Edmure

They were all going to die. He cursed himself for being a fool. They were all going to die and it was all his fault, because he hadn't listened. Hadn't listened to Father, who had tried to talk to him about basic military matters. Hadn't listened to Uncle Brynden, who had talked about scouting and ranging during his various visits to Riverrun. And he hadn't listened to Cat, who had told him that it was time to give up playing about and take being the heir to Riverrun seriously.

He looked down the hill as the sun set. The good news was that they'd made it to High Heart before the mob of Faith Militant-inspired smallfolk. The bad news was that he'd sent too many of his men off in ranges to either side to secure various points and try and get more help from various holdfasts. Because if he hadn't behaved like a blithering idiot then he'd have more than the 50 men he had with him now, on top of a high hill that was too steep to mount a proper mounted charge on, facing a mob of at least 500 smallfolk.

Odds of 10 to one. Normally 50 well-armed and well-armoured men, on good horses, against a mob of even that number would break them in one charge. Maybe two. However, they required level ground and they needed the mob to not be holding torches that might make even warhorses shy.

Yes, he was an idiot. If he made it out of here alive then he'd make up for it all by pestering Father for every scrap of information about strategy, tactics and the other bits of warfare, no matter how niggling and foolish. And then he'd track down Uncle Brynden – where in the name of the Seven Hells was he? – and do the same with him.

He chewed a lip for a moment. Perhaps Cat's son Bran would be less of an idiot when he inherited Riverrun. No more Tullys. Tully blood would hold Riverrun, but not the Tully name. Because of him. Yes, he was an idiot.

A knot of torches started to move up the hill and he sighed. Well, at least there would be a parley. And they might get lucky. Smallfolk were not trained soldiers. If they did attack then it would be bloody.

"Ser Edmure? There's a parley coming."

"I know, Tymon," he replied quietly. "I see them. Have the men stand ready."

"Aye, Ser Edmure."

"Tymon?"

"Tell the men that should we prevail then I'll buy them a barrel of Arbor Gold."

"I shall Ser Edmure." He stared to walk off and then stopped. "Ser Edmure?"

"Aye, Tymon?"

"Honoured to serve, Ser Edmure."

"Thank you." And with that he walked down the slope to meet the parley, with Tymon a few others joining him. They had torches as well and as they walked he heard the snap and boom of the banner on the hill behind him as the wind took it.

The last of the sunlight illuminated the group coming towards him, but as he looked he cursed under his breath. The smallfolk were being led by a Septon. Not just any Septon, but that bloody Septon. The one they called Blackfoot. He was dressed in a shapeless robe, his bare feet were filthy and his hair was dishevelled. And as he approached he saw a beatific smile on his face – and the look of madness in his eyes. Oh, yes. This one was trouble.

"Ser Edmure," the Septon said in the gathering gloom. "What an unexpected pleasure."

"Blackfoot," he replied, and as he said the word the smile slipped for an instant on the face of the Septon. "What do you want?"

"My people call me the High Sparrow."

"Your people? So you lead them then?"

"I minister to their needs. I provide spiritual guidance."

"So you're now moving from that to arson? And murder?"

"I seek the death of no-one, Ser Edmure. I will raise my hand to no-one."

He glared at the wretched man and the men behind him, with their pathetic attempt at armour and their rusty weapons. "No, but you'll allow others to take up arms against those you see as your enemies. I see that, as clear as day."

Blackfoot looked at him. It was a slightly surprised look, as if he was startled that Edmure had said something so pertinent. "We are here for a most noble cause. We are here on the behest of the Seven. Would you stand in our way?"

"You are here to burn this hill and those stumps to the ground. At night. Providing a sign that all for miles around can see – that you will destroy all signs of the First Men. And that I will not allow."

"The stumps are symbols of false gods," Blackfoot said piously. "Evil and false. It is the duty of all who follow the Seven to confront and chastise such false gods. Those who stand behind me represent the smallfolk. Would you really stand against them?"

He took a measured step forwards. It was increasingly dark now, with just the torches providing light. "I would. You do not seek to confront false gods, you seek to raise the banner of the Faith Militant. And the king will not allow it. Neither will my father. And neither will I. What's next after those stumps? The Heart Trees at places like Raventree Hall? And then? Will it be men and women next? There are still those who worship the Old Gods here in the Riverlands. Would you burn them out? Kill them? Set them on fire? Where is the evil then?"

"The smallfolk do not worship the false gods."

"Not all of them. But some of them. And who here heard the Call?"

Blackfoot narrowed his eyes a little. It seemed that the conversation was not going the way that he had anticipated. "This 'Call'… a call to worship false gods, methinks. If it happened. And even if it did – your goodbrother sent it out. He worships the false gods."

"Many do. Would you burn them as well? Would you have the North descend on the Riverlands? On you? No, it wouldn't be you, it would be on others. You want power. I see it in your eyes. You seek to dominate."

There was a long pause as they both stared at each other in the light of the torches. Blackfoot smiled a grim and terrible smile at him. "Ser Edmure, move your men or we will take this hill. By force if we have to, but we will take it. And scorch it."

"You can try," said a very familiar voice to one side. He looked to one side, too surprised to speak. "But you'll not succeed. You can burn each and every stump, but they won't die."

"Uncle Brynden!"

"Edmure." The Blackfish emerged out of the darkness. He seemed a bit different, as if the grey at his temples was less prominent. And he had oddly shaped cloak pins on each side of his neck. To his left was a blonde woman with one hand gripping the pommel of a sword and on his right was a tall old man in dark robes, with something on a hood. "You keep interesting company, nephew."

"Unwelcome company," Edmure growled. There were others in the darkness behind his uncle and he felt his heart lift a little. "You heard why they are here."

"Aye," said the old man. "We heard. And it will not stand. As Ser Brynden said, burning the trees will never get rid of them. They were cut down years ago – but the stumps still stand. Why would that be?"

Puzzled he looked at the man. "I don't understand."

Uncle Brynden sent him a slightly exasperated look. "They have deep roots, Edmure. Deeper roots than you might think." Then he glared at Blackfoot. "And far deeper than in your worst nightmares. Hello again, Septon. We meet again. Your men failed at the God's Eye. Did you think to succeed here?"

Blackfoot stared at the Blackfish – and then smiled slightly. "The knight and the woman at the village. Of course. You rode away from our great and holy task."

"A task that we ended," the old man said grimly. He stepped forwards, tugging at his hood, so that it came up. As it did Edmure could see horns suddenly sprouting on either side of the old man's head. He stared, transfixed. No. Surely not.

Blackfoot also seemed to be stunned. "No," he said eventually. "This cannot be. Your kind has gone from this world. There are no Green Men."

The old man smiled a strange and terrible smile. "You were wrong. You were looking in the wrong places."

"Then you are all pagans and we will end you!" Blackfoot snarled. "I see what you are! I see what you are all too clearly!"

"You see, do you?" The old man said the words softly. He paused as if he was listening to something. "Tell me – what do you see now?"

"I see you and – what? Relight those torches, you fools! Relight them!"

Edmure stared at the man in confusion, as did Blackfoot's men. "High Sparrow? Erm – the torches are still lit. We did not douse them."

"Fool! Of course you did, why else would it be so dark so suddenly?" And then the Septon staggered a little as he looked about. "The stars! Where are the stars?"

And in that moment Edmure saw that the eyes of the Septon were now pure white. He looked at the old man, who was now staring at the terrified men standing behind the Septon. "Punishment for his crimes," he said. "Tell those below to go home."

There was a long moment – and then Blackfoot's men broke and ran, running for the crowd at the bottom of the hill, screaming at them to go, to flee, that the High Sparrow had been blinded by the Old Gods. Flee. Flee.

Tyrion

If he survived this trip and ever returned to Casterly Rock he'd have to tell Father a few things about Ned Stark. Namely that the man could march at a truly brutal speed. And at the same time get his men to ride at that same speed. He looked at him now, at the head of the column of men, the huge direwolf loping effortlessly at his side.

Father had often described Ned Stark as being an honourable fool. Father, to be honest, didn't know what he was talking about in this case. Ned Stark was not a fool. It was just that he was the Lord that the North needed. He commanded the North in a way that few others could. Father would not do well in this cold, harsh, but oddly beautiful place. It wasn't really a place for much artifice or dissemblance, because such things could get you killed at some point if you were not very lucky.

No, the North was a place where you kept your friends close and your enemies even closer. He didn't want to imagine what Winter would be like up here. Bone-chilling beyond his worst nightmares no doubt. And someone like Ned Stark had the kind of standards of bone-headed honourably noble behaviour that made him appallingly popular.

Father would be roundly hated up here. And would probably have controlled things with a rod of iron, before having that rod wrapped around his neck and then be tied to a large rock, so that that he could be kicked into the nearest lake.

Ned Stark's travelling speed also meant that he was a military threat should he and Father ever fight each other. And he really wasn't sure who would win that little fight. Father's campaigns tended to be brutally direct. Ned Stark on the other hand seemed to fight with no amount of cunning. And from what he had overheard when it came to Ned and Robb Stark discussing tactics and strategy, Robb Stark was even better. Which made no sense whatsoever, given the age of the boy.

No, he was missing something. He was missing something about the boy's companions as well. Theon Greyjoy, according to his sources had once been an arrogant little prick who clung to being an Ironborn like some children clung to their toys. Well, that description was no true of the grave young man who was riding in front of him now, one hand tickling the ears of his alert little direwolf. The Greyjoy boy was… well, he was a man of the North now. He was wearing a plain doublet and he prayed every day to the Old Gods. Why? What had happened?

As for Jon Stark, the former Bastard of Winterfell… well, the lad had a grave demeanour at the best of times, as if he was always a bit weighed down by something. Which was… interesting. No-one knew who his mother was. Of his father there could be no question – he looked more like a Stark than Robb Stark did – but there was something mysterious there. There had always been those stories about the Great Tournament at Harrenhall, the last flash of light before darkness fell on the Targaryens, where apparently Ashara Dayne had made the young Ned Stark blush. Had it been anything more than a blush? He didn't know.

He had a lot of fun guessing though.

He could see that a rider was approaching ahead of them and reined in as Ned Stark raised a clenched gauntleted fist in the air. "Slow!" The Lord of the North shouted. "Walk!"

"Riders on the road ahead, my Lord," he heard the rider gasp out. "They bear the banners of the Karhold."

"Karstarks then? Aye, I thought that we might meet them," GreatJon Umber boomed. Then he looked at Lord Stark. "Cheer up Ned, he's your bloody cousin."

"Distant cousin," Ned Stark muttered. "With a few marriage alliances back and forwards in the past. Loyal but dour."

"Scratch a Karstark and you'll find a Stark," Roose Bolton said to the other side of him, and there was a mutter of laughter.

"Aye, right enough," sighed Ned Stark, before raising his hand again and then bringing it down forwards to signify a canter. "Ride!"

They soon caught up to the other party on the road ahead, who had obviously seen their banners and then dismounted. As they drew level and reined in the entire Karstark party dropped to one knee, sending the odd incredulous glance at the motionless figure of Frostfyre.

"Lord Stark," a large rawboned man older than the GreatJon and with a bigger beard intoned, "The Stark In Winterfell, House Karstark of the Karhold stands ready. The Long Night comes. Command us."

"Rise, Lord Karstark," Ned Stark said as he dismounted, before smiling and embracing the older man. "Well met. We have much to talk about." He tilted his head at the direwolf. "Including her."

"Aye," Lord Karstark rumbled. "Aye, we do. I've brought my sons. All three of them. The Call was strong at the Karhold."

Hearing a slight babble of voices Tyrion turned to see that three younger men were talking enthusiastically with Robb and Jon Stark, as well as the Greyjoy boy.

After a moment the Karstarks remounted, the column somehow shook itself into some kind of shape and they restarted their ride North, hard and relentless. The Karstarks seemed to be quite familiar with the speed and intensity of Ned Stark.

And then they crested a hill and slowed, and the word came through for Tyrion to ride to the head of the column. He spurred his horse on and then reined in as he approached Ned Stark, who was leaning against the pommel of his horse and staring North. The moment he noticed him he smiled slightly. "There you go. Our destination."

Confused he stared ahead of them. Fields, yes, the road, yes, hills up ahead to one side, yes… wait. Wait. There was a gleam of something almost white-blue far ahead. "Is that… the Wall?" He asked the question hesitantly.

"Aye, that's it." Ned Stark said the words with a slight sigh. "That's the Wall."

He thought about saying something like "Will we be there by this afternoon, before my arse becomes one giant blister," but he restrained himself. Instead he asked: "When shall we get there?"

"Tomorrow," Ned Stark grunted, before looked at him and smiling a little. "Yes, it's that damn big."

"By all the Gods," Tyrion muttered as he stared North. "It's huge."

"Aye," Ned Stark replied. "And our best defence against what lies on the other side. My Lords – RIDE!" And with they were off again.

The Wall awaited. As did a cushion for his arse.

Victarion

He was in a foul mood as he walked into the castle at Pyke. The weather matched his mood – damp and wet. And this was to be a meeting that he was not going to enjoy, he could tell that straight away. Well, they had to be told the truth. Because it was all their bloody fault, the fools.

Guards took one look at his face and either stiffened to attention or got out of his way as quickly as possible, almost scuttling like crabs. Good. He was in no mood to be stopped, diverted or asked by some snivelling underling asking what he was doing there.

He found his brother in his solar. Balon Greyjoy was sitting in his usual chair, staring at the fire that was burning in the hearth. Damphair was standing next to him and they were having a subdued conversation, one that stopped the moment that they both noticed his arrival. It wasn't hard, as he slammed the door closed behind him.

"Victarion? What do you want here? I did not send for you."

He looked his brother in the eye. "I came to report on the status of the Iron Fleet. Because you need to hear this from me. We now have a third of the ships that we had yesterday."

There was a stunned silence and then Balon came out of his chair as if someone had just set fire to his arse. "WHAT?"

"I said that the Iron Fleet now has just a third of the strength it had yesterday. Two thirds of it have sailed away."

Balon stared at him. "Sailed away? Sailed away where? Victarion, what in the name of the Drowned God has happened?"

You happened, you idiot. The words were on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed them. "A message came from Harlaw. And another one from Great Wyk. Those captains and crew from those two islands sailed as soon as they heard it."

Balon and Damphair looked at each other. They seemed startled by the names of the islands – as if this was something that they had not anticipated. "What message?"

He fixed them both with his best glare. "That they were betrayed. That you had attacked Harlaw and would attack Great Wyk next. That you were purging the Iron Islands of everyone that claimed to have heard the Call. And that you denied the Call. Denied help for Winterfell. Denied help for the Wall."

Balon exchanged another look with Damphair, the latter baring his teeth in a silent snarl of rage. "Not all the captains and crew were from those two islands though!" Balon said eventually.

"No, but do you really think that all those who heard The Call came from those islands? Don't be a fool, brother. And do not dare tell me that it was all 'Greenlander mummery'. You insult me with those words. I was at sea when I heard it. At sea. No mummery there. I heard it."

Damphair clenched his fists in rage. "Nonsense! Mummery and foolishness! The Drowned God told me that-"

"I don't care what the Drowned God says!" Victarion roared with a fury that surprised him. "The Iron Fleet that we have spent so long building is gone. Reduced to a fraction of what it had been. The ships have sailed for their home islands, the men will not obey you, not until they feel safe again."

Balon was staring at him as if he had gone raving mad. "I am the Lord of the Iron Islands!" he shouted eventually. "This is my dominion! My islands! This is rebellion!"

"No, this is you not listening to your own people," Victarian shouted back. He was angrier than he had ever been, angrier with both his brothers for their mishandling of this whole matter, angry with them for thinking that this could be controlled with their usual lack of tact. "You have not even sent a raven to Winterfell asking what is going on, you simply declared the whole thing to be a Greenlander lie – and then killing people who disagreed with you. And that is beyond foolish! Who else will you kill? A dozen? A hundred? A thousand? Ten thousand? The Call was heard. It cannot be unheard!"

The other two men in the room were both pale now – Balon from shock and Damphair from what looked like fury. The latter broke the silence. "The Drowned God denied this 'call' to me! Our God, the God of the Iron Islands! Would you have me deny him? We stand by the Iron Price and the Old Way!"

"And in the meantime the Iron Fleet is weakened! We are weakened! This is war now, brothers! The only way that this can end is for Ironborn to kill Ironborn!"

His words caused a silence, one that was broken by a timid knock on the door. "What is it?" Balon snarled, and the door opened to reveal Maester Qalen, looking old and frail – and pale. He was holding a scrap of paper that looked as if it had come via a raven.

"My Lord," the old Maester quavered, "A message. From Lord Harlaw." He handed it over and then almost fled.

Balon unrolled the message and then stared at it, with Damphair reading it over his shoulder – before throwing it onto the table with a foul oath. Victarion snatched it up quickly. 'If you send reavers against reavers then you must pay your own price. We who heard the Call will send help to Winterfell. Tell Damphair that I have read the runes – and know the truth about his mad god. We do not follow him now.'

He looked up. Balon was sitting in his chair again, whilst Damphair was staring at the message. He had gone a strange blotchy colour about the face, whilst his mouth worked in what was either prayer or… something that he just couldn't make out.

"'Mad god'?"

"Lies," Damphair muttered in a low and terrible voice. "Lies. Victarion?"

"Yes?"

"Take your fleet and burn Harlaw to the ground. Raze the island. Salt the ground and tear down the buildings. Start with High Harlaw."

He stared at the Drowned Man. "I do not take orders from you," he said softly. "I take orders from our brother, the Lord of the Iron Lslands. And such orders would not make things better, but far worse!"

"If Harlaw has read the heresy within the runes – that had been long thought destroyed – then he must die. They must all die. The Drowned God is all."

He looked into the eyes of the man who had once been his favourite brother and saw the madness that dwelt within. "Balon – brother – this is madness."

"What else can we do?" Balon asked and he could hear the despair in his voice. "Harlaw stands against me – against us – so what else can we do? He would rebel against us. He would listen to Winterfell first, rather than Pyke – and me. We must break him. Him and these other rebels. We are Ironborn. There can be no other way."

"Brother-"

"There can be no argument about this!" Balon slammed his fist down on the arm of his chair. "No debate! We have to hold to the Drowned God! Without him we… we are nothing! All these islands hold is iron. We have no wood. Little land for crops. We harvest the sea, but we cannot get everything from there. Trading is… weak. We have always taken what we need. We need to do that again. The Drowned God commanded us to do so. Without him…" Balon paused and seemed to search for words that hurt his lips. "Without him we are just a band of men on barren islands who have nothing but iron. The Drowned God unites us. If Harlaw denies the Drowned God then Harlaw must die. There can be no other way."

He stared at his brother. He knew that he himself was not much of a thinker, but there seemed to be some gaping holes in Balon's logic. "If we burn High Harlaw and salt the island will that not also weaken us?"

The Lord of the Iron Islands stared into the fire. "We are Ironborn. What is dead may never die, but rises again, harder and stronger. Harlaw will recover. Eventually." He looked at Victarion. "This is my… Castamere. This will strengthen us eventually. Go. Do as our brother said."

Victarian closed his eyes for a long moment and then sighed. "Very well. I disagree, but you are my oldest brother and also Lord of the Iron Islands. I will obey." He turned to Damphair. "Look at me, priest. I might die obeying your command. But if I return then I will spit in your face and tell you that it wasn't worth it – and then describe the faces all of the men, women and children you had me kill. So look at me."

But Damphair would not. He had closed his eyes again and was praying. Victarion stared at him for a long moment, and then at Balon, who was staring at the fire again, and then turned on his heel and strode from the solar.

He knew that his brothers were cleverer than him – he knew that he was not a thinker, merely a fighter. But for the first time in his life he knew something else – that his brothers were making a terrible mistake. And that there was nothing he could do to stop them.

Willas

Highgarden had to be his favourite place in the world at times. So many trees. So many flowers. The view over the landscape….

It wasn't until you looked harder that you saw the strength of the position. The walls. The towers. The thorn hedge. The river. This was a place that had been chosen for a reason. It was strong. There was a reason why the Andals had looked on this place and recoiled. Highgarden was old and strong.

He needed to be worthy of it. And that was the hard part. He felt as if he was trying to play catch-up. Father's advisers seemed to be nothing more than idiots who liked to flatter. He's already told three that their services were no longer required. They'd looked down their noses at him and then asked pointed questions about when Father was returning, only to be told that he was hunting for the foreseeable future and that if they asked that question any more times his patience would start to wear a little thin.

Any who had pushed their luck any more had been told to go away at once. And Maester Lomys was skating on some very thin ice at the moment, with all his protestations of loyalty to the Head of House Tyrell.

Willas sighed and returned to his desk, which was already piled high with things to do. His recent takeover of the Reach had largely stunned his brothers. Margaery was fine with it, but Garlan was still a bit stunned – although he suspected that there were deeper waters to him than there first appeared.

And then there was Loras. He needed to have a word with Loras. No, wait, first he needed to talk to Grandmother about Loras and then he needed to talk to Loras. The boy was… complicated. He was proud, prickly, intelligent about some things, an idiot about other things, a brilliant rider, a superb jouster and above all else someone who needed to be restrained before he did something stupid.

Right now he wanted to return to King's Landing. That was indeed something stupid. Because Willas knew exactly why. The poor foolish boy was in love for the first real time in his life. With Renly Baratheon.

This would have to be handled delicately. He did not want to hurt his brother's feelings, but this was not something that could be allowed to run its course. This was something that had to be delicately pinched out, like a bud on the wrong place of the stem of a rose. Now was not the time for this. He had good intelligence from King's Landing that Jon Arryn was looking for a bride for Renly, as Storm's End needed an heir for its lord. That part was none of his business, although that bride had better not be Arianne Martell (unlikely – she was the heir to Sunspear) or any of the San Snakes, should they ever be legitimised. No, a girl from the Stormlands would suffice.

Which left Loras. He really needed Grandmother's advice on this. Loras needed some kind, quiet girl who would bear him children and not make him miserable. Grandmother had to know someone who fitted that. And then… well, they'd have that conversation when it was time to cross that bridge.

Knuckles rapped against the door and he looked up. "Lord Tarly is here to see you, Lord Willas," a guard said formally. "Him and his son."

Aha. "Send them in please," Willas said as he straightened up. The two Tarlys strode in, one lean and the other, well, fat. What was interesting was that there was a bit more steel in the spine of young Sam Tarly. Interesting. "Thank you both for coming," he greeted them "Please – be seated."

They sat and he pulled his chair in and was also seated. "Lord Tarly," he said abruptly, "I have need of your expertise. You and your son both heard the Call. You know that Winterfell calls for aid. It is the nature of that aid that concerns me. The Reach is rich in many things, in food, in wine, in strength of arms. I would use those things wisely.

"Now, word has reached me from the Citadel that the Maesters are currently hotly debating if-" Willas took a deep breath, "If a Long Winter is coming. As in the legends of the Long Winter. That lends much credence to the Call. Lord Tarly, you are a veteran of many a fight. Many a war. You've been to the North before. You know what it's like there." The older bald man nodded sombrely at him. "I would have you go there again. Go to Winterfell and find out just what is coming – and how it can be fought. If the Others are indeed coming, if they are not a thing out of legend, then we need to know how legends can be killed."

Randyll Tarly nodded again, a gleam in his eye. "Aye. I can do that. House Tarly has always supported the Night's Watch."

Samwell Tarly twitched a bit at that, his eyes rolling a little as he looked sidelong at his father and Willas wondered again if the rumours about Randyll Tarly mulling over sending his son to the Wall were true. Probably. The boy was about as martial as a pat of butter. But that did not mean that he didn't have his uses.

"I also have need of your son. Samwell, you found Otherbane. I would have you find out more things. Highgarden has a large library. It's one that our Maester here says contains very little about magic, or legends, or the information that we need. There is another kind of battle here – one for information. I need a warrior of the mind, not of the body, for this. Will you help me?"

"Of course my Lord," Sam Tarly said intently. "I'll help in any way I can."

Willas nodded, noting the odd look that Lord Tarly sent his son. Yes, this was a great warrior who did not understand that not everyone could be a warrior.

"It might also be," he said reluctantly, "That I need someone to go to the Citadel and search out their archives for what is needed. I do not want to antagonise the Maesters, but their antagonism – there can be no other word – towards magic, and legends such as that of the Others, is not helpful."

His words caused Sam Tarly's eyes to widen to an almost comical extent. Yes, he was that excited at the thought of the Citadel's archives and libraries. That said, he soon got himself under control. "As my Lord commands," he said with a little bow from his chair. "So I shall obey."

He looked at them both sombrely. "Both of you have important tasks," he said softly. "And House Tyrell will not forget our debt to you on this. I hope that you both understand this."

The two Tarlys looked at him – and then show a glance at each other. When they both looked back at him then it was as if a peculiar truce had been declared. "Aye, my Lord," they said simultaneously.