Edmure

They made camp about a day's ride from Riverrun, in an inn owned by a man who was frankly perpetually astonished that he was hosting Lord Hoster Tully's son. And the Blackfish. And the other man, the man with the horns on his hood. The Green Man.

Uncle Brynden had been very enigmatic about the man. "He's from the Isle of Faces," he'd said, before going off and having a long talk with the old man, as well as that odd woman.

Now, she was an odd one. Blonde, plain to the point of almost ugliness, almost as terse as Uncle, very good with a sword based on her sparring abilities, and… well, there was something about her that puzzled him. She had a link with Uncle Brynden that really confused Edmure. And possibly the other two as well.

Tarth, he knew, was an island off the coast of the Stormlands. And he knew all about Lord Tarth and his tragic tale of losing son after son. Well, Brienne of Tarth seem to be very keen on making up for her lost brothers. She certainly knew a lot about armour. And weapons. And fighting styles.

And now he'd had a plate of excellent ham, a mug of quite good ale and he was standing outside the inn and was staring at the stars. His failure at High Heart still gnawed at him. Yes, they'd won there, but that victory had only been down to the arrival of the others. If it had been just his men against those of Blackfoot, then… he would have lost. He would have killed quite a few of them, but he would have lost. And his men would all be dead.

He stared bleakly at the stars. He was an idiot. Too much time drinking, eating and making girls with large bosoms squeak with pleasure. Not enough time learning about land and marching distances and tactics.

If it hadn't been for Uncle Brynden and the Green Men… well that mad Septon would have won. He looked back at the inn for a moment. At least that mad Septon was being quiet. He spent the first day shouting a lot about tricks and the evil of pagans. And then what had remained of his mind had cracked like an egg and he'd wailed and screamed and voided himself all over the place. If his feet had been black before, they were now disgusting. Or had been disgusting. He'd ordered the guards to dunk the wretched man in the nearest river.

"You seem quiet, Nephew," said the voice of Uncle Brynden to one side. "You're still thinking about High Heart."

"Yes, Uncle Brynden. I was foolish."

"No, you were a bloody idiot. The moment you saw that hill you should have sent a few of your men up it to secure it and then had the rest of your horse hidden nearby. You could have taken them in their flank then, especially as it was darkening quickly. They'd never have seen you coming."

Edmure thought back on what had happened on the hill. "That's what you did, didn't you?"

His uncle directed a wintry little smile at him. "Aye. We were coming around the hill, after seeing the light of their torches. Then we saw you up there."

He winced. "I didn't think. We could never hand charged down that slope."

Uncle Brynden shrugged. "Everyone started off like you. You just need to not pull your head in and brood over it. Brooding kills, lad. You start thinking about you should or should not have done and the next thing you know you've got a head full of indecisive gibberish the next time you fight. That kills people. Might even kill you. You're still young. You'll learn. You just need to learn faster."

He stared at the older Tully. "Why? Uncle Brynden, what's going on? The Smallfolf are all abuzz over this Call that Cat's Ned somehow sent out. And who is the Green Man? Why are the Green Men travelling outside the Isle of Faces again? Have they ever done that before?"

Now it was Uncle Brynden's turn to stare up at the stars. "Winter is coming, Edmure. I know that's what the Starks always say, but they're always right. There's a winter coming that will be worse than anything we've ever seen. You see those stars up there?"

Utterly confused Edmure stared at where his uncle was pointing. "The Crook, is it not?"

"Aye, the Crook. You can see its base can you not?"

Still confused he looked at it. Some small stars could be seen at the bottom of it. "Ah. Yes, I see them. How odd. Never seen those before."

Uncle Brynden sent a withering look at him. "This world has shifted a little. Enough to mean that we have had a long summer. I can't remember one as long as this one, ever, in my lifetime. So now we face a long winter. I need to talk to your father about it, but you need to be ready for what's to come. The Starks will need help on the Wall, because what's on the other side is something that we need to fight with everything we have."

And then he turned and strode off. Edmure stared after him baffled, before shrugging and heading off to get some more ale. And then after a quiet mug or two he made for his bed.

Sleep did not come easily to him. Uncle Brynden's words kept running through his mind. A long winter. It was true that this present summer had been a long one indeed. Did that really mean an equally long winter? He'd never really thought about it. He finally dropped off and had some very odd dreams indeed.

They left for Riverrun early the next day, after tipping the landlord a handful of silver. As they rode off he noticed that two of the Green Men split off from the main body and rode off, one heading West and the other East. He thought about asking where they were off to, but didn't. The Green Man did not seem to be someone who suffered fools gladly, still less idle questions.

By the time they reached Riverrun the mad Septon had been dunked twice more in the nearest river due to… well, being a literal shit, and the Green Man was in the middle of another intense conversation with Uncle Brynden and Brienne of Tarth. When he caught sight of Riverrun the old man paused and seemed to sigh deeply, before shaking his head a little. Seeing Edmure staring he smiled slightly. "Old memories."

People cheered him as he led them all through the gates and into the main courtyard. All his men, cavalry and foot, had returned and that had been noticed by many. He liked that, even if he still felt like an idiot.

The sight of the Green Men got a few odd looks, not that many seemed to know who or rather what, they were. However as he dismounted and looked around he heard one man gasp with shock. Father was standing in a doorway. He still did not look well at all, but he was now as white as a sheet and was staring at the Green Man.

"You're dead," Father said in a shocked voice. "You're dead… surely? You died at Summerhall. I remember seeing you in King's Landing when my father took me there to see King Aegon. But you died at Summerhall."

"Hoster Tully is it not? Yes. I remember you. You gaped at me a great deal. And now you are Lord of the Riverlands." The old man seemed to straighten up. "I am now the Green Man, from the Isle of Faces. And as such I claim the right to speak with you at once. The Green Men are no longer bound to the Isle. You need to know why."

Father gaped – there could be no other word for it – and then nodded. "My solar," he muttered. "At once."

Edd

Before they moved out from the altar and the place where he had killed the Other they had one more thing to do. The bodies of Jorik and Othor were carefully gathered and laid next to each other. Ser Jaremy stood over them, his expression sombre. "They were good men," he said eventually. "They fell in a fight against our oldest enemy. Remember them. And now their watch is over."

"And now their watch is over," Edd muttered in chorus with the rest of them. Then he stared at the two bodies. "Were Othor's eyes always that colour? They look blue."

"He always had blue eyes," Dywen muttered. "Didn't he?"

"A fine lot of Rangers you lot are, eagle eyed and watching every leaf flutter on the wind," Ser Jaremy muttered. Then he sighed. "Ride on brothers. Blue-eyed or not, we cannot take a chance with the bodies of our late brothers. I will take care of them."

Edd looked at him sorrowfully. "No, Ser Jaremy. We will help you. It should not be your burden alone."

"I am in charge, Tollett. It's my responsibility." He drew his sword. "Ride on, as I said."

They did, with Dywen holding the baby in a small nest of a fur cloak that once been Othor's. No sense in wasting what had belonged to a now-dead man. And after some minutes Ser Jaremy joined them, riding hard and with a grim look on his face.

"Should I die North of the Wall I want you to do the same to me," he told them as they rode South. "I want to die clean and not come back as a wight."

Craster had had a lead on them, but then he was on foot and they were mounted, so that lead was soon eaten up. Even them they caught up to him as he approached the gates to his keep, that low ring fort in the forest.

The wretched man heard them approach and wheeled to face them, his hand on the hilt of his sword and a look of surprise on his face. When he saw Ser Jaremy and the others an odd look crossed his face, like a combination of annoyance and a sudden need to stop showing any emotion at all.

"Ser Jaremy!" Craster called out as a farther look crossed his face, one of greasy unctuousness. "Are the Rangers abroad again? You and your men have been quiet of late."

"Aye, we have been abroad again," Ser Jaremy grated through gritted teeth as he dismounted. "We have been seeing much here, North of the Wall. Much indeed. The Wildlings, those you call the Free Folk, are moving South, through the Wall. They claim that they have seen the Others."

A new expression crossed the face of Craster, this time one of false bafflement. "The Others, Ser Jaremy?" He looked over his shoulder for a moment at the gates to his keep. "But they are but a legend!"

Edd set his jaw a little. The man could have had 'I am a liar' branded on his forehead. And then the babe in the arms of Dwyen decided that he needed to make a contribution, because he raised his voice in a thin wail that probably meant that he was hungry.

The impact the babe had on Craster was immediate. The big man turned as white as milk and stared at Dywen. "That noise – a babe? Where did you get him?"

"You know full well – the altar where you left him," Ser Jaremy snarled. "Your own son, you heartless cunt! Your own son!"

The Wildling took a horrified and tottering step forwards. "No! You must take him back! You fools, you don't know what you've done!"

"What, stopped you from sacrificing your own son to the Others?" Edd spat. "Your own son, you bastard!"

"I had no choice!" Craster roared. "No choice! I give them the boys and they leave me alone! Me and my wives! Now – give him back! Take him back!"

"Too late, Craster," Ser Jaremy said grimly. "Too late. The Other who came for your son is dead."

Craster looked at him as if he was mad. "Dead? Impossible! You can't kill an Other, they are invincible! Immortal! They are creatures of ice and shadow! Take him back!"

"No," Ser Jaremy said in a voice like stone. "We will not. An Other came. We killed it. Tollett there slew it. They can die. We all saw it."

But Craster was not in the mood to hear such things. He let out a wail of terror and darted towards Dywen, only to be met and pushed back by Ser Jaremy. "You will not have that babe," Ser Jaremy roared. "You will not!"

That bought him a snarl of defiance. The Wilding reached for his sword – but met Ser Jaremy's knife, which slammed into his guts. There was a long pause as Craster gasped for air for a long moment as various liquids splattered on the ground underneath him – and then Ser Jaremy twisted the knife inside him and Craster shuddered for a long moment and then finally collapsed, the life in his eyes vanishing.

Ser Jaremy stood over the prone body of the Wildling, panting, for a long moment – and then he wiped his knife on the body and looked at the holdfast above them, where Edd could see that a group of woman were now staring down at them all in what appeared to be a combination of horror and relief.

"Dywen, walk forwards. Find out who that babe belonged to," Ser Jaremy muttered as he checked the still body of Craster, peering into those lifeless eyes. "Eyes seem normal."

Dywen dismounted and then strode forwards, holding the babe up so that the huddle of women could see him. "We found him North of here, in the forest. He was to be a sacrifice. We've come to return him."

There was a shocked pause and then one of the women rather timidly came forwards. With every step she seemed to grow bolder and bolder, until she eventually darted forwards and peered at the babe – before bursting into tears.

"He's mine," she sobbed as she took him from a rather relieved Dywen. "My baby boy. I'm finally holding him. He took him away. You brought him back. I finally have my little boy back." And then she cried on Dywen's shoulder, making him look extremely uncomfortable again.

In the meantime the other women had also come forwards. They varied in age, with one of the younger showing every sign of being pregnant. The oldest of them looked down at Craster's body and then she hawked and spat at it.

"About damn time someone put him out of our misery," she grunted, before looking at them all warily. "You know why he was talking the baby boys then?"

"A sacrifice for the Others," Edd muttered, still feeling the horror that such words meant. "The man was mad."

"He thought that the babes would keep them away," the older woman replied, her face working slightly with some indefinable emotion. "Everyone else was moving South, following Rayder. Heading to the Wall. He said no. Said that we were safe here. As long as we… placated… them."

"By sacrificing your sons," Ser Jaremy said quietly.

She looked at him and then a look of utter anguish crossed her face. "Yes," she said, her voice shaking. "Yes. Craster gave my sons away. All of our sons."

Ser Jaremy nodded slowly. But it was Edd who said what the older man was obviously thinking: "You can't stay here."

"No," she muttered. Then she straightened. "My name is Jenn. I have cousins out there in the world, with the Free Folk. We'll leave here at once to join them. If you need supplies take whatever you need from here at once. We're leaving this place as soon as we can, and when we leave I'm throwing a burning brand into the hall so that it burns to the ground behind us." And then she spat bitterly on Craster's body again, before bustling into the hold, shouting orders to her sister-wives.

Edd watched her go and then shrugged. "Permission to make sure that this bastard never walks after us Ser Jaremy?"

"Aye," came the reply. "Hack his head off."

Edd dismounted and then drew his sword. This was something that he was going to get quite a bit of pleasure out of.

Jorah

The King kept surprising him. He was not the single-minded buffoon that so many people thought that he was. Or perhaps he had made people think that. He still wasn't sure. There were times when the King could be very astute and other times when he seemed to be clueless.

"There's more to him than meets the eye," Leera had told him the other night, her head on his chest after making love and then chatting drowsily about the events of the day. "He's like… lightning in the clouds. Hidden until you see it, feel it, hear it."

It was an apt description he thought as he watched the crowd of people bustling around in the New Castle. They would be leaving the next morning for Winterfell. The King had wanted to leave two days before, but there had been too much to do. The Realm was being run by raven to King's Landing.

Oh and the Queen had tried to get a wheelhouse made for the royal family. It had been ludicrously impractical and had been ruthlessly squashed by the King. Actually he'd just stared at it, looked pointedly at the wheels and then laughed so hard that tears had run down his face, before turning and walking away, shaking his head. "Won't last a mile on that road without losing a wheel," he'd rumbled. "Too thin."

Which is why Jorah treated bouts of swordplay like the one he was about to undergo with not a little trepidation. He was in a shirt and breeches, with an old pair of boots on his feet and his usual sword in his hand. Opposite him stood the King, with Ser Barristan Selmy to one side, his eyes intent. Robert Baratheon was stripped to the waist and was holding Stormbreaker.

That was something else. The King seemed to be getting fitter by the way, or at least he was driving himself to be so. He seemed to be everywhere, walking, talking, lifting logs onto his shoulders, riding out for hunts in the nearby forest and above else he was sparring.

Jorah took a step to one side, matching the King. And then the bigger man swung. No warning, no flicker of the eye, no twitch of the sword, just a lunge. Jorah parried it with a grunt and then returned the favour with a slash of his own, which Stormbreaker met.

He took a step back and then launched his own attack, something he'd picked up off Loros, a Dothraki move that required him to feint not once but twice in an effort to get the King off-balance. He almost succeeded, but the King wasn't fooled, although he did smile hugely at him as they went back to that slow circling. "Not bad, Mormont. An Essosi move?"

"Dothraki, your Grace."

"Here's something from the Stormlands." And with that he unleashed another attack, a series of hard luging slashes that got Jorah darting backwards and repressing more than a few swearwords. Damn, but the man was strong, especially when he delivered an overhead blow that Jorah barely held at bay with his own sword.

And he was getting faster. An overhead blow like that could make him vulnerable to a quicker man with a blade, but he managed to pull it off with an impressive swiftness.

Another Dothraki move came to mid again and he feinted not once, not twice but three times, followed by swapping his sword from his right hand to his left and then lunging. This almost worked, the King actually swore for a second – but then he got his sword down in time and parried the blow.

And then the King counter-attacked, with a string of hard and heavy slashes that Jorah could barely parry. Forced onto the back foot he transferred his sword back to his right hand and then parried blow after blow – and then the King unleashed a really heavy blow that jarred Jorah's sword out of his hand.

"End!" Ser Barristan roared. "Bout to his Grace!"

There was a moment of silence and then the King lowered Stormbreaker and roared with laughter. "Well fought Mormont! Well fought indeed! You almost had me at that last trick of yours! Dothraki again?"

"Aye, your Grace," Jorah panted as he retrieved his sword and then sheathed it. "Didn't work though."

"Something to remember though. Another lesson. Need to learn as much as I can if I'm to use this sword of mine as well as I can." The King sighed for a long moment. "Warhammer's one thing, a sword like this is something else."

"Your Grace is getting better with every day," Ser Barristan said, and Jorah knew that he was not being an arse-kisser. It wasn't in him to be like that. "But there is still much to learn."

"There's always much to learn," King Robert rumbled as he pulled a shirt on. "Day you stop learning is the day you face the wall and die."

Now that did not sound like the Robert Baratheon he'd heard about. Odd. He swapped a slightly surprised look with Ser Barristan, who looked thoughtful, and then shrugged internally.

Boots rang to one side and Ser Preston Greenfield emerged from a gateway, bowing as he saw the king. "Your pardon your Grace, but you asked to be informed when the ship bearing your brother, Lord Stannis, was in sight. It has been seen at the headland, beating up towards the city."

"Good. He made a fast passage then," the King boomed. "Should be interesting to hear how a Godswood came to be found at Dragonstone."

"Aye your Grace," Ser Barristan nodded. "I am keen to hear that too. I spent a lot of time on that island and I never heard of a Godswood."

The King nodded at him, an odd look on his face. "You were there with Rhaegar Targaryen were you not?"

"I was, your Grace. He once read in an ancient parchment some mention of there having once been a Godswood on Dragonstone, but no matter where we looked we never found it. He concluded that it must have been destroyed when the Valyrians conquered the island and built the castle there."

"A fair assumption," Jorah muttered. The thought of no Weirwoods South of the Neck had always disturbed him. He'd gotten used to it in Essos, because it was abroad. "The First Men were everywhere. Even Dragonstone."

Another odd look crossed the King's face. "It's starting to occur to me that they left behind warnings that should have been heeded." Then he looked at Jorah. "We'll be on the road to Winterfell tomorrow. My pardon for you holds all over the Realm, but I know that the North contains a lot of stubborn buggers. You'll need to talk to Lord Stark, will you not?"

A cold hard knot materialised in the pit of his stomach for a moment. "Aye, I was planning to. Bear Island… well, my old home is closed to me. I doubt that my aunt would welcome me."

"Travel with us then. Bring your wife with you."

He sighed. "She's not my wife, your Grace."

"Not yet," the King rumbled as he strode off. "Not yet."

He watched him go, trailed by the two Kingsguards. He'd never thought about that. Perhaps he should?

Gendry

He might just be getting used to sea travel. At least he'd stopped turning green whenever the ship swooped into a trough. It helped that the seas had quietened a bit and that Devan Seaworth was steering the ship again, but he might just be getting used to sea travel.

Just in time for the trip to end. He stared up at the headlands ahead and shivered a bit. The North. He'd made it to the North. Apparently he'd need thicker clothes, and it wasn't even winter yet.

Life had been… well, there were times when he felt as if he'd been left for too long in the forge and then hammered flat one way, before being twisted the other way.

And speaking of hammers… he looked at the head of the Warhammer that projected slightly over one shoulder. He'd made a harness for it. Probably needed to find a name for it as well. At least he was getting used to it now. Lord Stannis – strictly speaking he was his uncle, which was so strange, he'd never had an uncle before – had been training him with it every day, making every muscle in his arms twang with tiredness at times.

He'd spent so long making things out of metal that he still had trouble thinking that his life might now consist of hitting people with a different kind of hammer. And that was quite likely now.

Lord Stannis emerged from his cabin to one side and then strode over to him. "White Harbour," he said tersely. "The only real city in the North. Remember what I told you."

"Aye my Lord," Gendry muttered. "Avoid the notice of the Queen and her brother. Stay away from any man in Lannister livery. And avoid Prince Joffrey."

"Yes," Lord Stannis muttered, before placing a hesitant hand on his shoulder. "The boy would not welcome you. You resemble your father too much. And Joffrey… well, there is something wrong with that boy. Shireen hates him."

He peered at his uncle. "She's a very good judge of character, my Lord."

A small smile crossed the older man's face, like a cloud flashing across the face of the moon. "She's a wise girl," he said eventually. "Reads a lot."

"Smiles more too these days," said the Lady Selyse from behind them. "I've seen her smile more on this voyage than over the past few months. The greyscale scars made people stare at her and now that they are gone… my daughter smiles again."

Gendry nodded respectfully at the wife of Lord Stannis. She was one of the most severe women he had ever met, all hard planes and severe lines. He wasn't sure that she approved of his existence, although she did seem to be very slowly thawing ever so slightly. But the words she had just spoken were a step forwards and hinted at a slight approval of his existence.

And then Shireen darted out of her own cabin and ran towards them. "White Harbour? Oh, it's so pretty! The light on the walls!" She was excited and, yes, she was smiling a lot. When he had first met the girl she had worn her hair long, like curtains that hid her greyscale. The curtains were now gone. Instead she had pulled her hair back into double braids that were tied together at the back, showing off the area where the greyscale had once been, but was no longer.

As they approached the quay the crew thundered around them to the sound of Devan Seaworth's commands. There were times when he sounded like a younger version of his father. But it was the hulking figure standing on the quayside that caught his eye. His father, the King. He seemed… well, he looked as if he was thinner than before, whilst being a little larger about the shoulders.

"Robert's not fat anymore," Lord Stannis half-muttered to himself. "What in the name of the Gods is going on? What's happened to the man?"

As the ship was moored and the gangplank set in place Lord Stannis led his family down to it, with a wary Gendry lagging behind. The King strode up to his brother first and then clasped arms with him. He almost loomed over him, and Lord Stannis was not a small man. The King then stepped to one side and greeted Lady Selyse, speaking softly and kissing her hand, something that seemed to startle her slightly. And then he stepped up to Shireen. As he did he went down onto one knee and peered at her – before smiling broadly.

"Welcome to White Harbour, niece," the King rumbled, still smiling. "There's so much to show you here! And you are just the person to read about and tell me what I should have seen from the start here. Will you help me?"

It was exactly the right thing to say, because she flushed a little and then nodded, curtseyed. And then he kissed her on the cheek and she flung her arms around his neck. She could just about hear her when she muttered: "Uncle Robert, my greyscale is all gone!"

"Aye, and you are now the prettiest thing here in White Harbour!" They broke apart, him still beaming at her and then he looked at Gendry. "And here's the lad who found the Godswood!"

He flushed and scuffed his boots on the wooden boards beneath his feet. "Didn't mean to, your Grace. T'was an accident. But a happy accident."

The King smiled at him and then pointed at the Warhammer. "Stannis training you in that?"

"Aye, your Grace." He had to be formal. There were two KIngsguards behind his Father, men wearing helms that almost seemed reptilian.

"Good, you'll need it. Come, all of you, I want to hear the tale!" And with that the King swept them all up the hill towards the castle that stood there. But as he rode he could feel the eyes on him. This place might be dangerous.

Perestan

He was in the middle of a rather intriguing little tome about the history of navigation in the Smoking Sea that had emerged from the Summer Isles of all places, when someone very loudly cleared their throat to one side.

"Go away," he said crossly as he turned the page and made a note. "I'm busy."

"No," said a familiar voice. "I can't."

He looked up. "Marwyn," he said, surprised. "What do you want?"

"You are needed-"

"Pah! Not another meeting! Young whatisface is right. His calculations are exact. A Long Winter is coming. Send out the white ravens and have done with it."

"You are needed at the Hightower. Lord Hightower himself has requested you."

He put his pen down and then stared at his old friend. "I beg your pardon?"

"Lord Hightower has requested your presence at the Hightower."

"Why?"

"The message did not say. Just that you are needed there."

"Again, why?"

Marwyn glared at him. "I am not a reader of minds, so I do not know!"

He looked at the book again and sighed, before putting it down. "When does he need to see me?"

"At once."

"Of course. Naturally. It isn't as if I have my own work to do. Bah, very well. Is there at least a boat waiting?"

"There is."

"Then it seems that I must take a trip." He stood and placed the book carefully away in his desk. "Damn it, I had more books to read."

There was indeed a boat, a barge with the personal sigil of Lord Leyton Hightower on it and commanded by an impatient young fellow with the walk of a man built for boats and not land. He certainly knew his oars, because he commanded the crew to push off and then start rowing with a crisp snap and pull of the oars that sent the boat downstream towards the harbour and the great tower that sat within it.

Some signal must have been sent, or perhaps someone with a Myrish eyeglass had been watching for him, but when he reached the jetty by the main entrance Lord Leyton Hightower himself was waiting there.

"My Lord Hightower," Perestan said with a bow. "You sent for me. How may I serve you?"

The Lord of Oldtown looked him up and down and sniffed. He had not left the Hightower for years, but he seemed much the same, if a little whiter of hair and beard. "Archmaester," he said. "I am told that you are an expert on history and specifically the history of the Reach?"

"I have some small knowledge of it," he said cautiously. Something was happening here, there was an odd tension in the air. The guards looked… tense. "Do you have a particular question about it that required my presence?"

Lord Hightower smiled a very brief smile. "It has long been my opinion that if you ever tell a Maester that something extraordinary exists, he will either deny it or ask you a series of questions, or sometimes even just stand there and go off into a brown study. So I will merely tell you to follow me."

And off he strode, at a surprisingly fast pace for a man of his years. Along through the main gates into the Hightower itself, along corridors that bore the subtle signs of the work of the First Men. And then down a set of stairs. As they walked down them the windows were replaced by torches. Down they went into another corridor and then along it and into another stairwell, one that wound down in a tight spiral. When that ended in another corridor there was a young man there with a set of lanterns of the Citadel's own making, lanterns that shed a lot of light.

And then they walked to another staircase. When that one ended Perestan blinked. The walls had changed. They were now black. This must be the original black stone foundation of the Hightower. He looked at the stone and shuddered slightly. It seemed to almost glisten in the lamplight, as if it was somehow greasy. There was no decoration on it, not carving. Just black stone.

And no-one knew who had built it.

"Down again," Lord Hightower said. "We are not yet there." And off he went again, striding off down the corridor and then down yet another bloody staircase. This one was different. The steps were a little smaller and he had to concentrate on where he placed his feet. Down they went, deeper and deeper and after a while he realised something.

"We are below the harbour now, surely?"

"We are," came the grim reply. "Far below now."

"I did not know that the Hightower went so deep."

"Few do."

"Surely the Citadel knows?"

"One Archmaester once did."

"Who?"

"Berwyn."

"I am not familiar with that name."

"You should not be. He died half a thousand years ago, and his name was stricken from the rolls of the Maesters."

"Why?"

"He went mad."

And then they went on, deeper into the far depths of the Hightower, until eventually the black staircase came to an end. They paused there, which was a blessing on his knees – and then he felt something start to steal over him, a vague uneasiness.

Lord Hightower looked at him. "You feel it then?"

"Feel what?"

"That sensation that something is wrong somewhere."

He paused. "Yes, but then I live in the Citadel. Normally some experiment or other is going wrong somewhere in the place. But yes, I do feel something. What is it?"

Lord Hightower smiled slightly again and then crooked a finger. "Come."

They passed along a long corridor that curved slightly, and then he saw light ahead of them. It was a doorway, with torches and lanterns burning there. There were two guards there and as they approached he could see that they were very nervous, with sweat rolling down their faces.

"You are relieved," Lord Hightower told them. "Go back to the barracks. My thanks."

The two guards bowed and then all but ran down the corridor, replaced by the pale-faced guards that had followed Perestan and Hightower.

"We limit guards to shifts of two hours every other day," said Hightower sadly as he unlocked the door with a great iron key. "Any more and… well, they run." He opened the gate and stepped through, beckoning for Perestan to follow. After he stepped through he locked it behind them and then walked on.

"Lord Hightower," Prestan muttered as they walked, "This is all most intriguing, but-" And then he paused. They were in what seemed to be a great room. And at the far end of that room was an even greater gate. It was twice, no, thrice as high as he was tall and at least twice that wide. And it… glowed. It was a sickly green colour and it made him uneasy beyond words just looking at it.

"What," he said eventually, "What is that… thing?"

"The reason why the Hightowers have always stayed here. It is our burden. We were told to guard it. Whatever it took, we had to guard it. The arrival of the Andals? We coped. The Targaryens? We bent the knee. We stayed here and we guarded it. It was my task to look upon it once a year."

He peered at it, as that feeling that something somewhere was very wrong intensified. "The Citadel does not know that this even exists, does it?"

"No. They would ask too many questions. Silly questions at that."

"Then why are you showing it to me?"

"Because it has changed. Because there are runes on it that can now been seen that I did not know even existed. Because it now glows, when once it did not. And because that damn thing is bolted against something. I would like to know what."

He took a step forwards, hesitant, and frowned. The feeling of wrongness had deepened.

"There is another reason."

"And what is that?"

"Take a step closer, if you can. And listen."

He did so, his stomach roiling yet again. The hairs on the back of his neck seemed to be trying to rip their way off his skin. And then he heard it. Something seemed to be pounding something far beyond the other side of the gate. And there was a noise, like a slow groan, as if a wind was blowing.

"What is that noise?"

"I don't know."

"Is… is there someone behind this gate?"

"If there is then I don't know who they are. Don't try and get closer to the gate."

"Why?"

"Fear."

He looked back at the other man and then took a tentative step forwards. The feeling of fear strengthened a bit. Another step. The fear became terror. Another step. Bladder control was now a problem. And then he strode quickly back to the other man and swallowed.

"It would seem that I have some research to do, Lord Hightower."