Edmure

He found Father in his solar, sitting at his desk and staring at a map of Westeros on the wall opposite. Father was having one of his good days, which tended to outnumber the bad days at the moment, although as Maester Vyman had warned him, there was no guarantee that this would continue.

As he closed the door Father looked up and smiled slightly. "You watched them for a long time from the ramparts."

Edmure nodded slightly and then sat down. "Odd to see Uncle Brynden so… changed. And that woman he was with…"

"Brienne of Tarth. Daughter of the Evenstar." Father shook his head slightly. "I will write to him of this. He would be proud of her."

He nodded. And then: "And the Green Man… I don't know what to say about him."

"Ser Duncan the Tall…" Father shook his head. "I remember him from when I was younger. The noblest man the Kingsguard has ever had. I thought that he was long dead. But then there is something about being the Green Man that… can't be explained."

Father sighed and then looked at the map again. "I never thought that I would see the day that the Green Men went forth from the Isle of Faces again. It was foretold a long time ago. The thought of living in a time of prophecy is… disturbing." He looked at Edmure and sighed again.

"Edmure, I do not know how long I have left. Vyman says that I might or might not recover from this wasting sickness. Given what has happened, I feel that I cannot take the chance of presuming that I'll get better. You must prepare to succeed me, perhaps sooner than you might have liked. And there's a lot you need to know."

"I know Father," he groaned. "Better skills at placing men in battle for a start. High Heart could have been nasty."

"That's one thing," Father said heavily. "But there's something more important. Tullys have ruled the Riverlands since Aegon's Conquest. What is not widely known is that the coming of Aegon was predicted. The Green Man at the time sent word to our ancestor Edwyn Tully to come and meet him on the Isle of Faces. It was a time of great tension – Harren the Black was looting everything that wasn't nailed down in the Riverlands and even his own Iron Islands to build Harrenhall.

"He even broke the old agreement not to bother the Isle of Faces, or at least he tried to. He sent three ships filled with men with axes to chop down the weirwood trees there. They all vanished – never to be seen again. The Green Man of that time warned him never to try again. And also told him that even stone could burn. He didn't listen, and we all know what happened next."

"Balerion the Black Dread happened to him," Edmure muttered with ice sliding up and down his spine for a moment. "And Harrenhall burned."

"Yes. Edwyn Tully was told by the Green Man what would happen. The Green Man was his uncle."

He sat up at this. "Green Men have been Tullys?"

"Green Men have come from all over the place. All over Westeros. Our ancestors have walked on the Isle of Faces. It must always be protected. There was an agreement. And… Edwyn Tully made two trips there. One in which he was warned about the arrival of the Targaryens. And one in which he was warned about what would happen next. The warning was for his descendants. I suspect that the warning was for us.

"It came in three parts. One was that there would never be any more Valyrian steel, that the secret of making it had been lost. One was that another Valyrian secret would be lost – the one that would allow brother to marry sister and not have deformed or mad offspring. We both know how that ended up."

"The Mad King," Edmure said through suddenly very dry lips. "And the third?"

"That the dragonlore of the Targaryens would one day fade. That the dragons would vanish. But that one day they would be needed again. On a day when fish were black on the Isle of Faces." And with that Father leant back and stared at Edmure with one eyebrow raised.

He stared at father for a long moment – and then the ice reappeared on his spine. "Wait – Uncle Brynden was on the Isle of Faces. The Blackfish was there."

"Yes. The day that your uncle named himself the Blackfish I was angry and thought nothing of it. Then I eventually remembered what my own father had told me of that long-ago meeting on the Isle of Faces. And I looked rather like you do now."

Edmure swallowed and then ran a hand over his face. The implications were… disturbing. "Why would dragons be needed now?"

"We both know why. You heard the Call as loudly as I did."

"The Others come."

"I suspect that they do."

He sat there for a long moment, all kinds of thoughts and emotions roiling through him. "Then… what must we do?"

"Word has come from the Citadel that the Maesters are debating whether or not a long winter is coming. Given everything else, all this talk of the Others, we must assume that it will be a second Long Winter." Father's nostrils flared for a moment. "We face legends. Perhaps this is a time of legends. We need to be worthy of such a time, Edmure."

Legends. He did not feel as if that word fitted him. Could ever fit him. But he needed to try and rise to the challenge. "Any word of the choices I face in marriage?"

Father chuckled slightly. "I am making a list. No Freys of course, even though Walder Frey has always sent me the names of those of his daughters that are unmarried at the moment. What about Marianne Vance or Roslin Mallister?"

Edmure felt his cheeks heat up for a moment. "I've met Roslin Mallister before. She's very pretty. Marianne Vance is half-Frey Father!"

"But not all Frey. The Vances are loyal to Riverrun."

"No Brackens or Blackwoods – a good idea Father."

"Aye, pick a girl from one family and the other would scream in protest. That said, the two houses have both done a lot to mend their relations recently. That great oath of theirs, as well as them both defending Raventree Hall… well, I have to say that they are both striving mightily to do the right thing. We cannot do anything that threatens their fragile truce."

"Aye," Edmure muttered. "Perhaps a meeting with Lord Mallister soon then?"

Father nodded. "Soon. In the meantime we need to work out what to do with our mad blackfooted guest." He sighed, leant back in his chair and passed a hand over his face. "I believe in the Seven, but he is a disgrace to them. He places himself first, that much is evident. He is a fool."

"What does Vyman say about him?"

"That he's a drooling madman now. He cannot explain his blindness. No-one can. You were there – can you explain it?"

He thought back to that night and then he shook his head. "No. The Green Man took his sight just with his words. I cannot explain it."

Father just looked at him. "And since he went mad and blind the number of attacks and unrest by the Faith Militant have diminished. He seems to have been behind so much of it. So what do we do with him?"

That was a good point. He rubbed his chin. "The man is mad. He has committed such crimes, but can we execute him now?"

"If I could, I'd throw him off the ramparts and into the waters below – and good riddance to very bad rubbish. But I think that we must tread most carefully on this matter. I have sent a raven to the Small Council at King's Landing asking what to do with the wretched man, the last thing we want is the High Septon to be critical."

Edmure pulled a face as he thought this through, before nodding. "I understand, Father. At least he's stopped befouling himself."

Father shuddered a little – and then they both looked u[p at the tap on the door. It was Vyman, who was holding a letter in one hand, which he held out as he approached Father's desk. "I beg your pardon my Lord, but a merchant from Essos arrived bearing this. The seals on it are… interesting."

Father took the letter with a frown and peered at it carefully, his frown deepening as he looked at the wax seals that had been pressed into the front of it. "Ah," he said eventually. "Interesting." Then he opened it. "Sit, Vyman. Tell me of this merchant."

"His name is Teren, my Lord, from Myr. He says that he was headed to first Tyrosh and then King's Landing on business when he came upon the Golden Company, three of whom heard about him and then asked him to pass on that letter when he arrived in Westeros."

"He's quite a way from King's Landing," Father muttered as he opened the letter carefully, unfolded it and then read it. Then he frowned mightily and re-read it, before putting it down and steepling his fingers under his nose for a moment. "How to deal with this," he half-whispered. "How indeed?"

"Father?" Edmure prompted carefully.

"What? Oh – Edmure. It seems that the Call wasn't just heard in the ranks of the Company of the Rose. Other exiles heard it too. And they have asked about the possibility of a pardon and a return from exile."

"Who?" Edmure asked. "Members of the Golden Company obviously."

"Aye. They claim to be, well, members of Houses Strong, Lothston and, well, Mudd."

Edmure stared at him – and then he reached for the letter and stared at the seals. "My Gods," he said eventually. "Can it be true?"

"I do not know. But the seals are right."

"Seals can be forged."

"They heard the Call, they write the words of it."

"They might be lying."

"Aye," Father muttered. "But the King and the Hand must know of this at once. Think about the implications."

Edmure leant back in his chair. Vyman was as white as a sheet in his own seat. Finally he looked up. "The ripples are spreading, Father."

"Aye. And the Golden Company is likely broken."

Edd

Riding with women was… interesting. Well, not to much riding with them, more in company with them. Sort of. Craster had had two horses of his own, as well as a cart and Jenn had crammed a lot of supplies as well as all of her fellow wives into it.

Craster's Keep was no more and the funeral pyre had been a great one. Well, no matter. He'd thrown the dismembered pieces of the bloody man into the growing inferno himself, and good riddance to him. The thought of anyone at all ever worshipping those things was… wrong.

The further South they'd rode the more they had seen evidence that the Wildlings were on the move, and in huge numbers. In places the trees had been hacked down to allow the passage of what, from the ruts, might have been carts. And here and there was the occasional sign of a pyre, with charred bones visible. People had died nearby and the Wildlings had been burning them. Had to burn them.

Craster's wives had not been the burden that some had thought. They were all Wildlings, but they had been grateful to them for killing their 'husband'. The whole thing made his skin crawl. They'd stripped the 'Keep' bare of food and other supplies before it had been burned, and the amounts had been startling.

As the Wall loomed ever closer he noticed Ser Jaremy staring at the ground and the debris that some of the Wildlings had left behind in their passage South. "They're all moving," Ser Jaremy muttered. "All of them." He reined in quickly, dismounted, grabbed something off the ground and then remounted and spurred up to rejoin them as he pored over whatever it was, before finally holding it up.

"Is that bronze?" Edd asked as he peered at it.

"Aye, Tollett, it is. Bit of bronze armour unless I miss my guess. Thenn-make, too."

A lot of heads turned to stare at him, not least Craster's head-ex-wife. "Thenn? Truly?"

Ser Jaremy hefted it and then tossed it carefully at her. "Thenn."

The woman caught it and then looked at it intently, as one of the other women took the reins for the cart off her. "Fuck me," she said in a stunned tone of voice, "Thenn. I never thought I'd see them this far South." She hefted it carefully and then looked at Ser Jaremy. "If the Thenn have come South to the Wall, then that means that a storm is coming indeed. The Others have come and there is a saying amongst us that if the Thenn ever go South to follow the Stark, then another Long Winter will come."

There was a pause amongst the men of the Night's Watch as they looked at each other for a moment. Then Ser Jaremy finally admitted: "Before we left on our mission North of the Wall, word had it that Ned Stark was riding for Castle Black."

Jenn stared at him – and then at them all – with a pale face, before looking back at the Wall. "Then if the Stark has the Thenn behind him to the South of the Wall, then the second Long Winter comes."

They rode on in silence after that, until the Wall loomed above them and the gate to Castle Black could be seen in the distance. There was a long line of Wildlings passing through the tunnel through the Wall and as they looked at that line Edd saw Ser Jaremy's jaw set and the knuckles of his hands whiten on the reins for a long moment, before he finally sighed and shook his head a little. "It has to be done," he heard the older man mutter. "It has to be."

Edd could see Dywen digging in his furs for his horn, which he lifted to his lips and used to blow a single, long, dolorous blast that told those on the Wall that Rangers of the Night's Watch approached. A tiny figure far, far above waved at them and he sighed in relief as they approached the tunnel and then rode through.

Craster's wives on the other hand seemed to be an odd mixture of relieved at being South of the Wall and fearful at being at the heart of the Night's Watch. They were also astonished to see the huge direwolf sitting at the base of the stairs, next to a bearded man with long hair tied back. He was dressed in fine but functional dark leathers and by the fact that the Lord Commander was next to him and talking quietly he must have been important. Then he blinked a little. There were Stark banners flying here and there. Was that Lord Stark?

Ser Jaremy dismounted and nodded to the two men in front of him. "Lord Commander," he muttered. "Lord Stark."

"Ser Jaremy," the Old Bear replied. "Interesting company you keep."

"Craster's wives," the Ranger replied. "Craster's Keep is no more, the man is dead. They seek passage South beyond the Wall to be safe."

Jeor Mormont's eyebrows flew up and down for a moment, before he scowled in thought. "Best send them on then. We need to hear your report."

"I'll have to make it with Tollett here."

Edd stared at Ser Jaremy with something close to horror. "Me?"

"You." Something close to a smirk crossed his face. "Tollett here has killed an Other."

Everyone within earshot of this lifted their head and stared at him as his cheeks flamed. "Aye," he said faintly. "I did."

The Lord Commander of the Night's Watch looked him up and down before tilting his head to one side. "Well, let's hear this tale of yours."

Lord Stark and the Lord Commander, with the direwolf loping ahead of them, led them all up the stairs to the Lord Commander's solar. There they found a man dressed in bronze armour talking to Maester Aemon in what sounded like the language of the First Men. The first thing that he noticed was that the man in bronze had no ears. The second was that Maester Aemon's eyes were… well, they were… could he see?

When the Maester then turned to look at them he almost walked into Ser Jaremy's side, so quickly did that other man stop in his tracks. "Maester Aemon?"

"Ser Jaremy! And young Tollett. I see that you have returned from your mission. And yes, I can see." His eyes twinkled with joy for a moment. "A gift from the Old Gods, thanks to Lord Stark." Then he sobered a little. "This is Styr, Magnar of the Thenn. He speaks the old tongue of the First Men."

The earless man nodded at them and seemed to be about to take his leave when Lord Stark sat next to him, gestured with one hand and said something in the language of the First Men. Styr looked a bit shocked and then looked at Edd. "I told him that you had killed what the Thenn call a White Walker. We must hear your tale at once."

Edd found himself colouring a little. This was going to be embarrassing – the tale of how he fell on his arse and stabbed blindly at what many had thought to be a myth. Well. At least they could speak of Craster's fate. That still cheered him up a little.

Tyrion

The Nightfort was not a place where he thought he could sleep easily, but so much had happened that he slept like a log that night. A guard schedule had been worked out, but he was not on it – much to his relief. No, he slept hard until dawn, when he was woken by Pod, who had a jaw-cracking yawn and a bowl of hot porridge.

As the others woke and he ate his porridge he looked about the building they were in again. It had been a great hall once. He wondered how much work it would take to get it repaired again. And then he worried about what kind of state the crypts were in.

Much to his surprise the letter written by Tyrek Lannister did not astonish his uncle as much as it had astonished him. Instead Gerion had read it carefully, mulled it over, given it to his frowning son and then raised his eyebrows at him. They had then had a silent conversation, conducted entirely in eyebrows and lip quirks. Hmmm. Uncle Gerion had a very close connection with his son.

"You don't seem that surprised," Tyrion said eventually. "Uncle, were you following us or coming here anyway?"

Gerion smiled slightly at him. "Both. I'll explain later."

He peered at his uncle. "See that you do, uncle, see that you do. Now – we have some crypts to explore."

It wasn't that simple of course. First they had to deal with the Wildling prisoners, who were the subject of a quarrel between Alliser Thorne and Mance Rayder that was only resolved by an annoyed Robb Stark, who reminded them both that Lord Stark had given orders that the Wildlings be allowed to settle in the Gift before the Winter started, and that Rayder had custody of them – whilst also reminding them of the laws South of the Wall. There had been a bite and snap of command in the voice of the young Stark that had made everyone stare at him and all but stand at attention, especially Rayder's goodsister.

There it was again, that nagging other feeling he had about the boy. He seemed older than his years at times. Was that due to the situation here at the Wall? Or the fact that the North was a harsher place? Or… something else? He didn't know.

Fortunately Stark had spoken enough sense to get through to Thorne. And Rayder then agreed to let the prisoners work on the Nightfort for a week as a penance before going South. And after that they could finally start to search the Nightfort.

The lower levels of the castle were not like the upper levels. He could tell quite quickly that the Nightfort was mostly built on the bones of past Nightforts. And his fears about the crypts were unfounded. They weren't flooded or ruined, in fact they were well drained and sturdy.

The place where past Lord Commanders of the Night's Watch were buried was a sombre place. Stairs led down to a chamber with passageways leading off to the right and left. Down each passageway were chambers hacked out of the bedrock, with slots in the wall for the dead. Stone box after stone box lay in those slots.

"They burnt their dead from the start?" Theon Greyjoy asked the question as he peered at the slots in one room with the light of a burning brand. "Those boxes are too small for bones, other then ashes of bones."

"So it would seem," Tyrion replied as his heart sank. Surely Tyrek Lannister would have been buried in a similar fashion – cremated and then the ashes placed in a box? "But then why would he write to me and say to seek out his grave? Let us keep searching."

"The rooms are laid out in sequence," Robb Stark pointed out. "The earliest Lord Commanders first, the later ones further up. Let's search the farthest room."

This was a good idea, and it was indeed there that they found what they were looking for. Tyrek Lannister's tomb, if it could be called that, was a box in a slot in the wall – but a larger slot than they had seen before, because there was another stone box next to it. Oddly enough it was at just the right height for Tyrion to inspect it. And it had a small carving at the end. One of the Lannister lion.

He traced the symbol with a trembling finger – and then he clenched his fingers into a fist. The others behind him were all silent. After a long moment he reached out and pulled on the end of the stone box. Stone ground on stone and he panted a little as the box slowly came free – and then Uncle Gerion was next to him, adding his strength. The box slid out with greater speed and then Allarion was there to one side, helping as well.

They laid the stone box on the ground once it was free. It was about four feet long, a foot wide and a foot deep, with a lid that seemed to slide along its long axis. He peered at it and swallowed. "Let's see what's in this."

The lid slid to one side with the greatest of reluctance and by the time it was off he was panting with exertion a little as he helped to lay it down. Only then did he look in the box. Inside was… an old black cloak? Oh wait, there was something under the cloak, a set of shapes wrapped in oilcloth. His mouth was dry suddenly and he moved the cloak to one side. There were three things in there. One was long, about as long as his arm, perhaps a bit longer. The second was smaller and the third a lot smaller – small and square.

He reached for the smallest one first. It was carefully stitched closed but his knife soon opened it. Inside was another piece of oilskin, also stitched closed, and inside that was a leather envelope. There was a name stitched on to it. His.

"This kind of thing always leaves me feeling a bit light-headed," he muttered as he showed it to his uncle with a shaking hand. "He knew I'd be here. He… saw me. Dreamt me. Whatever the right word is."

Gerion looked at him carefully. "You'd best open it," he said eventually, with a note of… something that Tyrion couldn't quite place in his voice. "We need to know what he wrote."

He opened it carefully. Yes, inside was a letter, the writing thin and spidery, the script of a very old man. 'My dear Tyrion. Again, forgive my informality. This will be the last thing I ever write, as I am now dying. It is not something I am enjoying very much, so please excuse my curtness. You stand next to my ashes. You know why Brothers of the Night's Watch are burnt. Or you will soon anyway. There are two packages in the box that I ordered to be buried next to my ashes. The first contains an axe. The second contains two daggers. All are yours. I took them from a forgotten vault in Casterley Rock, a place forgotten about since almost the time of Lann the Clever. Our ancestors were fools who eventually grew arrogant. They forgot because it did not fit their version of the world, where they were more important than anyone else.

'The light fades, or perhaps it is my eyes. There is more you must know. The axe is Rocktooth, the ancestral weapon of the Westerlands, the weapon that Lann the Clever himself wielded against the Others when he fought side by side with the then Stark of Winterfell. Use it wisely and with pride – it's older than Lann himself. The daggers were also used by Lann. There were various names for them, including Lann's Ears and Lann's Whiskers, but their original name, according to the runes on them, were The Warnings. Heed what they tell you.

'There is a room deeper in the crypts that you now need to find. Take the Stark who looks a bit like a Tully with you. And good luck my boy.'

It was signed 'Tyrek Lannister' and he felt more than a little faint as he handed the letter to his uncle, who read it with a look of the utmost seriousness. "He left them for you," Gerion said eventually with a slight smile. "You should claim them."

His hands were trembling as he cut the stitches on the other two oilskin packages. The long one first. Inside was… an axe. It was quite possibly the oldest thing he'd ever seen, a weapon ancient beyond words. It had an odd sheen to it – one that was familiar.

"Sky-metal," he muttered as he traced a finger over it. "And… is that obsidian in the middle of it?" It certainly looked like it. It might have been made by the same man who forged the Fist of Winter. Its' handle was made from wierwood, filigreed with threads of more sky-metal and there was obsidian set at the end of the handle as well as two places in the blade.

For some reason he didn't want to pick it up. If he did so, Rocktooth was his, in a way that could never be taken back. He would no longer be studying the past, the past would become a part of his present. "If I take it, Father will never forgive me. I'd have something that he'd want."

"Your Father wants Brightroar, and he'll never have that. Take it Tyrion."

"Shouldn't there be thunder at this moment?"

"Ach, that's for Durrandons and the Baratheons that followed them. Tyrion – this is your moment. Take it."

He reached out with those treacherously trembling hands and picked the axe up. It wasn't as heavy as he had thought it would be and he hefted it for a moment. Nothing crashed overhead, there was no boom of the earth trembling beneath his feet, it was all a bit anticlimactic. "I'll need something to carry this in," he muttered. "A scabbard on my back perhaps?"

"I'll make something for you my Lord," Pod muttered behind him. "I can stitch leather."

Tyrion grinned at the boy for a moment and then cut open the other package. Yes, there were two daggers in it, both made from the same metal and both with wierwood handles. Gods, they were old. "I'll need scabbards for these as well," he muttered as he ran his hands over them and noted the runes on the surface of the blades. He'd need to translate them carefully. "They're old." He picked them both up carefully and thrust them equally carefully into his belt, before standing and looking around with Rocktooth in his left hand. "Let's keep looking – there's supposed to be another place in here. Another room."

It did not take long to find it. There was another passageway, a long and thin one that was again carved out of the living rock. And at the end was a door. There was dirt and rubbish piled against the bottom of it, but halfway up it was a lock, an ancient thing with a seal pressed from some kind of red wax that covered it. Tyrion stared at it in confusion. Surely wax would have eventually crumbled to pieces after all that time?

"That's the seal of the old Kings in the North," Robb Stark muttered in a shocked voice. "The Great Seal of Winter. Father's got it in a box somewhere in his solar. The last time it was used was after Torrhen Stark bent the knee to Aegon the Conqueror."

He peered at it again. Yes, the seal was festooned with wolves. How very Stark-ish, if such a word existed. "Why would a room in the Nightfort be sealed off with the symbol of the old Kings in the North? Ser Alliser, can you shed any light on this?"

The sour-faced man shook his head, an expression of puzzled shock on his face. "There's nothing in the histories that I've read about this place," he muttered. "Nor less about the Stark Kings of old leaving their sign on the place." He walked up and peered at it closely, before tugging on the hasp. It seemed to be quite strong even after all these years. "A good lock, that. Odd. It's bloody ancient."

Something tickled at the back of Tyrion's mind for an instant. "I wonder. Tyrek Lannister told us to come with a Stark and mentioned that it should be the one 'that looked like a Tully'. Robb Stark - would you mind inspecting the seal?"

The heir to Winterfell looked at him in bafflement. "Why?"

"Oh, just a feeling I have."

Robb Stark looked at his friends, shrugged in bafflement and then walked up to the lock. He inspected it carefully and then reached out and tugged at the hasp - which snapped instantly like a rotten twig, before the entire thing crumbled like dust into his hands.

They all stared at the debris in his hands. "Good Gods," someone said faintly and after a moment Tyrion realised that it had been him. "Well now - I think that we were meant to open this door."

They had to dig the debris clear from the floor in front of it to make room for Robb and Jon Stark to both pull the door open. It shrieked as it opened and the noise set the hairs on the back of his neck on end in an instant. And as the door came open, a stench of decay reached them, one strong enough to make him pull a face.

"What in the name of all the Gods is that?" Theon Greyjoy gasped as he all but retched.

"Foul air and more. Give it a moment to pass," Tyrion replied. "Watch the torches carefully. If they start to gutter then the air is too foul to breath."

They waited a long moment until the stench diminished a little. Only then did they enter. Beyond the door lay a large room. It was dominated by a huge chair - almost a throne - that stood with its back to the far wall. And there were bones everywhere, strewn all over the place. There were rusted knives on the floor amongst the bones, and in one corner, next to a pile of rubble, there was what might have been the remains of a cauldron.

"These are human," a horrified Ser Alliser Thorne muttered as he looked about. "They're all human bones. Gods, what happened here?"

"A massacre?" Tyrion mused as he looked at bones himself. "No, the door was shut. Why seal the door? Are those marks on the bones from fighting?"

"Nay," Mance Rayder muttered as he lifted one blackened bone and peered at it. "This looks as if it's been flensed. Someone butchered this poor bugger."

"Why?" Theon Greyjoy asked, his face pale and wan.

"To eat him, boy," Thorne replied as he walked about the room and inspected the bones with distaste. "This is the lair of a cannibal."

The Greyjoy lad turned even paler but did not throw up. It seemed to be a close-run thing though.

One of the bodies seemed to be more intact than the others - if barely. It was a huddle of bones in a tattered black robe at the foot of the chair, or whatever it was. As he drew closer to the thing Tyrion could see runes on the sides of it, and carvings as well.

"This is odd," Thorne muttered as he peered at the skull of the body in the cloak. "There's finger bones threaded together with wire on this one's head."

There was indeed. He peered at it - and then light dawned. "A crown of bones. He was crowned with bones? How odd." He looked around again and then made another connection. "He might have been the one who cooked here - could this be the Rat King?"

The others stared and then there was a collective shrug. "Might be," Jon Stark muttered. "These bones have been here for centuries. It's an ancient legend though."

"Yes, but one based on something at least," Tyrion replied as he looked about again. "Someone killed men here and then ate at least some of them. And there are many dark legends of this place. Perhaps this is the place that spawned the legends?"

Val reached down and lifted a large and very corroded axe. "Wasn't there a tale of a man called Mad Axe?"

"Aye," Thorne muttered. He was staring at the pile of debris in the corner. "Is that a hole in the ceiling there?"

A number of the others walked over and looked up at it. "I think it is, yes," Robb Stark muttered. "It heads upwards."

"We need a volunteer," Tyrion said brightly, only to get some very dirty looks sent his way. He sighed and thought very hard, calling up the memory of what he had seen so far of the Nightfort. "Very well then - can someone go back out of here - via the passageways we entered - and get to the kitchens? I think that we are currently under the North-West corner of the kitchens."

"Come on then 'Giantsbane', Thorne said after a long moment. "Let's be at it."

The red-bearded man looked at the man of the Night's Watch as he walked away and then looked back at Rayder, who nodded. "My life is getting odder by the minute," Tormund Giantsbane muttered, but followed the receding figure of the man in black.

As they waited Tyrion turned his attention to the throne - because that was what it most resembled - in front of them all. It was carved of granite, or something close to it, and the more he looked at it the more he realised that this was ancient - even for the North. There were men, or the shapes of men, carved on one side, based on what light his brand was able to direct at it. And... some kind of tree? And then an animal of some kind. The thing was filthy as well as ancient.

But it was the runes that attracted his attention. They were of an ancient kind, proving how old the object was. He peered at them quizzically for long minutes as the others wandered about and expressed disgust at what they found in places. Some of the runes he could read. Others he could not. The one he definitely could read was the most obvious one. "'Stark.'"

Two heads turned to him. "What?" Robb Stark muttered. "Which of us do you need?"

"No," he replied, "That's what it says at the top of this... thing. It says 'Stark' there. This is old, very, very old." He went back to reading what he could of the runes, and the more he read the more confused he became. Eventually he looked about for a old sword and used it to scrape away at the base of the chair, where the tops of other runes could just about be seen. "This," he panted as he pulled the filthy debris away, "is also odd."

"Why, odd?" Rayder asked. He too was looking at the runes. "Wait... I think I know what that part says. 'Throne of... Winter?"

"Nay," Jon Stark broke in. "The Throne of Winter's at Winterfell."

"I know, I've seen it," Tyrion replied. "But that's not as old as this is. I think... I think that this might be the original Throne of Winter, or at least the first such object. But why seal it away? These runes are peculiar. They are older than anything I've ever seen. Some of the words are familiar and others are archaic."

It was at this point that they heard a very odd noise in the far distance. It sounded like a mammoth being strangled in the far distance, or something like that, and everyone looked about wildly, until Robb Stark walked over to the hole in the ceiling and squinted up at it. After a moment there was a sound like stone scraping on stone and eventually a faint light shone down from above, followed by a voice. "Is that you, young wolf?"

"Tormund?"

"Aye, me and this stone-faced crow, as well as some of the others. We're in the kitchens, or under them at least. Storage room underneath another storage room. There was a great stone slab over the hole leading down here. Sealed off probably. Might be that someone knew that something was wrong down there and stuck that slab over it all. Took five of us to move it."

"Anything written on the slab?"

There was a moment of muttering and then the voice of Ser Alliser Thorne said: "Yes, not to move it on orders of the Lord Commander."

"I think that this is the place where so many dark legends of the Nightfort were born," Tyrion told the others, before going back to the Throne of Winter. The others joined him. His scraping had revealed some new runes and he read them carefully. In the language of the First Men they read: 'Stark had me made. Onlie a Stark will I bade. If not a Stark ye shall fade.' He read the words out loud for the others, who looked at him with confusion.

"'Fade'," he mused. "That's an odd word to use. Why should someone 'fade'?"

"There's an old saying here in the North that when someone's gone a bit, well, odd, that they've faded," Jon Stark said eventually. "Could it be linked to that?"

"Odd as in mad you mean?" He thought about it - and then terror sparked his mind as a number of connections appeared in his mind. "No-one sit in that throne! No-one!"

"What?" Rayder asked, baffled. "Why not?"

"The legends of the Nightfort, the people that have gone mad here, murdering and eating them - what if they found this place and then, on some whim, sat in that? The runes say that whatever it is it will only obey a Stark and that it will make anyone else 'fade'. Go mad in other words. It's been sealed off from the world for so long, that other door seems to have only yielded to the touch of a Stark... how many of the Night's Watch can read runes? How long has the throne been neglected so that the dirt of ages built up about it? For all we know the Rat King, when he was just a cook, found this place and sat in that throne - and was sent mad. And the Night King, Mad Axe... how many others?"

There was a sudden collective move away from the throne. Tyrion raised a placatory hand. "None of us have sat in it. I think that we are safe. But I have to transcribe those runes. Maester Aemon might have more light to shed on this. In the meantime I think it best that the slab above us be replaced and a new lock be made for the door. This is important. You Starks seem to have had some kind of a plan, or to have set something up here. A long time ago though. A long time ago."