" Merryweather muttered. "I remember him well. He was a strange man at times, much concerned with prophecies."

"He was a Targaryen, almost the last of the Targaryen's," Renly muttered. "His father was a madman. Any wonder he was strange?"

"He could admittedly be odd," Varys conceded. "But as others have sought advice from the Isle of Faces… well, who knows? And I must confess that the Isle has been one of the few failures for my little birds. King Aerys once wanted to know what was happening there. I was unable to find out for him. Or, for that matter, his Grace King Robert. One little bird I sent there was once found wandering about a village afterwards, with no memory of what had happened."

Jon rubbed at his forehead tiredly. "Very well – the Green Men are involving themselves in matters in Westeros for the first time in centuries. We must talk to this Green Man to find out what they want. And we must send word to Winterfell about this. The King must know, as must Ned. What else?"

"There are confused reports of rising of the Faith Militant near Raventree Hall and High Heart," Varys muttered. "Apparently Ser Edmure Tully has ridden forth from Riverrun to confront them at the latter. And there are odd reports from Dorne. More and more of the Stony Dornish have been seen heading North. Oh and something odd also came in from The Reach. Apparently Lord Mace Tyrell has retired to his favourite hunting lodge, leaving the running of The Reach to his eldest son Willas Tyrell."

Renly looked puzzled at this, whilst Merryweather smiled slightly. "I have joined the Small Council at a time of crisis," the latter rumbled when he saw Jon raise an eyebrow at him. "Much as I admire Lord Tyrell, Willas Tyrell is… the best of the Tyrells, in my view."

Renly had turned a slightly odd colour and was opening his mouth to say something when a fist pounded at the door. "Come!" Jon shouted, slightly irked at the interruption.

Quill strode in through the openening door with a message in his hand which, after approaching and bowing quickly to Jon, he handed over. "From the Foxhold my Lord."

Jon looked at Quill. The man had an odd look in his eyes, like an odd kind of triumph. Taking the letter he looked down at it. Shock roiled his mind for a moment. Then he smiled grimly. "Your pardon, my lords. It seems that my wife has been found. Lord Cassley writes from the Foxhold that her party sought refuge there as she was very ill." He passed the message over to Pycelle, who scrabbled at it with interest in his eyes. "It seems that I did indeed stab her back in her attack on me."

"Oh woe," Renly quipped. Then he sobered a little. "Your pardon. Stabbed where?"

"In, er, the arm, Lord Renly," Pycelle replied. "The wound corrupted. It seems that Lord Cassley's Maester tried to save her arm at the elbow, but was unable to do so. Instead he had to amputate it at, erm, the shoulder." He put the message down. "A most serious procedure. My Lord, you must prepare yourself for the possibility that she will not survive this. From what this message says the Maester of the Foxhold has no small skill, but this… this would be a grievous blow for even a strong warrior."

"At least she has been found," Jon said heavily. "And she is no longer a threat to my son. And if she lives then we will get a reason from her as to why she attacked me. In the meantime Lord Cassley also writes that he rides for King's Landing. Humph. I wonder why. He isn't bringing Lysa."

"Indeed not my Lord," Pycelle muttered. "Such a trip would mostly likely kill her." Then he paused. "Cassley… Cassley… I thought that the Lord of the Foxhold was Lord Cawlish?"

"Cawlish died without legitimate issue," Jon said quietly. "Lord Cassley is a former sellsword who I trust absolutely."

"A former sellsword," Pycelle harrumphed. "Are you sure that such trust is warranted, my Lord? Such men are hardly noble. Hardly trustworthy."

This triggered a slight cough from Varys. "This sellsword, Grand Maester, is the man who caught the late and very much unlamented Petyr Baelish."

Pycelle absorbed this for a moment. "Ah," he said eventually. "Well then, at times an infusion of new blood is most welcome. Most welcome indeed."

Tyrion

The oil in the lantern to one side was starting to run out, judging by the dying of the light. He peered at it crossly and then sighed and closed the book. Time to stop reading and start sleeping. It was late enough as it was.

He ran a hand over the spine of the book and then placed it on his chest and stared at the ceiling. Dacey's Father had been a very gifted historian. A very gifted writer, come to that. His writing had been organised, neat but elegant. He had known when to differentiate between known facts and theories about possible facts. And he had had an excellent way of laying out the possible facts behind legends, explaining, verifying and knowing when to admit that something was too outlandish to be true.

There was so much in this book. No wonder Ned Stark had been very thoughtful when he had handed it over, saying that Dacey would need to make copies, many copies.

And there were hints about some of the weapons of their ancestors. The Fist of Winter – which old Lord Surestone thought might be hidden somewhere in the crypts of Winterfell – had been thought to be made from metal found in a fallen star, one that had fallen near Winterfell itself. There had been a little treatise about naming habits, as well as mention of other weapons. Dawn was mentioned, as was the spear of the Gardener Kings. And some kind of axe in Casterly Rock, one that had apparently vanished at least two hundred years ago.

Other things were mentioned as well. Greenseers and Green Men. The Isle of Faces was apparently very important to all First Men, as it was a proper Weirwood grove, as opposed to the odd tree here and there South of The Neck.

Speaking of South of the Neck there was even a short list of families with First Men blood that had been known – or rumoured to have been known – to have the Greensight. Much to his interest, the Casterlys were on that list, which meant that the Lannisters were as well. Those with the gift had, it seemed, dwindled quite a bit since the arrival of the Andals, but it still emerged every now and then.

He wondered who the last Lannister with the Greensight had been. It wasn't something that Father had ever talked about. In fact it was highly doubtful that Father would ever talk about that. Or think about it, come to that. Although he might raise a scornful eyebrow at the very mention of it.

Then he narrowed his eyes a little. There had been an odd reference to one Tyrek Lannister. Wait… he had been the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch hadn't he? The one who had ordered the abandonment of the Nightfort?

Speaking of the Nightfort, he made a note to look up any mention of that as well. There had been some odd references in the chapter about the building of the Wall about 'artefacts' that had been used at the building of the old castle there. Something about a seat of sight, or something like that. Lord Surestone had stressed that the tale was an old one and obscure even for the North.

Lord Surestone. He blinked a little in the dying lamplight and then reluctantly placed the book to one side. He needed his sleep. But he still cursed the name of Ser Willem Bootle, the man who had most likely murdered Lord Surestone. Damn that man. He would naver now have the chance to meet such a brilliant writer and historian as Lord Surestone, and the Gods alone knew how rare it was to read a genuinely good new history book these days.

He blew out the lamp and laid back in the absolute darkness that had fallen. Tonight's camp was another holdfast, this one occupied. The local lord had been a bit stunned by the approach of Lord Stark and his party, but he had made them very welcome.

Benjen Stark was no longer with them – he had ridden south at dawn, headed for Winterfell. His tale had been a fascinating one… a lost base once used by the Rangers of the Night's Watch, a man who had been wandering possibly for centuries, a real tale of magic… and of wights.

Wights. He'd seen something that few had for thousands of years – the severed and still-moving head of a wight. He knew that they were out there, he' knew on an intellectual level that such things existed, but to see one… Well, it made it all suddenly very real. The threat was out there.

Father needed to see that head. So did Robert Baratheon. It might just kick the latter out of his sloth and lethargy. Perhaps.

He rolled over and closed his eyes. More hard riding tomorrow. What fun. At least the saddlesores were starting to respond to treatment.

Edmure

The main courtyard of Riverrun was filled with noise as he strode out of the doorway and into the crowd. All around him men were heaving themselves into saddles, checking cinches or doing any one of a hundred little things as they prepared themselves to possibly go into battle.

He looked at the crowd grimly and then cursed himself for being a soft-headed fool. That it had come to this – riding out against men of the Riverlands. Sadly they were now men of the Faith Militant, who would not listen to reason and who had to be stopped from doing something stupid.

Burning down Godswoods – Seven Hells, burning down anything – was incredibly stupid. With Father ill that made him effectively Lord of the Riverlands and there was no way that he was going to have people setting Godswoods on fire and then raving about the Old Gods and pagans. The Andal invasion had been hundreds of years ago. He had no intention of restarting those hatreds. Plus, the Faith Militant appeared to want quite a bit of power.

He set his jaw slightly. If some of them had to die in order for peace to be restored then he was happy with that. He hated the thought of it, but he had no choice.

What he really needed was the time to get word to Ned and ask what was going on. The Call had shaken him far more than he cared to admit. It had shown that there was something happening to the North, something that was old and powerful and capable of reaching those with the blood of the First Men.

Including him. Which… frightened him a little. He was faithful to the Seven, he had been brought up with the lessons of the Seven in his ears from various Septons, but the Call… that had called to something else, something deeper, within him.

The leather armour he was wearing chafed a little in places and he pulled at it slightly as he approached his horse. Roan snickered at him a little as he caught sight of him and he eyed him back. "Behave, you."

Naturally the Maester arrived just as he was putting a boot in the stirrups. "Sir Edmure!"

He removed his boot and then glared at the man. "Yes Vyman?"

"Lord Tully is awake again and wishes to see you at once!"

Father was awake? He'd been ill for a few weeks now but perhaps it was starting to pass. He nodded and then looked about for his Master at Arms. "Tymon! Take the men out! Head for High Heart at once – I want that place protected at all costs. I'll join you as fast as I can – my Father needs me."

Tymon nodded sombrely and then started to shout orders. As the men began to file their way out over the drawbridge Edmure strode off to Father's room.

To his surprise he found Father pulling on some boots, huffing as he did so. He looked tired and ill, but he was fully dressed. He scowled at him. "Father, you are not coming with us. You aren't well."

Father returned the scowl for a moment before sighing. "I know," he said quietly. "But I was at least going to see you off. And there's a lot to do."

"I know," he replied in a level voice. "This mad Septon must be brought to justice. I like it not… but it must be done."

"Yes," Father said heavily. He finished pulling his boots and then sat back and looked at Edmure. "You must be strong for what lies ahead. This… movement, this rising by those who would bring back the Faith Militant – it must be stopped. Every Lord Paramount will agree on this, even that idiot in Highgarden. It's foolish beyond words. And… there's something in the water, Edmure. Some current is stirring in the deep waters. I feel it. Something's coming."

"The Call to Winterfell?"

Father nodded. "That… concerns me greatly. We must made Riverrun ready for whatever storms are ahead of us." He sighed. "Any word of the others?"

Edmure shook his head slowly. "No sign of Uncle Brynden for many days now. The last sighting had him headed towards the God's Eye. There are no more reports of fighting there at least. The Isle of Faces seems to be safe after some kind of skirmish, but I have sent a raven to Harrenhall to ask Lady Whent to find out what happened there."

He paused and pulled a face. "As for her… there is no sign at all of her. I still can't believe that she would do such a thing."

Father shook his head, as stony-faced and grim as Edmure had ever seen him. "She is dead to us. For her to do what she did… I never want to hear her name again. Thank the Gods she didn't kill her husband. Jon Arryn is one of the best men I have ever met. What she did…"

"I know, Father. I know. When she is found then she will meet justice." His gaze dropped. His own sister…

"With that, and the fact that Brynden has vanished, I have made a decision. You must marry. And soon."

He stared at his father. "I must?"

"Yes. You ride to fight the Faith Militant today. What if you are wounded? Or killed? At the moment the succession would pass to Cat's second son, Bran. He is a good lad, but what does he know of Riverrun? Or the Riverlands? He may look like a Tully, but his heart is based in the North. He's Ned's son and a Stark. The Tully name must live on. It must live on through you."

Father stood on slightly shaky legs, before turning and placing his hands on Edmure's shoulders. "I wish that I could ride with you. I wish that I could fight with you. But you must do this. I have shielded you a little too much from things like this perhaps, but no more. I am proud of you. Do your duty and then return to Riverrun. We must find you a wife."

He looked at Father, his mind whirling. Father sounded so… driven. He nodded slowly. "Very well Father. But I would beg of one thing from you. Please – no Freys."

Father laughed shortly, a laugh that turned into a cough. "Agreed! I would not pair you with any of the Late Lord Frey's daughters!"

He smiled back at Father and then took his leave, before striding back to the courtyard. Roan was being held by a stablehand, with a small honour guard nearby. Edmure mounted quickly and then nodded at the others, before spurring Roan out of the gates and over the drawbridge. He had a hill to defend against some madmen.

He really needed to have that word with Ned. What had he started?