Bran

Mother had finally told him what the excitement was all about. Apparently Jory Cassel was to marry Annah, Robert's nursemaid. Not that he seemed to need a nursemaid much these days. He was too busy running about with Edric and Bran, to the point where according to Annah he was 'starting to stop looking pasty'.

This was confusing, Robert looked nothing like a pasty. But he did look a bit browner from all of the sun. And all the riding that they'd been doing. And the archery. And the sword practice. Although in Edric's case it was Warhammer practice.

It was odd to have such good friends. As in people who weren't family. The past month had been fun.

Except that he still couldn't climb the walls. Not that he missed it all that much at the moment. All the riding, archery, swordplay, dealing with paperwork and above all running around and playing was a bit tiring.

And now there was going to be a wedding. It was all very odd. At least Jory and Annah seemed very cheerful about the whole thing. Mother seemed amused and a bit wry, Ser Rodrik Cassel seemed to be lost in memories at times and Septa Mordane was grumpy for no reason that he could fathom.

As for Arya, she rolled her eyes every time the wedding was mentioned, whilst Sansa seemed to be taking notes and blushing half the time every time she looked at Domeric. Who, it had to be said, kept blushing as well. When he wasn't practicing on that harp that is.

At least Domeric was still giving them all riding lessons. Robert was getting quite good on Surefoot, while Edric was getting to know his favourite horse, Greylock. As for Bran, he'd finally chosen a horse. Star had, well, a star on his forehead and a way of staring at him in a slightly long-suffering manner. Seemed to like Summer as well.

He looked over at the Broken Tower. The top wasn't that broken any more. According to Maester Luwin it wouldn't be quite as tall as it had been, but it would be habitable again in a few months. There was scaffolding in places and the ivy that had once covered part of it had gone.

If he had still been allowed to climb then the Broken Tower would no longer have been a challenge. Which was a shame.

Someone was shouting at the gatehouse and he looked over. Edric and Robert were also looking at the gatehouse – and then the gates opened and a solitary figure dressed in black rode through. He blinked. That rider looked familiar. The black rider rode in, shouted something jovial at an approaching Ser Rodrik, who bellowed something back – and then Bran recognised him.

"Uncle Benjen!" He called out, and his uncle looked his way as he dismounted, pulling off his saddlebags with care.

"Bran! How are you, lad?"

"Well thank you," he replied, remembering his manners. He was the Stark in Winterfell after all. Then he looked at his friends. "This is my Uncle Benjen, First Ranger of the Night's Watch."

Robert and Edric stared at his Uncle, who was striding towards them. "So, Bran. Who are your friends?"

"This is Robert Arryn, son of Lord Arryn," Bran said, gesturing to Robert, who placed his hand over his heart and bowed. "And this is Edric Storm, natural son of His Grace King Robert Baratheon, the First of his Name." He was quite proud of the fact that he remembered all of them. Edric also bowed formally.

Uncle Benjen regarded them all gravely, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. And then he bowed back at them. "Honoured to meet you both." Then the smile went away and he looked around. "I need to talk to your mother, Bran."

But all he had to do was look about and then point. Mother was already scurrying towards them, Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrik in her wake.

"Benjen!" Mother said as she approached. "How good to see you again. Ned's on the road to Castle Black and-"

"I saw and spoke to him on the road Cat," Uncle Benjen said as he kissed her on both cheeks. "And he sends his love. That mission he sent me on? I succeeded." He said the last two words with a certain something in his voice that made the other three grown-ups go pale.

Mother clutched at her chest for a moment. And then she rallied slightly. "You have… a hand?"

Uncle Benjen eyed Bran and his friends for a moment. "Something… larger. Cat, Winterfell needs to see this. This confirms everything. We need people to see this. Even the boys here."

"They are too young!" Mother protested. "Benjen, how can you suggest such a thing?"

"Because Winter is coming," his uncle replied in a low and terrible voice. "Ned's right – it'll be a Long Winter. And we will be fighting back the Others at the Wall. And if the Wall falls, then the next place to rally is Winterfell. A Long Winter means that these lads here will be men by the time it ends. They need to know what they'll be fighting. They need to know the threat."

"Benjen, they are children."

Uncle Benjen just looked at Mother. "They need to know, Cat. Not Rickon, he's too young, but the others – they need to know. This is important. This will be their war soon. They will not be children forever. And Bran is old enough now to witness executions. I was when I was his age."

There was what appeared to be another debate in the Language of the Eyebrow for a moment – and then Mother's shoulders slumped and she nodded slowly. Then she paused. "Are Rhys, son of Daner and Shagga still here Ser Rodrik?"

The big man frowned for a moment. "Aye, my Lady," he rumbled, "They are. The Vale Tribes are moving North to the Wall in stages. Lord Stark made it very clear that there not to be any… excesses." For some reason he looked at Bran briefly as he said the last word, as if he had been about to say something else.

"Call them to the Great Hall, if you please Ser Rodrik," Mother ordered with a sigh. "And Arya and Sansa. Domeric too. And as many of the senior servants as possible. They will all need to see this." And then she turned to a baffled Robert, Edric and Bran. "Boys, you must come with us. There is something you must see. Ben – is it safe?"

"It's in a cage. It's a long story, but the First Men made cages to slow the rot on such things, so that it could be taken South to show that they existed."

"A wise idea," Maester Luwin muttered, his eyes gleaming a bit. "Cages made from what though?"

"Do you know," Uncle Benjen muttered as they all walked towards the Great Hall, "I don't know Luwin. It's an odd colour."

By the time that a crowd of people had gathered in the Great Hall Bran's curiosity was afire, as was Robert's and Edric's. Arya looked irritated, whilst Sansa and Domeric came in together and seemed to have made up their own Language of the Eyebrow.

The arrival of the two clan chiefs from the Vale always made people stare, if only because Robert's guards always scowled a bit. Before he had left for Castle Black Father had told Bran that life in the Vale was complicated and that there had always been war between the Mountain Clans of the Vale and the Arryns, over a war that had been going on for years. However, the clan chiefs had been told by Father that Robert was his ward and therefore a protected guest and that the Fist of Winter would protect him. And that had been that.

Now the two men, one grizzled and slim, the other hulking and bearded, came in, bowed awkwardly and then stared at Benjen.

"For those that do not know him," Mother said loudly, so that the buzz of conversation stilled almost at once, "This is my Goodbrother, Benjen Stark, First Ranger of the Night's Watch. Some months ago now my husband, Lord Stark, gave him a mission. Benjen?"

"Aye," Uncle Benjen said as he stepped forwards. There was something square on the table in front of him, covered with a black cloth. "Lord Stark commanded me to venture North of the Wall and to find a wight, a servant of the Others. A wight is a walking corpse, an unnatural thing animated by the fel magics of the Others."

Bran blinked at this, as the crowd buzzed again. Many had gone pale, although Septa Mordane had gone a funny colour and seemed to be muttering something.

"I succeeded," Uncle Benjen said loudly, and silence fell. "I found a wight."

Bran stared at his uncle – and then he looked at the square thing, nudged his friends and pointed.

"And I took its head," Uncle Benjen said harshly, before pulling the cloth off the square thing. Underneath was a cage. And in the cage was a human head. He swallowed thickly. Because the eyes of the severed head – had it been a woman? Yes, a woman – in the cage were wide open, moving backwards and forwards, whilst the mouth opened and closed as it hissed.

There was another moment to utter silence – and then the crowd groaned in shock and horror. Mother was white with shock but seemed to be rallying, Maester Luwin was staring at the head in rapt fascination, Ser Rodrik was scowling at it in hatred, Jory Cassel and Annah were holding hands, Sansa had gone as white as a sheet, almost as white as the Septa, whilst Domeric just stared at it, Arya was very wide eyed and the rest of the crowd were showing a mixture of reactions. As for his friends, Edric's mouth was hanging open in astonishment, whilst Robert had screwed his face up in disgust – and then in thought.

And then there was the reaction of the Mountain Clan chiefs. Both were pale, both were trembling. But both were glaring at the severed head with what looked like hate. "The old enemy," he heard Shagga boom. "The true enemy. We fight!"

But it was the reaction of the Direwolves in the room that got everyone's attention. After a moment of staring they seemed to shake themselves – and then their ears went flat, their nostrils flared – and then they all threw their heads back and howled a howl of warning that set his teeth on edge and silenced the hall again. Warning, he could hear in that noise. Warning. They come.

And then he wondered how he knew that.

Jon Arryn

He peered down at the map and sighed tiredly. He was getting stronger, but slowly. Oh, so slowly. That said, he couldn't afford to be tired at the moment. There was too much to do.

At least Ser Davos Seaworth was back. True, he was back with confirmation of the astonishing news that was a Godswood on Dragonstone and that Shireen Baratheon was no longer scarred by greyscale, news that had made Pycelle puff like a leaky bellows as he protested that it all had to be some kind of trick, or foolishness or… the look on the face of Ser Davos had made the old man finally splutter to a halt.

He was glad that Seaworth was back in King's Landing and that it had been his son, Devan, who had taken Stannis and his family to White Harbour. Ser Davos was proving to be the exact medicine that the Gold Cloaks needed. He had that right blend of stern but also avuncular leadership. He also set an example with that leadership. And above all he had an ear to the ground. The smallfolk of King's Landing were not to be dismissed. He knew that. They made up the servants of the city, of the Red Keep, of in fact the Realm. And what they knew was priceless at times.

Especially now. Something was going on at the Great Sept. He had heard of Septon hissing insults at Septon, of Septas sneering at other Septas. Division, denial, derision… it was a toxic brew. And one that was bubbling away mightily.

It was those bloody statues of the Seven. He knew that it was. Ever since the day that the statues had turned to face North the Septons had been having one long drawn-out shouting match as to the cause of it all.

He had men picked by Quill watching the Great Sept. There could be no hint of the return of the Faith Militant. Not now. The problem was that he had no idea what the toxic mess that was brewing would result in.

The map drew his eyes again and he sighed a little. The unrest seemed to be dying in some places and flaring up in others, like a forest fire that was being constantly hit by light showers. It was… worrying. He just hoped that Hoster Tully had a better grasp of things than it seemed at the moment. Reports from Riverrun said that his Goodfather had not been well recently.

A knock on the door drew his attention to the entrance and he looked up to see Quill standing there. "Yes, what is it Quill?"

"Beg pardon my Lord, but there are reports of a disturbance at the Great Sept."

Of course there were. He sighed and straightened his tunic slightly. "Very well. Saddle my horse. It seems that I need to have a little word with the High Septon."

"Very well my lord." And Quill strode off quickly.

Jon sighed again and then looked out of the window. He could see the top of the Great Sept from here and he almost cursed the place. He should have taken a leaf out of Tywin Lannister's book and installed a more reliable High Septon. The current one was a fat idiot who bent like a twig at the slightest breeze.

He read a few reports tiredly, wondered vaguely if he would ever be free of this weariness and then nodded and stood when Quill returned to tell him that his horse was ready. Gale was indeed ready, a fast but patient horse and the latest in a long line of horses that he had ridden at various times.

Quill had organised a strong escort, using some of the extra men that had recently come in from the Vale and who were loyal only to House Arryn. They surrounded him as he rode out of the Red Keep and then down into the stink of the City. The Great Sept was a bit of a ride away and he had always wondered if the Targaryens had planned it that way - to keep the Faith of the Seven at arm's length, to make it very clear that whilst the King followed the teachings of the Seven, he would not take any nonsense from them.

As they approached the Great Sept he frowned a little. A rider had been sent ahead to tell of his approach and that rider had returned to tell Quill that the High Septon had been deep in conclave with his senior priests, but that he would of course welcome the acting Hand. But as he rode towards the doors to the great building he could see that there was no-one there, not even a guard.

"Do not dismount," he told his guards softly as they halted at the doors. Unease prickled at him. "Something is wrong here."

And then one of the doors opened and the High Septon stumbled out. Jon opened his mouth to ask where in the name of the Seven Hells he had been - and then he stopped. The fat man's clothing was disordered, his hair was dishevelled and there was a look of shock on his face.

"High Septon?" he called. "Are you well?"

The High Septon looked at him slowly, took a shambling sort of step in his direction - and then he fell forwards, smashing into the stone flagstones with a terrible force, like a puppet whose strings had been cut. And in the middle of his back, where the clothing was almost black with blood, was a knife. Blood was now running across the flagstones and he could tell at a glance that the wretched man was dead.

There was a sudden shocked pause - and then every man around Jon drew his sword and glared around. Someone to side screamed and with that a small crowd of smallfolk started to gather.

It was at that point that the doors to the Great Sept creaked open again and this time a small crowd of Septons hurried out. They were led by a short man in a robe that had more than a few streaks of blood and Jon could tell at a glance that this man was trouble. His face was pale, his eyes were glassy with madness and he had a knife in his hand.

"So die all enemies of the Faith!" The man screamed and then kicked at the body of the High Septon. "Brethren! We are victorious!"

A cheer went up, mostly coming from the parts of the crowd that were just as glassy-eyed as the man with the knife.

"And what," Jon roared at them, suddenly almost too angry for words, "Is going on here? Who are you? What have you done?"

The madman stopped kicking the dead High Septon and then stared at Jon. His mouth worked for a moment and then he pointed at him. "Brethren! Look who the Seven themselves have given up to us! The traitor Jon Arryn! The man who has been consorting with the pagans of the North! The man who would have us grovel before trees! He must be a pagan himself, surely!"

There was a growl from the Septons, albeit a slightly uncertain one, and Quill and two others danced their horses to in front of Jon protectively.

"I am no pagan," Jon said eventually, through clenched teeth. "I follow the Seven. But the people of the North are not your enemies. And the Statues of the Seven did not warn of them, but of something else."

"Naught but lies!" The Septon screamed at him. "The Seven demand a war, a holy war against the pagans of the North! And we shall give it to them!"

Jon sighed and drew his own sword. "No," he said sadly, "You will not." He could hear horsemen approach at a canter, but he did not dare look to see who they were. Instead his gaze was on this murdering religious lunatic. He should have kept a better eye on the Great Sept.

The crowd of Septons took a step towards Jon and his escort and he peered at the people behind the lunatic. Some of them looked as if they were having second thoughts. Others looked as raving mad as the Septon with the knife. Speaking of which, the man was now pointing at Jon. "This man," he raved, "Is a defender of pagans! A defender of their tree gods! He must die, now!"

"No," said a rather familiar voice behind Jon. "He must not. You on the other hand are a rabid twatwaffle, and you'll not be missed much."

And with those words came the solid twang of a crossbow and all of a sudden there was a bolt sticking out between the eyes of the madman with a knife. He had just enough time to look astonished, before collapsing in a boneless heap next to the body of the High Septon.

There was a ratchetting noise and then Bronn Cassley rode forwards at the head of a grim-faced knot of men, pulling back the drawstring of the crossbow that he was carrying. "Any more volunteers for martyrdom? It's very cheap, just a quick bolt between the eyes." He completed his resetting of the drawstring, dropped a bolt into place and then aimed a rather worrying smile at the Septons.

There was a moment of absolute shocked silence - and then the doors to the Great Sept opened again. This time the man who came out at the head of another group of Septons was the grey-haired second in command of the previous and unlamented High Septon, a man called Greenstone. He was carrying what appeared to be the bloodstained leg of a chair and he looked as if he was about to explode with rage. Then he saw the bodies - and the horsemen.

"Ah," he said after a long moment. "I see that justice has been done." Then he bowed in the direction of Jon. "My Lord Arryn, I apologise for this. Certain... doctrinal differences, shall we say, got rather out of hand. My colleagues here will soon return to the fold. Or face similar consequences."

The first group of Septons, or at least those who could count and then realise that they were not just outnumbered but also faced a group of men armed with swords and at least one crossbow, shuddered - and then put down what passed for their weapons. The few holdouts were disarmed.

"Thank you, acting High Septon," Jon called out at Greenstone, who looked a bit startled for a moment before nodding seriously in his direction. "Please let me know if you need any assistance in restoring order to the Great Sept."

Greenstone glared at the few Septons who looked as if they were about to make trouble. "Perhaps a few men with crossbows? I feel the need to have some lessons taught to some here."

And that was it. The Septons seemed to have everything under control, so Jon turned Gale with a few nudges from his feet and then rode back up the hill towards the Red Keep, gesturing for Bronn to approach as they rode.

"I hear you found my wife."

"I did at that. Or rather she fell into my lap. Her party were wandering about, looking for a Maester to treat her infected arm. What did you have smeared on that blade of your my Lord?"

He smiled thinly. "My father taught me well."

"Oh, I'll not deny that. He must have taught you very well." He paused. "Your wife's servants twigged what had happened eventually. I've got them all at the Foxhold. Couldn't bring her though. My Maester said that the journey might kill her. Taking her arm off at the shoulder - not an easy thing. Any word from the Foxhold?

"None. Which means that she still lives."

"Good."

"If you couldn't bring her here, why did you come?"

Bronn looked about idly at the crowd of people gawking. "We need a private place for that."

He nodded in reply. "The Tower of the Hand?"

"I don't trust that place. Too many odd little holes in the ceilings of too many rooms."

Ah. A good, if worrying, point. "Then where?"

Bronn looked about idly - and then pointed at a small tavern to one side. Jon nodded, told Quill to keep a close eye out for spies and then cantered up to the place, with Bronn just behind him, and dismounted.

Getting hold of the common room cost him a dragon, but it was empty and did not contain small holes anywhere at all. Bronn entered, nodded with every appearance of satisfaction and then pulled him close so that he could whisper in his ear: "Your wife had a letter from Petyr Baelish on her possession. In a locked box."

Dread gnawed at his heart for a long moment. "And what did it say?"

Bronn looked about the room again for a moment. "Saying," he said in a very low whisper indeed, "That the King's children are not his own, but rather that of her own brother."

There was another long moment. Then Jon swallowed. "Do you have this letter?"

"I have." He pulled out a leather folder with a lot of intricate stitching that held it closed. "And I give it all up to you. I'll not have Foxhold razed to the ground by Tywin bloody Lannister."

Jon took the letter as his mind whirled. Was this the only such letter? What if there had been more? What else was out there about the King's Great Matter?

"This letter-" he started to say, only to be interrupted.

"Letter? What letter?! I know nothing of any letter, my Lord."

Jon looked the former sellsword for a long moment. "Good man," he said eventually. "Tell me, is there anything you need from me?"

Another pause. And then: "I understand that my Steward is the natural daughter of the former lord of the Foxhold. Could she be legitimised?"

"Can I ask why?"

"She was there when your wife arrived. And we read... a certain piece of paper together. She can keep her mouth shut. I would like to see her rewarded."

He looked at Bronn carefully. Yes, he was no longer a sellsword. "I will see it done."

"Thank you my Lord."

"Tell me something Bronn, why is it that you always seem to be in the right place at the right time?"

"Trouble tends to seek me out and tweak my nose for a dare, my Lord."

And with that Jon laughed for what felt like the first time in a very long time.