Jon Arryn

He watched carefully as Bronn gave his report to the Small Council. He didn't watch Bronn himself. He watched the others.

Renly Baratheon was listening to Bronn as he told of the discovery of Lysa and the young Baratheon had an odd look on his face, as if he was in two minds about something. He worried about Renly sometimes. He had just been a boy at the time of the Rebellion and so large parts of the danger and peril of the time had passed him by. And he'd gone from being a third son to a Lord Paramount. There were times when he seemed to think that such largesse had fallen into his lap simply because… simply because he was Renly. There was a lack of depth to him at times that Jon found worrying.

And now Renly was staring at Bronn as if he wasn't quite sure what he was. On the one hand he seemed almost dismissive of the former sellsword, in his worn black leather riding clothes. On the other he seemed to be very well aware that this was the man who had tracked down and captured one of the most dangerous men in the Realm, a man who had been cheating and stealing under their very noses whilst lying to them all.

As for the others, Orton Merryweather was listening to Bronn and nodding sombrely, his eyes assessing the other man carefully. He seemed to be the kind of man who weighed and measured a man by his worth. It was good to see.

Varys… well, there was an interesting thing. Watching him could be frustrating at times. It would be like watching a stone that had had a slight smile carved onto it. The man could be an enigma at times. Jon had been watching him at these meetings for years. For the vast majority of those years Varys had been an enigma. Recently, however, had been slightly different. Slightly agitated, by his standards, based on what he had observed about the man. Now he had returned to his usual enigmatic behaviour.

Something had happened. Something significant enough to rattle Varys. What? And why the sudden return to normalcy? What had the man decided? Was it connected to Pentos and the death of Mopatis? He knew that the two had once been very close.

And then there was Pycelle. He looked almost as conflicted as Renly, divided between what the man looked like and what the man had done. There were times when Pycelle confused him a little. He seemed to be… well, useless at times. But there were those other times, when he could ask a disturbingly pertinent question, when he could show a flash of insight…

He turned his attention back to Bronn, as he finished speaking. The man had, he realised, carefully left out any mention of the letter that Baelish had sent to Lysa. He had however given a full account of how he had arrived in King's Landing, asked about Lord Arryn, been sent towards the Great Sept and intervened in what might have become a disaster. The way that he said it… well, they all nodded and they all muttered their thanks. But he wasn't sure if they really understood Bronn Cassley.

The Lord of the Foxhold was someone that he needed to keep close. Why? Because the man was bloody good at anything he turned his hand to.

"Thank you Lord Cassley," Jon said eventually. "Your efforts have been most valuable."

"They have indeed," Pycelle rumbled with what he might possibly have thought might have been an avuncular smile. "Odd name, Cassley. Where is your family from, originally, my Lord?"

Bronn shrugged. "All over the place. Although I am told that there was a lordship in our past once."

"Ah, family tales," Pycelle said with a rather strained smile. Then he looked down at the piece of parchment that he had apparently been doodling on. And then he looked confused for a moment, before turning as white as a sheet for an instant, before seeming to rally and dismiss what thought had passed through his mind. "A foolish fancy." And then he looked at Jon. "Lord Arryn, should your wife survive the loss of her arm then she must be brought to trial."

"Ah," Jon sighed tiredly. "Yes, I agree. I like it not, but… there can be no other course of action. Not after what she tried to do."

"She tried to murder you, Jon," Renly said bleakly. "Baelish got his hooks into her and… well, she must be tried."

"I cannot proclaim justice on my own wife," Jon muttered. "If it does come to a trial then I would prefer it if others dealt with it."

"That is perfectly understandable my Lord," Varys simpered. "Such a thing would be a most terrible thing to deal with."

Jon nodded slowly. He was getting a headache again and he felt tired. "Very well. Lord Cassley – please return to the Foxhold and guard my wife until such time as she can be brought to King's Landing for trial. When – and if – she can travel, send word to me. I… I will send my men for her. It is the least that I can do. She gave birth to my son."

And with that the meeting broke up. Renly went off with Merryweather, talking about a hunting trip, whilst Varys clutched his great book to his chest and then scurried off on noiseless slippered feet. Pycelle blew his cheeks out for a moment and then stood and shuffled off, muttering something about looking at some records.

Bronn walked over to Jon and then after, the Grand Maester had passed from sight he lent forwards a little. "That one's trouble."

He felt his eyebrows fly upwards. "What? Pycelle?"

"Aye. The old man's not the dodderer he claims to be. You can see it in his eyes at times. And it's funny how his hunch is a little less severe when he thinks that no-one's watching him. His shuffle's a good one though. Very life-like. You'd almost think that he was in pain at times."

Jon stared at Bronn – and then pinched the bridge of his nose. "I see," he sighed. Damn it. He hated this bloody city. "So he's been playing the doddering old imbecile for years then."

"Probably served him well in the rule of the Mad King," Bronn quipped. "Made him less of a threat."

"I should have realised that he was a survivor for a reason." He thought hard and fast. "He persuaded Aerys to open the gates of King's Landing to Tywin Lannister's army. I've always suspected that Pycelle was tied to the Lannisters. I just could never prove it."

"Don't trust him, my Lord."

He smiled a little. "Oh, I won't, my Lord." He reached into a scroll case and pulled one out. "I have what you asked for."

Bronn took a deep breath and then took it. "My thanks." There was an odd look on his face.

"What's wrong?"

"I'm not sure how she'll react to this. She might give me a clip around the ear for all I know."

He placed a hand on the dark-haired man's shoulder. "Learn to duck."

Jorah

Home. He was home. Alright, White Harbour wasn't Bear Island, but it was still in The North. He wasn't sure if he should be happy to be home or nervous.

There was a fear that was hanging over him. He had always wondered about what he'd do if any of the men that he'd, well, sold into slavery, ever escaped or were freed – and then confronted him. There were times when he had nightmares about it.

So far Leera's reaction had been all that he had hoped for. She was excited about everything she saw, everything she touched, everything she smelt. White Harbour was not Pentos. It would never be Pentos. But it was the biggest settlement in the North, the only place worthy of the title city, and he showed her as much as he could of it as he waited for… well, he wanted word of his pardon to spread. He didn't want a guard to appear and tell him grimly that Ned Stark was on his way with Ice in one hand and death in his eyes.

And then the King had come. He'd been there for a few days now, preparing for the trip to Winterfell and the city had apparently watched their preparations with some… bemusement. It had been many years since a King of Westeros had been seen North of the Neck. Aegon V had been the last one, but he had not been a king at the time.

And so he'd kept showing Leera the city. Edric Stark had left for Winterfell many days before with the heads of the main households who had returned to the North, including Lyra Mormont. Along the way he'd met several times with Ser Wylis Manderly. Short meetings, just a nod in the street or a short talk about the ways that the Company of the Rose had picked up in Essos. And once a cup of wine together, as Ser Wylis talked about his daughters fondly, as well as his brother's recent decision to marry. It was delicate work, mending a friendship.

He'd cursed himself for a fool many times now. Lynesse. Oh, he had been such a fool. It always came down to Lynesse. He wondered what she was doing now, she and her married merchant lover.

Which was why he was here, now, with Leera, in front of the Heart Tree in the Wolf's Den. It was the first time that the Pentosi girl had ever seen a Heart Tree and she stared at it with wonder. "It's old," she whispered eventually with a slight shiver. "I can tell that it's old. And there's something about it… something odd."

"There's always something odd about a Heart tree," he murmured as he ran a hand over the white bark. "The faces… well, they say that show the many expressions of the Old Gods. Different people carved the faces. Some of them… not human. Not for the oldest of the trees."

"The Children of the Forest?"

"Aye."

"Do you think that they are all gone?"

He frowned a little in thought. "I hope not," he said quietly. "There are such legends about them… but I really hope that somewhere there's a quiet green place where some of them still live."

"You sound almost wistful, my love," she smiled at him. "For legends?"

"For legends." He smiled back at her.

"A Heart Tree," a new voice intruded. A rather familiar voice. "How novel. Odd that it's in a place like this. How… Northern."

He got control of himself and then turned. "Kingslayer." He remembered that coolly arrogant bastard from Pyke. A shame that an Ironborn arrow hadn't ruined his good looks.

Ser Jaime Lannister smiled cockily at him. "Slaveseller."

For a moment he saw red, but Leera grabbed his arm with a grip of iron and shook her head slightly at him. He reined in his temper. "What do you want, Ser Jaime?"

The cool smile twisted for a moment. "His Grace the King wants a word with you, Mormont. At once."

Leera sent a worried look in his direction and he caressed her cheek for a moment in reassurance. "He's pardoned me," he told her softly. "I have nothing to fear from him."

"Of course not," the Kingslayer said sarcastically. "He's just His Grace, The King, Robert Baratheon, the First of his Name."

He pulled his anger back again. "I will see you back at our quarters," he told her quietly. "Do not worry. I promise you, I will see you there."

Leera nodded fearfully and then walked away. He watched her go and then, as the Kingslayer opened his mouth to say something he whirled on him. "Lead on, Kingslayer."

The bloody man smirked at him. "Oh, are we done being polite? Very well. On to the New Castle. Ser Jorah, if you please."

He found the King of Westeros in a courtyard in the New Castle. He was stripped to the waist, had a log on his shoulders, was sweating like a pig and seemed to be counting as he staggered around the courtyard. And the word he shouted as he finally rolled the log off and onto the ground was "Sixteen!" before rubbing his back and groaning.

Jorah eyed Robert Baratheon. The last word that he had heard from King's Landing was that the King of Westeros had gone to seed in the most spectacular way, getting fat, drunk and chasing every woman in the area who had both tits and a pulse.

This was not the man that he had heard about. Yes, he looked heavy set, and seemed to have loose skin for some reason, on his stomach, but he looked more muscular than the last time he had seen him, at Pyke.

Baratheon stuck his head in a bucket of water, pulled it out and then dried his face on a cloth. Only then did he notice Jorah. And when he did he straightened up and strode towards him, pulling on a shirt and then a scabbard that contained a huge sword that looked extremely old. Jorah stared in confusion. The Lord of the Warhammer now had a sword?

"Mormont," the King rumbled, and Jorah bent the knee at once. When he came back up at the wave of the royal hand, Robert Baratheon then loomed over him, glaring at him. After a long moment he finally asked: "Was she worth it?"

"Who?" Jorah asked, confused.

"The Hightower girl. Was she worth what you did?"

Ah. He thought about it and then sighed. "I thought so at the time your Grace. Now?" He looked down at his feet for a moment. "No. And now she's in Lys. The mistress of a merchant there. What I thought was love was something that couldn't hold a candle to money."

The King glared at him still. "I know that I gave you a pardon… Thinking back to Pyke… All the Hells, man, what were you thinking?"

This time he stared at the face of the King. "I thought that I was in love," he said defiantly. "I needed the coin to keep that love. I was wrong, your Grace. I was an idiot. I did a terrible thing, something I'll always regret. But I cannot turn back time. All I can do is make amends and move on. As I have done and will keep doing."

There was a terrible moment of silent strain and then Robert Baratheon stopped looming quite so much and nodded slightly. "Fair enough. Very well, can't say more than that. You'll apologise to Ned Stark though. You met the Targaryen girl, didn't you? What's she like?"

Confused by the abrupt change in topic he stared at the King. "Erm… quiet. Shy at times. Confused. Badly educated."

"Badly educated? How so?"

"She knew nothing about how the…" Damn it, he couldn't say 'rebellion', "How the War against her Father started. She knew nothing about how Lord Stark and his eldest son died."

Rage awoke in the King's eyes. "She knew nothing, did she? Why? Did no-one tell her when she was growing up?"

"Her brother… her brother told her that the war had all been the work of traitors."

If anything the rage redoubled. "Traitors. Aye, we were traitors. Because we wouldn't bend the knee any more to a mad man who burnt innocent people alive whilst he cackled like a lunatic." He looked back at Jorah. "Did you tell her the truth?"

"We did."

"We?"

"My Leera and I. She followed me here from Pentos."

"And how did the Targaryen girl react?"

"She threw up everything she had in her stomach by the side of the road."

The King shot him a quizzical gaze. "You'd best tell me the full tale then."

And Jorah did, from meeting the Magister to escorting Daenerys Targaryan back up to his manse. "So you met the 'Beggar King' then," the King said with an odd look on his face. "And he was crooning over a giant dragon egg."

"He seemed to be singing to it, Your Grace."

"As mad as his father was," the King muttered before eyeing the log again. "Well then, the world is best rid of him. You might have been one of the last to see him alive."

Shock roiled through him. "He's dead? I did hear rumours at the docks, but…"

"Oh, aye. He's dead alright. Went raving mad after you lot set sail. Decided that the best way to hatch that egg of his was with blood magic. Sacrificed a servant first, and then when that didn't happen he went even madder and decided that his sister would make a better sacrifice. Knocked her on the head and dragged her into a storeroom apparently. That Magister you met found them in time. Apparently he was strangling the boy at the same time that the boy was stabbing him with his dagger and then they both fell into a fire started from a broken lamp. A third of the place went up."

Stunned, he stared at the King. That sounded insane. "So they all three died?"

"Just the two. The boy and the Magister. The girl survived. The boy's egg was a jape on the part of the Magister as it was made of stone, but she had three real dragon eggs on her. And they bloody well hatched in the fire that followed." He lifted the log back onto his shoulder with a grunt of effort. "There's a war coming, Ser Jorah. And I intend to fight it and win. Wherever the threats come from. Come back tomorrow by the way. I'm used to the way that Ser Jaime and Ser Barristan fight after sparring against them with weighted practice swords. I need someone new to fight. We'll pay you for your time. In two days we ride for Winterfell. You're coming, you and your girl from Pentos." And with that he started to walk around the courtyard again, hefting what looked like a lot of weight on his shoulders.

Jorah bowed in farewell and then left somewhat lightheadedly. Well. Dragons in Pentos? Sparring against the King? "Why me?"

"Because you're new to him," the Kingslayer grunted as he appeared out of the shadows to one side. "Because he's trying to learn something knew with the sword every day. Because he's convinced that there's something coming that he needs to fight." He paused, his eyes on something that Jorah couldn't see. "He's changed," he said at last. "He's changed." And then, in a whisper that Jorah could barely make out: "Why though?"

Jorah shrugged and marched out of the gate and into the city beyond. He felt as if he had a purpose again.

Robb

It was noon when they finally reached Castle Black. He was more tired than he'd ever felt in his entire life, so tired that he wanted to do nothing more than fall into a bed and sleep for a week. Perhaps two.

Grey Wind had finally woken up from a prolonged nap in the sling by the pommel and was sitting up and watching everything around him with prick-eared fascination. He was also sending the occasional glance back him, almost as if he was worried about Robb.

The Wall loomed above them. It had started off dominating the horizon and then loomed ever larger as they got closer. Stand on any hill in the New Gift and you could see it, a constant reminder. It seemed to have cast a spell especially over Tyrion Lannister, who could sometimes be found just staring at it and then consulting Lord Surestone's book.

Robb had asked him once about just why he was so fascinated by it.

"Men would not build such a thing unless it was needed. Look at it – it cuts the land in half. How many woods or copses were destroyed so it could be built? How much grazing land? They wouldn't have built it there unless it was needed. And then they maintained it. The Night's Watch has been around for thousands of years," he muttered waving the book about for a moment. "They were given a task. They kept carrying it out for centuries. And the Kings in the North made sure that the Night's Watch was made independent of Kings and Lords, so that it wouldn't get involved in the South and get diverted from its task.

"Our ancestors – Stark and Lannister alike – knew something, Robb. They knew something. There was a chance that something would one day wake up to the North of the Wall. They made plans. But a lot of time has passed and we have forgotten much. And I somehow need to persuade my cold-hearted, hard-headed father that there is a threat here."

That had been a day ago. The Gift and the New Gift were waking up and starting to bloom again. They'd seen the signs for a day or so now. Fields long left fallow were being cleared of saplings and ploughed again, ready for planting. A lot of wood was being stacked in sheds, drying out to be used as firewood. Houses were being refurbished and restored. At one point, in the distance he saw a small group of men working on replacing the sails on a windmill.

"I wonder who she was," Jon muttered as they rode towards the headquarters of the Night's Watch. "That girl."

Robb traded a look with Theon, who smiled slightly and then rolled his eyes. "It might have been a short, red-headed boy."

"No, it was a girl. Moved like a girl. I'm sure of it. A red-headed girl. Fascinated by that windmill she was."

Robb and Theon rolled their eyes at Jon again, who noticed them. "What?"

"No, I'm sure you're right. She was a girl and you'll meet her."

A horn sounded up ahead and the gates of Castle Black opened before them. Judging from the banners being borne by some of the men inside who were not wearing black, many of the Lords of the North were already there. He could see the rusty longaxes of House Dustin, the black horse's head of the Ryswells, the blue eyes and white caps of the Flints, the black battleaxe of the Cerwyns, the green merman of the Manderlys and the silver gauntlet of the Glovers, as well as others.

At the head of the assembled throng inside was a broadshouldered man with thinning white hair and a beard. A raven sat on his shoulder and he bore a sword that had a bears head for a pommel. Robb remembered him vaguely from his childhood, before Lord Jeor Mormont decided to abdicate in favour of his son and take the Black. The Old Bear, people had called him. And he did look a bit like a bear.

As Father dismounted the throng – many of which had been staring in astonishment at Frostfyre – knelt swiftly and then stood again. "Lord Stark," the whitehaired man said formally, "The Night's Watch welcomes you to Castle Black."

"I am honoured to accept your welcome, Lord Commander Mormont," Father replied formally. "And I thank the Lords of the North for assembling." And with that he strode forwards and then clasped forehands with the Lord Commander. "Jeor," he heard Father say quietly. "You look well. Good to see you again."

"You too Ned," the Old Bear replied with a smile. "We've a lot to talk about. Your direwolf, for a start."

"Where's Maege?"

"She sent word that she'd been delayed. Something to do with intelligence about some odd events on the Frozen Shore. She'll be here in a day or so."

Father nodded and then turned to the others in the great courtyard. "MY LORDS! We will meet for urgent counsel as soon as we are all assembled – House Mormont has been delayed, and I am sure that there are others still to come. I have called you here for a great council. But I have only just arrived and I must listen to the latest news. Once we are fully assembled we will talk of many things that must be done. A long winter is upon us. The Others have returned."

"The Call has gone out!" Someone called out. "The Old Gods have spoken!"

"Aye they have. And we have much to do. We-" And then Father fell silent. Robb frowned a little and then looked at Father – who had closed his eyes. And then suddenly Father opened his eyes again and Robb could see the red fire that meant that the Old Gods were once again present. The sight of it made everyone in that courtyard freeze in shock.

And then just before a murmur of wonder could go out Father spoke again, in a deep and terrible voice. "The North remembers. You have always remembered. But there have been times when you have not remembered the right thing. The Wall must hold with the aid of all. As it was when it was built. Old alliances must be remade." Then Father turned his head to one side. "Aemon Targaryen. Step forwards."

Maester Aemon, who had been standing near the Old Bear, stumbled forwards a step. He seemed to be in shock. "You… Am I… being addressed by the Old Gods?"

"You are. We believe in the balance. What has been taken from one person can be restored to another. We have taken the sight from a man who thought he saw the truth – but only saw his own personal greed and gain. You have been blind, but you have seen the truth here at the Wall. So we would grant you your sight again."

The red fire blazed hotter for a moment and just for a sliver of a second something also burnt in the eyes of the old Maester – who then gasped as the white in his eyes seemed to vanish, revealing purple eyes.

There was another stunned silence – and then Maester Aemon held up a trembling age-spotted hand. "I… I can see again." The old man said the words with a wonderment and joy, mixed in with shock. "I can see again!"

Father closed his eyes again and when he reopened them they were normal. Everyone was staring at him and he blinked and then looked uneasy. "What? Why is everyone looking at me?" Then he saw the beaming, crying, shaking Maester of Castle Black. "What just happened?"