Arya

Men were moving benches about in the Great Hall and she sat on a low wall, with Nymeria sitting gravely at her feet, and watched.

She'd been so happy to see Father again, but also a bit nervous. What would Mother tell him about her warging? Everything had changed just that little bit in the wake of that talk of theirs. She'd had to do a little less embroidery, which meant that she had a little more time to practice warging.

And it was important, that practicing. She loved Nymeria fiercely and the last thing that she wanted to do was ever hurt her, so she had to be careful. Warging could be hard if she was tired and some of the tales from Old Nan about people who warged in but could never warg out again were… well, they were a bit scary. Plus she had to teach Bran, who was a fast learner.

She wondered sometimes if any more of her brothers or Sansa were wargs. Or Uncle Benjen, or even Father? It was a bit hard to ask Robb or Jon at the moment as they were asleep. She wasn't sure why, they'd just been riding home with Father. Now, she could imagine Father as a warg. Father could do anything. And Frostfyre was… well she knew when she was warging into Nymeria. She'd warged into her direwolf an hour earlier, only to be stared at and then licked by the adult direwolf in a slightly amused and slightly bemused manner. Frostfyre knew.

Grey Wind and Ghost padded past, sniffing Nymeria and she looked around in time to see a yawning Robb and Jon stroll into view, followed by an equally tired Theon. They were all thinner than they had been and she knew that Mother was going to fuss and insist that they all eat something. She was glad that Mother was treating Jon better these days,

"Come on, Trouble," Robb said affectionately. "Father wants us all in the Great Hall."

She frowned. "What for?"

The smile vanished. "Bootle's being tried."

This time she blinked. "I thought that wasn't until tomorrow?"

Jon shook his head. "Today. The King's coming and Father wants this out of the way." He looked her up and down. "Well," he said eventually, "You're not too bad. Has Lady Stark seen you?"

"Lady Stark," said a forbidding voice behind them all, "Has been looking for you Arya." Septa Mordane inspected her with a hint of despair. "Oh dear. Come on, quickly. A clean dress and a comb through your hair will have to do."

Protesting did no good, despite her very well thought out and well-reasoned arguments, and she even had to rub a flannel of warm water over her face, before being escorted, clean and sullen, to the Great Hall.

The room was full and as she squeezed onto the end of a bench next to Bran she looked about. Domeric Bolton was sitting on a nearby bench, looking solemn. "He's there to record the proceedings for his father," she heard Sansa tell Robb. "Lord Surestone was well-loved."

She was also fascinated to see that the Imp had family next to him, one being the uncle that everyone had thought was dead and the other being his cousin. They all looked a bit tired.

Doors boomed open to one side and everyone stood. Startled she too scrambled to her feet and then watched as father walked into the room, flanked by the Old Bear and oddly enough Lord Dondarrion, with Frostfyre padding after them. Father was holding the Fist of Winter in both hands and as they reached the table with the three chairs behind it he took the central chair and then placed the ancient weapon in front of him with a formality that made her shiver for a moment. The other two men took their places on either side of him, whilst Frostfyre sat to one side.

"Bring in the prisoner," Father said in a voice that she had never heard from him before – low and hard and intent.

More doors opened and the sullen figure of Ser Willem Bootle was escorted into the Great Hall, guarded by Jory Cassel and his uncle. The prisoner was pale as he entered and even paler as he finally reached the chair that had been reserved for him.

"This trial is convened," Father said as the doors shut with a boom and everyone sat down again. "I, Lord Eddard Stark, the Stark in Winterfell, will preside over it, the trial being witnessed by the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, Jeor Mormont, and the Lord of Blackhaven, Lord Beric Dondarrion." He looked at Bootle, who quailed a little. "Ser Willem Bootle stands accused of the crimes of murder and usurpation, in that he did murder Lord Torgen Surestone – and then did usurp his title, falsely claiming to be his heir."

A lot of people muttered angrily about that and she looked about the Great Hall, trying to catch what people were saying. She'd never seen the sea but it must have sounded like that, noise going backwards and forwards, hard to hear. Father paused and then when silence fell again he looked at the accused man. "How do you plead?"

Bootle stood shakily, took a deep breath and then looked about the room, raising his chin in a way that made him look like a cockerel with a neck problem. "I am innocent! I am Lord Surestone, as I was his heir!"

There was a shocked pause and then a lot of people started to shout and all but snarl. The noise washed over her, but she had eyes only for the three men at the table. Father's eyes had narrowed dangerously, the Old Bear was sniffing contemptuously and Lord Dondarrion looked as if a bad smell had passed under his nose.

It was then that she noticed that Dacey had arrived, and that the Imp was now sitting next to her. There was something odd going on between those two, but she couldn't put her finger on it.

Father raised a hand and the muttering stopped. Then he stood. "Maester Luwin, please bring forth Lord Torgen Surestone's will."

The old Maester stepped forwards, a scroll in his hand that had two seals on it. "This was deposited under the care of Lord Stark last year, my Lords," he said as he passed the scroll to Lord Dondarrion.

The Lightning Lord inspected the seals carefully. "They have not been tampered with," he said gravely, before handing it over to the Old Bear, who also looked at the seals.

"The seals have not been tampered with," the old man agreed, before catching Father's nod and cracking the seals and opening the scroll. He read quickly, handed it over to Lord Dondarrion, who also read it and then handed it to Father.

Father read it as well and then handed it back to Maester Luwin. "Lord Surestone named his daughter and only child Dacey Surestone as his heir, as witnessed by me," Father announced. "Maester Luwin?"

The old Maester unrolled the scroll. "It is as Lord Stark said," he proclaimed grimly. "Dacey Surestone was the heir to Surestone, not Ser Willem."

"Word came to us last year from Ser Edmure Tully, my goodbrother, that Ser Willem was a neer-do-well, that he was perennially short of coin, that he had alienated his neighbours and was not trusted in the Riverlands. He would never have been a fit heir to Surestone. But then he was never the heir. There must always be a Surestone in Surestone and he was related to the late Lord Surestone's wife, not Lord Surestone himself. No matter what this…" Father curled a lip as he looked at him. "Man thought, he was never the heir. Dacey Surestone is."

Bootle had been swelling with either rage or gas with every word and now he erupted. "Lies!" he all but squealed. "Lies! I am the Lord of Surestone! That girl cannot inherit, she is nothing but a girl and I-"

"SILENCE!" Father's voice cracked out like a whip and silenced everyone in the room at once. Bootle blanched and leant back from Father's wrath. "The will is clear. Lord Surestone told me that his only child was his heir. Told me to my face and then wrote it in his will. Are you calling me a liar?"

The Great Hall was silence as Bootle's face twisted and his mouth hung open. After a long moment he shook his head fearfully.

"Now as to the matter of the death of Lord Surestone," Maester Luwin said quietly but firmly to one side. "It was blamed on a stroke my Lord. But on the arrest of Ser Willem a search of his possessions was made by one Edmyn Hunter, in service to Ser Edmure Tully."

"Step forth Edmyn Hunter," Father rumbled. The white-bearded man who had arrived with Bootle stepped forwards, dressed in the fishscale leather armour that always fascinated Arya. "What was found when you searched Bootle's possessions?"

"My Lord," Hunter said with a respectful bob of the head to Father, "We found a journal which mentioned that Ser Willem was deep in debt to a man called Collyns, who was in turn in the employ of the traitor Petyr Baelish. We also found this jar." He gestured to one side and another Riverlander walked up with a stone jar that had once been sealed with wax around the edge of the lid. "The prisoner seemed rather concerned that we had it." He said the last words dryly, before directing a look of contempt at Bootle, who was in turn looking around for the nearest door with a look of abject terror.

Father thanked the Riverlanders, telling them that his own thanks would go with them back to Riverrun and House Tully, before turning to Maester Luwin again. "Do you know what is in this jar Maester Luwin?"

"I do my Lord. It contains a powder that I have tested. It is a poison from Essos, called Hearts Forlorn. It dissolves easily in liquid, such as wine, and if drunk kills by mimicking an apoplexy, such as that which apparently killed Lord Surestone. It is a most cruel poison."

Dacey was white as a sheet and the Imp was holding her hand now, whilst the crowd in the Great Hall was muttering and growling with fury. Father stared at Bootle again and then raised a hand to quiet the crowd. "You stand accused of murder, Ser Willem. What say you to this?"

"I did not kill him," Bootle gabbled. "I swear it."

"The stone jar?"

Bootle licked his lips, which were almost bloodless set amidst his pale, strained, face. He seemed to be sweating a great deal. "Not mine," he said hoarsely. "Planted by my enemies!"

Arya scoffed. He lied like Rickon did – very badly.

A bench scraped and then a bald man stood up. He was that odd, earless man who had arrived with father and who was wearing leather garments with bronze adornments. After Father nodded at him he straightened and then spoke in the Old Tongue, something that Arya sort of understood. "My Lord of Stark-name, this man of the South would swear that he is innocent, would he? Have him swear on the Great Fist. Legend has it that an ill oath sworn on it is quickly shown to be a lie."

There was widespread muttering at this, as many people translated for others, and then after a long moment Father nodded slowly. "Very well. Guards, bring the prisoner forwards to this table."

Bootle's boots scuffed and scraped on the flagstones as he was all but dragged before Father and the other two men. Arya watched in fascination as something seemed to prickle her on the back of her neck.

"You'd swear your innocence would you?" Father smiled thinly and then grabbed Bootle's hands and placed them forcibly on the Fist of Winter. "Then here's your chance. Swear that you did not murder my cousin, Lord Surestone."

The Great Hall was totally silent as Bootle looked down at his trembling hands which Father was still pressing down onto the ancient mace. He licked his lips nervously, his lower lip also trembling for a moment. And then he looked up, visibly gathering his tattered wits about him. "I am not afraid of your legends and your heathen symbols," he hissed. "I swear that I did not murder Lord Surestone. I swear that I am innocent."

There was a long moment of tension and then Bootle seemed to relax a little. "Is that it? Bec-" Thunder rolled far overhead and then there was a sudden flash of light within the hall, followed by a great boom that shook her to her very bones. All the direwolves threw their heads back and howled for a long moment – and then Bootle let out a choked half-scream as red fire seemed to engulf him for an instant – and then he flew backwards from the table and smashed into the ground, smoking slightly, his arms stiff in front of him. She knew at once that he was dead.

"Perhaps you should have been afraid, then," Father rumbled – and then the Hall erupted with noise.

Oberyn

Doran was riding one of his favourite horses, a brown mare that remarkably calm given its lineage. His brother was getting fit again in stages, starting with riding, along with a little swordwork. He was still listening to the Maester whose advice had lessened the pain in his feet from the gout and although he kept good-naturedly complaining about it to Obreyn, he knew that his brother was intent on keeping to it.

He sensed someone approaching and he turned his head a little. Arianne was standing there, dressed in riding leathers and looking a bit wide-eyed at the sight of her father out of that damned wheeled chair.

"Quentyn said that Father was better, but I never thought that he'd be riding again," she breathed, before looking at him. "Your master friend deserves my thanks."

He nodded, but then noticed that she still had a frown on her face. "What is it?"

"Uncle Oberyn, what's going on?"

He sat down on a nearby bench and waved a languid hand. "Many things are going on. Can you be more specific?"

This bought him a glare. "This!" She waved a hand at her father. "Father changes what he eats to get rid of his gout, because he wants to be healthy again. You start talking to the Citadel again and researching the legends of the Stony Dornish. Uncle Oberyn, what is happening? Are we going to war?"

He stroked his chin. "A good question, niece. Perhaps, but not a war that we are familiar with. You have heard about what happened to Lord Dayne?"

"I did. His son is the new Lord Dayne and also the Sword of the Morning."

"Other members of the Stony Dornish are going North. Even Anders Yronwood has sent men North to the Wall."

Arianne narrowed her eyes. "Anders Yronwood is an ambitious whoreson. Why is he sending men to the North?"

"You just dislike him because he thinks that Quentyn should be the heir to Sunspear, not you. And Yronwood is just doing what other Stony Dornish are doing. Including House Fowler."

Arianne sat down next to him. "Why?"

"The Call."

His niece eyed him carefully. "Some of the Salty and Sandy Dornish doubt that the Call even happened."

"I know." He smiled slightly. "They are wrong. Something very, very old has woken up, something that dates back to the First Men. Something that your father and I do not yet properly understand."

Shoes scuffed to one side and a servant approached and bowed. "My Prince, a letter for you."

He took it and then sat up. Sarella's hand. He inspected the wax seal carefully, found it unbroken and then cracked it open, before reading it quickly. As he read he frowned. "Interesting," he muttered eventually. Then he turned the page, read what was there, stopped dead, re-read it and then found his eyebrows shooting upwards. "Ah. That's… extremely… erm."

"Now that's a sight I never thought I'd see, my brother rendered speechless." Doran had dismounted and was walking towards them, wiping the sweat from his neck with a damp cloth. "What's amiss?"

"Sarella has written from White Harbour. She has changed her plans – she's going to the Wall."

Doran raised an eyebrow. "Interesting. Why?"

"She says that the Call has been heard by many people and that Ned Stark was meeting his main lords at Castle Black. Her trip to the Wall instead of Winterfell makes sense therefore. But there's another reason for her going to the Wall. She writes that she's on the same ship as Gerion Lannister."

There was a pause as Doran and Arianne both stared at her. "Gerion Lannister?" Doran asked in disbelief. "I thought that he was dead, lost seeking Valyria years ago. Is Sarella sure?"

He re-read the letter. "She says that he has lost an eye and gained a son, but that she is sure that it is him."

"And he is headed for the Wall. Interesting." Doran stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Then we must await her next letter. And let the Stoney Dornish know." He looked at his daughter. "You look unconvinced, Arianne."

She shrugged. "I did not hear the Call, Father. We have some Stony Dornish blood, but not enough for me to have heard it. But it did happen and we need to react. The Stony Dornish are heading North in response to it. It's affecting all our neighbours. When a decision is made in King's Landing about this, we will need to be ready."

"And do what?"

Doran exchanged a long glance with him. "If need be re-engage with Westeros," Doran said eventually. "This Call both complicates matters and simplifies them. The Game of Thrones is temporarily postponed, but what has replaced it? Where do the Starks stand in all of this? How old is this… whatever it is, how dire is the threat, what will we need to do and when do we need to it?"

"We need to know what's going on," Oberyn said restlessly. His feet twitched for a moment. It might be time to talk to a few people here and there. And he knew a man who had a very fast ship. Oh and if old certainties were being eroded like sand on a beach before wind and tide, perhaps he needed to finally marry Ellaria?

Ned

Dacey was going to have to go through all the waggons and carts and assess just what that repulsive little thief had taken from Surestone and if any of it had been sold to pay off his debts. Fortunately his main creditor had already been very dead by the time that he had returned to the Riverlands. Even so, he didn't want to risk Dacey losing any particularly prized heirlooms.

So, he had given orders for Luwin and Dacey to create an inventory of the waggons and also for a small party to return to Surestone in order to reopen it, as he had no doubt that Bootle had had no intention of ever returning to it, other than to steal any remaining objects from it, damn the man.

Well, at least the ashes of Ser Willem Bootle would go back to the Riverlands in the possession of Edmure's men. He'd have to work out what to do with them.

He winced slightly as he thought about the manner of the man's death. He had not expected that at all – something slower perhaps, but not justice that quickly. He was going to have to go through all the records again for any references to the Fist. He already respected it, but he needed to understand it fully.

As he sat down in his solar and stared at the books in front of him he sighed. Robert was due tomorrow and he was not yet fully recovered from his trip South from Castle Black. That had been a trip that would stay with him for some time, especially given the bruises. He was impressed that those amongst his party who had not been that familiar with riding had made it. Tyrion Lannister had especially impressed him. The man hadn't let his physical limitations stop him, he'd just grimly kept riding. He rubbed his chin. If the man did announce his interest in Dacey then he'd have to take it very seriously, especially as she seemed to like him.

Knuckles rapped hesitantly on the door and he looked up. Lord Dayne was standing there in the doorway, looking at him. "Lord Stark, may I speak with you?"

Ah. He stood formally and waved the boy in. As the Dornishman entered and then closed the door behind him he looked him over and did his best not to wince. He looked very much like his uncle and also his aunt – he had the purple eyes of the Daynes. Then Ned frowned a little. Perhaps the boy – because he was barely a man yet – was ill, because he was pale and sweating, even shaking a little.

"How may I help you Lord Dayne?" He asked the question as he gestured at a chair.

Lord Dayne sat in the chair and it was then that Ned noticed that his knuckles were white as they gripped the arms. He was also leaning forwards, as it was not easy to sit with the greatsword that was slung on his back. Ah.

"I see that you bear Dawn," he said politely. The time he'd seen that sword it had been in the hands of a sorrowing Ashara Dayne at Starfall and he forced himself not to think of her. "You must be the new Sword of the Morning then?"

"I am," Edric Dayne muttered, suddenly ashen-faced. Then he seemed to recall where he was. "Your pardon, Lord Stark. I am here to lay my sword at your feet." He stood and then drew his sword. The pale blade was just as he remembered it from his nightmares, but it seemed to be brighter as its wielder knelt and did as he had said. The tip of the sword was not far from Ned's feet and he winced again as the memory of that sword as it nicked his shoulder all that time ago.

Then he paused. The sword was shining. Cat had said that the sword had glowed when it had been as Bran's feet, but this was something else. He winced for a moment as the light grew – and then it faded.

"You have our fealty, Lord Stark," said Edric Dayne hoarsely. "Command us."

Ned paused. 'Us'? Then he nodded. "Sheathe your sword, Lord Dayne. You have answered the Call and I thank you for it. You will have to forgive me. The last time I saw that sword was at Starfall."

The boy nodded as he returned the sword to its scabbard and then carefully propped it against the wall. "Aye, my father said that he owed you a great debt for returning it to Starfall." He paused and then sank back in his chair. "He died in King's Landing getting Dawn to me. He knew that I was the new Sword of the Morning. Normally there is a meeting of House Dayne to decide it, but my father…" His voice trailed away. The sheen of sweat was still there on his face and his fingers still trembled. "Before he died he bade me go to the Godswood in Kings Landing and pray. It's an odd place, that Godswood. It lacks a weirwood tree – instead the heart tree is an oak. At dusk, when I prayed there… I heard things. Voices." Ned didn't think that it was possible, but if anything the lad somehow became even paler. "I was raised in the Faith of the seven, but… I think I heard…. I mean, I think…"

"You heard the Old Gods?" Ned nodded. "I have heard them too. There's no shame in admitting that you were frightened by it."

The lad closed his eyes for a long moment, before nodding. "Thank you," he said quietly. Then he looked at Ned again. "I was told to pray again at the Godswood here in Winterfell. I would like to ask your permission to do so."

Ned regarded him gravely before inclining his head again. "You may do so. Is that all you had to ask?"

Lord Dayne looked at him, his face working for a moment. "No," he said eventually. "There was something else." The sheen was back again, as was the trembling, before he wiped his face and then stilled his hands with what Ned recognised as an almighty stiffening of his will. "Before he died my father told me something. Something that I must now tell you. He said that he was not my father. Yes, he raised me as if he was my father, but that… that my mother could not bear children. The woman I thought of as my mother that is. I'm… sorry if this is confusing, I barely know where to begin."

He stared at the lad worriedly. "I'm sorry, but what business is your family history to me?"

"Because my mother was really Lady Ashara Dayne," the lad finally blurted out. He looked at the door in a half panic, before lowering his voice to the point where Ned could barely hear him. "And my father… you are my father, Lord Stark."

He sat there and tried to think this through. Ashara was his real mother? And he was his father? Impossible. "I'm sorry," he said eventually, "But that cannot be. If Ashara Dayne was your real mother then yes, I can see that – you have her eyes. But I cannot be your father. I knew your mother and yes, I loved her dearly. But… we never laid together."

Edric Dayne reached into his tunic and pulled out a letter. "You met my mother for the first time at Harrenhall I believe," he said quietly. "The second time was at Starfall, when you returned Dawn and my uncle Arthur's bones. This letter… my father, or the man I thought was my father, wrote it. He said that when you arrived you were… tired beyond words. You were wounded, you were grieving for your sister, your father, your brother and the friends you had lost in the war. He said that you were reeling in your saddle and that your companion, Lord Reed, was worried about you.

"That night you were tended to by a Maester, you ate and drank deeply, you… you wept for those you had lost and you had to be all but carried to bed." He wiped his eyes for a moment. "You were… comforted by my mother. She spent the night with you."

Ned froze in shock. He barely remembered anything of his trip to Starfall. The Maester there had sewn him up well, with a liberal dose of the juice of the poppy, and then he had indeed had wine and… He froze. Surely that had been a dream. For all those years he had always thought that it had been a dream. Ashara's eyes, her tears of sympathy, the feel of her skin against his, those burning kisses, all a dream.

It had been a dream.

Hadn't it?

The lad held the letter out with a trembling hand and, in a daze, he took it. It was written in a hand that wavered more than a bit, but it was signed by Lord Alster Dayne. And… it confirmed the lad's tale.

"Lord Stark. If you hold this in your hand then I am dead and young Ned is with you. He is a good lad and you must forgive him if he is stunned by the revelation that I am not his father. The truth is that you are. Young Ned was conceived the night that you stayed at Starfall. My sister, Ashara, told me all afterwards. She did not mean to lay with you, it was a moment of passion and grief, at the end of a war that had done grievous damage to House Dayne and in truth come close to tearing us apart as a family.

"My brother, Arthur, wrote to me before his death. It was an anguished, rambling letter, filled with regrets. He said that he was driven by his oath, but that he had done things that he regretted. He said that he no longer deserved to wield Dawn. Lord Reed, recounting your battle, told me that he struck my brother just after he had wounded you and that Arthur seemed to be fighting with Dawn in that moment, that Arthur seemed to freeze as he tried to keep hold of Dawn. In that moment, I think that Dawn rejected Arthur. He had made it injure you – and Dawn is tied to both our houses in ways that I cannot explain.

"When you brought Dawn and Arthur's bones back to us I think that a connection was made, one that I do not understand. I do know that it had one material impact – Ned. My own wife could not bear children, so we took him in as our own and loved him greatly. He will be the Sword of the Morning, as Dawn will answer to him far better than it could to anyone else.

"I ask your pardon if my thoughts ramble as I write this letter – I am dying. I hope to see Ned in King's Landing before I die and pass on Dawn. But you must know this of Ashara – she loved you dearly and the little time she had with you was very precious to her. She knew the realities that you both faced afterwards – you were now the Lord of the North, married to the daughter of a Lord Paramount. I do not think that she quite realised how tired and heartsick and, yes, drunk, you were that night. She always loved you. When she took her own life she was tired herself of existing in this world. She knew that her son was now being brought us as mine own. And she had experienced such losses. She had always been close to Elia Martell, and she was gone, as well as to Arthur, and he was gone too. Ned's birth had been a painful one, and she never truly recovered.

"You need to know that young Ned is your son, but you cannot acknowledge him as such. He is the last of the direct line of Daynes – should he die then his cousin inherits the title and Gerold Dayne, also known as the Darkstar, is not a fit man to wield Dawn. I do not think that it would accept him, but he does not deserve to lay even a finger on it. I have taken Ned as my heir. The world knows him as my son. You know the truth that the world must not know. Forgive me, but we have no choice on this matter."

Ned lowered the letter and looked at Edric Dayne, who was looking at him with haunted eyes. As he peered at him he realised that his bastard son may have had his mother's eyes, but that he had Ned's mother's hair and also his grandfather's nose and chin. He stood, the lad standing at the same time – and then he took him in his arms and embraced him. "You are my son," he whispered and he could feel the lad sob briefly as he mourned what he had lost and what he had gained. "I cannot admit it in public, but you are my son."