Jaime

A long time ago, in Casterly Rock, a Maester once tried to teach him the names of the stars that were emblazoned above his head. He peered at them and tried to prod his tired mind into life. That was… yes, the Ice Dragon. The Shadowcat was up there and the Ghost and the Galley. And the Crook. He didn't know them all. Tyrion did. He'd ask his brother when they reached Winterfell.

It had been far too long since he had seen his little brother. Far too long. He'd been surprised when he had heard that Father had sent him to Winterfell, on a quest to find out more about all this talk about legends. Well, Father had probably wanted to get Tyrion away from him. Father and Cersei were as one in their dislike of Tyrion, for reasons he would never understand. Tyrion had been a baby. Mother's death had never been his fault.

Fault… wishes… He wanted to laugh at the stars for a moment. When was the last time that he had been his own master, truly? Lord Tywin Lannister's heir, then made a Kingsguard to a man he had grown to realise had been a madman, then Kingsguard to a man who was all impulses… and now what? The Fat King was now almost the Demon of the Trident again.

On the road North Robert Baratheon had been riding around and staring at some of the hills in a rather odd manner, muttering about defensible crags and how the land had been fought over in the distant past. He had wanted to scoff, but then he had heard the conversations between the Baratheon Brothers and Ser Barristan. Selmy had taken everything they said very seriously.

Jaime, on the other hand, had wanted to roll his eyes. Crags? Broken stone paths? Bare places? Legends?

He paused for a moment, his half-smile vanishing. Legends. The head in the cage still bothered him. The man of the Night's Watch had gone South with it, but not before the entire party had seen it. Most had been very disturbed by it.

So had he – at first. But then Cersei had talked about how it had to be a trick – severed heads did not move, or gnash. It had to be a trick of some sort. Everyone knew that the Night's Watch was always desperate for men and supplies. The head must have been a clever trick to get both. A Myrish trinket perhaps with mechanisms that pulled on wires within it?

Maybe. Perhaps. What would Tyrion think of it? Had his brother already seen it, or something like it? What would Tyrion say about it?

He stared at the stars again. Baratheon's bastard had also been fascinated and worried by the head. He was a quiet little half-stag, good at swinging a hammer over an anvil at least. He knew enough to fade into the background at times, but Jaime knew that Tommen had been to see him over some piece of broken stirrup or something. Tommen liked the bastard. Cersei did not. In fact Cersei wanted the bastard dead, or just gone. She made him uneasy sometimes, speaking and acting without thinking things through.

Ha, it ran in the family. There were times when he felt as if all he ever did was run from one place to another, forced by other people into situations not of his own choosing. Father wanted so much from him, Cersei wanted so much from him – he knew what her dreams were like – and his sworn brothers wanted so much from him. Duty came in so many forms. When was the last time he had done something for himself? Truly?

He sighed and turned back to the inn that was close to being overwhelmed with the King's party, before pausing. There were torches on the road to the South. A lot of them. Far off, but coming closer, like a storm of fireflies. He strode off to the guards who were standing by the road, also staring South. Ser Barristan Selmy was with them and as Jaime approached he looked at him. "Riders, Ser Jaime. And a lot of them."

"So I see," Jaime replied. "Headed for the inn perhaps? If so there's too many of them to stay here. There must be hundreds on the road."

They waited and they watched as the torches approached and the riders slowed. Someone noticed them and then a pair of riders approached, with others escorting them behind them. Jaime frowned. He could see enough of their armour to realise that they were from the Vale, and heavy horse at that. Then he looked at the two leading riders – and blinked at the tabards. A red castle on a white field within a red embattled border and black iron studs on a bronze field, bordered with runes.

"Lord Redfort, Lord Royce," Ser Barristan said with a nod of the head. "Well-met." There were two riders behind them, a man with the look of a Royce and a girl who seemed familiar for some reason.

"Ser Barristan," Yohn Royce boomed as he dismounted. "So, the word on the road is true. His Grace is travelling to Winterfell."

"I am," came a voice from the darkness to one side and Jaime blinked with surprise. His former fatness could move remarkably quietly for such a large man. "To meet with Lord Stark."

The Valemen kneeled in the road, before rising at the wave of the King's hand. Baratheon peered at the man hard, his face set with a frown. "Why hide your armour under all that cloth, Bronze Yohn?"

There was just enough light to see that yes, the burly man had indeed covered his armour in cloth wrapping or something like that.

Lord Royce smiled slightly and then pushed some of the cloth back. Under it was one of the runes that he had always had all over his armour. And it was glowing. "The Others come, the Stark has called for aid and we are needed, your Grace. Old things are waking up and both you and Lord Stark need to know things. Because in the words of House Royce, 'We Remember'."

Ned

He took dinner in his solar. He didn't do it often, but he was tired and the day had been a stressful one. And he needed to think, in those long hours after dinner, as Winterfell started to go to sleep.

He had a son that he had never known about. And he was even called Ned. He wasn't sure if he should laugh or cry at this new turn in the road of his life. He had 'son' that he couldn't ever acknowledge was really his nephew and a real son who he could never even admit even existed.

There was a knock on the door and he looked up. Cat was standing there in the doorway, looking at him with a look of concern. "Are you well Ned?"

He pulled a slight face, before standing up and beckoning her in. "You'd best close the door and take a seat," he told her heavily. "This needs to remain between just the two of us."

She frowned, but closed the door and then walked to the nearest chair. "Ned, what's wrong?"

"Lord Dayne came to speak with me. He laid Dawn at my feet and said that he had heard the Call. He pledged his fealty to me." He ran a hand over his chin. "Cat, the sword glowed, just you said. I've seen it before but it never glowed before. Glowed and then – it shone for an instant."

She nodded. "Aye, it glowed before Bran." She looked at him carefully. "Ned, what else happened? You have been out of sorts for hours."

His wife knew him all too well at times. He sighed. "Cat, I told you months ago that I would hold no more secrets from you. Well, this is something that I only found out today. Edric Dayne is not the son of Alster Dayne and his wife, because she was barren and could bear him no children. His real mother was Ashara Dayne."

Spots of red appeared in Cat's cheeks. "I remember her," she said levelly. "I met her once."

"I met her at Harrenhall," Ned sighed. "At the Great Tourney. And again at Starfall, where Howland reed and I took ship for King's Landing. I bore Dawn and Arthur Dayne's bones back to Starfall and their Maester tended to my wound – it needed more that Howland could provide. I barely remember anything about my time there. I was so tired, stricken with grief after losing Lyanna and my friends. The Maester used the juice of the poppy on me before he stitched the wound, and there was wine because the war was over but the mourning was deep for all of us.

"Apparently Ashara Dayne visited me that night. All I remember is thinking afterwards that it had all been a dream, because I barely knew where I was."

The red spots on his wife's cheeks were still there as her nostrils flared. "Ned," she said in a voice that seemed to be tightly controlled. "Are you saying that Edric Dayne is… is…"

"He says he is my son," Ned said heavily. "A son I never knew I had. I am sorry, Cat, I am sorry. I… I barely remember anything of Starfall."

Cat seemed to be struggling to control herself. "So you are saying that you have a bastard son that no-one knows about, apart from him and us?"

"Yes."

A silence. And then, oddly, Cat started to laugh. It was a strained laugh, that subsided into hiccupping giggling, but it was a laugh. He stared at her, his eyebrows going up. Finally she recovered enough to look at him. "You must admit Ned, that this is the exact opposite to the situation with Jon?"

He thought about it and then felt a tired smile lift his mouth for a moment. "Aye, I agree. Like Jon we can never tell anyone the truth. He is Lord Dayne now. He asked for nothing from me, other than that I should know the truth. He seems to be a good lad. It must have been hard for him to hear that the man he thought was his father… wasn't." He sighed. "Cat, I am so sorry about this. I really had no idea about this. Ashara was… wilful at times. She had just lost her brother and… well, I have no words. She is long dead now. All I can do is apologise."

Cat closed her eyes and sighed. "I am not happy at all, Ned, but you truly never knew about him and I cannot blame him or you for the actions of his mother. You know that I have always distrusted bastards as being a threat to the trueborn heirs, but as the world thinks that Ned Dayne is a trueborn heir himself, of House Dayne…" She opened her eyes and smiled slightly at him. "I am not happy Ned, but I cannot find it in me to blame you over-much, or him. I have a lot of thinking to do. In the meantime the King will arrive tomorrow. And we have too much to do for me to worry about young Ned. I just wish that he had been given another name."

"I know," he said softly as he looked at his wife and once again blessed the Old Gods for his luck. Cat had changed in these past months. So had he, if he had to admit it. "Tell how the work has gone on the Broken Tower."

"As you had planned. It's ready."

"Then we just await Robert tomorrow." He stood up and held his hand out to Cat, who took it as she too stood up. He kissed each hand and then held her close. "You are my wife. You have my heart. No-one else. Just you."

She softened into his embrace and he rested his chin against her hair. Tomorrow it began.

Asha

The word came for her to see her Uncle just after dawn. She'd finally been able to get a good night's sleep – too many bad dreams of dead men and women, of charred ashes, of voices wailing on the wind – but she just nodded at the messenger before dressing in a hurry and walking down the corridors that let to his Solar.

Nuncle Rodrik was sitting at his desk, his new wife at his side. Both were looking at the message in front of them with almost identical scowls of thought. They both looked up as Asha entered, and The Reader smiled slightly and pushed the message across the desk at her. "You should read that. It's from Pyke."

She felt a frown of her own forming on her face as she reached out and picked it up, before reading it. Then she re-read it. And then she read it again.

"Father offers us a truce?" She sat down and stared at the message again. "A truce and a meeting on Pyke – not in the castle, but the open air?" Leaning back in the chair she thought long and hard. "It's a trap."

Her Nuncle swapped a look with his wife. "I told you that she'd see it as fast as I did," Alyse said. "And she's right."

"I know that you're both right," he replied. "Of course it's a trap. The question is, what do we do with the fact that we know it's a trap?"

"You could refuse to go?"

He pulled a face. "We need to make an effort, somehow. We are all Ironborn. We must all live together on these islands. Your father has to realise that he has made terrible mistakes, but we are fighting to live and not to overthrow him. What the future holds I do not know, nor how we can make peace but…" He paused, deep in thought.

Asha traded a trouble gaze with Alyse and was about to ask what was wrong when her Nuncle suddenly smiled. "Asha, when can the Black Wind next sail?"

"On the next tide – I always keep her provisioned and ready to sail."

"As I thought. Get your crew together. I am sending you to Winterfell."

Her eyebrows flew up as she stood. "Why – oh, wait. Baratheon is head for there, isn't he?"

"Aye, he and his Hand, Stannis Baratheon." He pulled a face. "I don't like it, not after the death of my sons at Fair Isle, but the Baratheons demand peace in these islands and appealing to them directly is one way to forestall whatever your father's plans are for this 'truce' meeting. And if we do attend it with a representative of Robert Baratheon there…"

"That will tear the sails of whatever Father has planned." She stood and looked at the door. "I'll sail on the next tide for Blazewater Bay and then Saltspear. I'll have to buy a horse on the road, but I'll try and make best speed for Winterfell."

"Aye, and I'll try and buy time. Send word when you can."

She nodded at them both and then headed for the door at a half-run. Well, at least she was going to be amid quite the host of people there. From what she had heard, Winterfell was going to be crowded.

Jory

He seemed to be walking around in a daze half the time. Happiness did that to a man, he knew that now. Especially as he was going to be a father. Annah had missed her moon's blood. She was with child.

He was still coming to terms with that. Maester Luwin had told them that morning that he was indeed going to be a father. Annah had already had to tell him that she was not made from glass and Uncle Rodrik had slapped his back in congratulation so hard that he suspected that there would be a bruise. The man had hands like hams.

Speaking of Uncle Rodrik, he could see him in the courtyard below the gatehouse, where he was having an intense conversation with Lord Dondarrion and Lord Dayne. The two southerners were popular in Winterfell, both polite and well-spoken, but it was also important to remember that they were both also very formidable warriors. Lord Dayne's sword was especially interesting, given its history and Mikken had been a frequent visitor to the practice yards in an effort to see the sword. Starmetal, he said it was. The rarest of the rarest kind of metal at that and even there was something odd about it.

The Stormlander and his Dornish squire were practicing their swordwork now, using practice swords, with Uncle Rodrik watching them and barking instructions about their footwork. To one side stood Thoros of Myr. The Red Priest was no mean warrior himself, as Jory could attest to. Pyke and the blazing sword were still burnt into his mind.

There were others in the yards, practicing with various weapons. Theon Grejoy was teaching the Terrible Threesome archery in one corner, whilst Lord Stark was talking with his eldest two sons about swordwork in another, whilst Lady Arya watched from a wooden platform to one side.

He wondered if Annah was going to have a boy or a girl. Did it matter? It would be good to continue the Cassel name, but with a second Long Night coming… well, all he wanted was a living child and a living wife after the birth of that child.

And then Cregan on the topmost tower shouted down to him that he could see movement on the road, on the horizon, a great column of men on horses. Jory raced to the postern door and then up the stairs inside the tower to where Cregan was standing. The guard pointed and Jory pulled out the Myrish spyglass that Lord Rosestark had gifted the garrison of Winterfell the previous day. Whoever was Captain of the Guard for the day was told, in no uncertain terms, not to drop it. It was too valuable. Focussing it carefully on the road that came down from the Kingsroad he waited and searched and… yes. There they were. A long column of men, which what looked like some women, trotting down the road, banners flying at the head, some with stags and some with lions.

"Aye," he muttered, "That's the King." And with that, obeying Lord Stark's orders, he pulled out a horn and blew a long, low note on it, as hard as he could. There was a startled moment of silence in the courtyard below and then everyone was scurrying around like a flock of birds. He turned to take one last stare North and then he clattered down the stairs.

Robb

He had to confess that he was nervous as he washed his face quickly and then stared into the mirror. Certainly his hand shook more than a little as he rubbed his chin and he forced it to stop. He could not be nervous, not on this day.

He turned and started to dress himself. There was a little time until the King arrived but he forced himself to dress quickly, pulling the shirt on, lacing it, and then tucking it into his trousers. The leather jerkin next, the belt and then the boots. He grabbed his cloak – too warm in the walls of Winterfell to put it on yet – took Ice from its stand, clicked his tongue at Grey Wind, who had been watching all of this with a fascinated tilt of the head, and then walked out of his room and down the corridor.

As he emerged into the courtyard and pulled his cloak on he had to admit to a flood of emotion. He remembered the King's arrival in that hideous future that would not be, and there were some parts that were alike and more that were unalike – but he still felt nervous.

Father was standing there again, but this time with the Fist of Winter thrust into a loop of leather attached to his belt, so that its head was just below his armpit. Mother was next to him, chivvying people with looks and gestures as they thundered past her, and Frostfyre was a silent presence to his left, with Rickon and Fleetfoot at her feet.

He took his place next to Father, Grey Wind at his feet and then watched as the others lined up to his right. Sansa had Domeric behind her, whilst Bran stood next to Robert Arryn and Edric Storm, which didn't surprise him. And then there was Jon. That was a big change from the last time, Jon's legitimisation, and it was right to have him there, with Ghost at his feet.

But as the others took their places – Jory and his wife, Rodrik Cassel, Theon and Mist, Lords Rosestark, Dayne and Dondarrion and so many others, he noticed a few absences. The Lannisters were missing. He knew why – Gerion Lannister wanted to keep the news of his return quiet for the time being, whilst Tyrion Lannister said that he was too busy and that he wanted to avoid his sister for as long as possible, and that besides the courtyard would be too crowded for him to see things clearly.

The other absence was more personal. Where was Arya? Father was thinking the same thing, judging by his scowl – and then his errant sister ran up, Nymeria at her feet. Arya was once again wearing a helmet and he smothered a grin as Father shook his head, took the helmet off and handed it to a grinning Rodrik Cassel.

He hid a wince. That had happened in that other time as well. Hopefully that would be the only thing that would happen again There was a lot riding on this.

He looked ahead and schooled his features. He could hear the rumble of horses on the road now and as he looked at the gateway the first outriders rode through, holding Baratheon banners that snapped in the wind, followed by riders bearing Lannister banners. And then the trickle of riders became a stream and then a river as the courtyard started to fill up. Perhaps Tyrion Lannister had been right.

And then a figure in a white cloak and the helmet of a Kingsguard appeared, followed by another one and he readied himself. What would the King be like this time, now that things were moving? Reports said that he had changed and was more active.

Just how active was revealed by the hulking figure that rode through the gateway. Oh, this was not the fat king of his memories. Robert Baratheon was still a large man, but this time his chest seemed to be wider than his gut. He was different in other ways – his hair was cut short and he was clean-shaven and there was something about his posture that was different. Last time he'd sat on his horse as if he was tired of everything. This time he seemed to blaze with an internal fire and there was the hilt of an old and very large sword visible over one shoulder. Was that Stormbreaker?

Robb swapped an astonished glance with Father, before going back to looking at the flood of riders, some of whom were pulling off their helmets. Yes, there were already differences. He was sure that one man was Ser Barristan Selmy, whilst another was Stannis Baratheon.

But then there were the others, the hated faces. He set his face and squashed the hatred. Jaime Lannister, as languid and dismissive of all he saw as ever. And Joffrey, with the Hound behind him. The Prince looked the same arrogant little shit that he had been before, looking about the courtyard with a smug smile, as if he thought that this was barely better than a peasant's hovel. Then he caught sight of Sansa and preened, sending her a look that he obviously thought was an attempt to charm her. Robb eyed his sister out of the corner of his eye. She seemed not to have noticed the look. Good.

Other faces caught his eye as an open carriage rolled in. Ah. Cersei Lannister, as cold and false as always, a look of the utmost indifference on her face, with her other children next to her.

And then he sensed Domeric stiffen to one side and just about caught his delighted smile and then mutter of "Sansa, that's Lord Redfort, from the Vale! And Lord Royce next to him!"

He looked at the two men carefully and then nodded. More major lords. In answer to the Call perhaps? They hadn't been there that first time.

But then he saw the King bring his horse to a halt and then dismount remarkable quickly for such a large man – no stairs this time. As he did so Father knelt, with everyone following his lead.

Robert Baratheon strode towards them, looming over them all as he came to a halt. And then he gestured with his right hand, an upwards wave of the fingers. Father stood again, everyone again following him, and looked at his friend. The King looked him up and down and then stopped the First of Winter. "Nice stick," he said eventually. "Almost as good as my old warhammer."

Father tilted his head slightly and then looked at the sword on the king's back. "Nice knife," he said in the same almost dismissive tone of voice as the King. "Almost as good as my old sword."

There was a long moment of silence and then the King threw his head back, roared with laughter and then embraced Father, who was laughing just as hard. "Gods, Ned, I've missed you old friend," the King said as they broke apart. "Nine years! Where have you been for nine years!"

"Guarding the North for you, your Grace," Father replied.

The smile slipped from the King's face. "Aye, and now I know what from. We met a man of the Night's Watch on the road. He had the head of a wight in a cage. We need to talk of that, and this Call." He looked at Frostfyre. "And your direwolves – I never thought I'd ever see the like of them. Your mace too. Quite the natter we need to have! After I meet your family of course."

He could tell that Father was a bit bemused, but in a good way, before he nodded and the King turned to Mother. "Cat!" he boomed, embracing her with one arm whilst using the other to ruffle the head of an indignant Rickon who was visibly thinking of biting it. "As lovely as ever!" Then he paused and took a half step back. "Cat, you're positively radiant. Glowing even. Are you…?"

Mother nodded with a blush and the King boomed with laughter and slapped Father on the back so hard that he almost fell over. "Ned, you old dog! You always wanted a big family. Oh. Sorry Ned, don't know my own strength. Anyway – best wishes for the babe, Cat."

And then suddenly the King was in front of him. He swept him from head to toes with a remarkably shrewd look. Last time his blue eyes had been bleary and a bit bloodshot. This time they were clear and seemed to miss little. "So, you're Robb, my namesake. I see that Ned's given you Ice?"

"Aye, your Grace," he replied with nod.

The King tilted his head again as he assessed him and Robb felt a slight shiver of something indefinable as he was the subject to such prolonged scrutiny. "I know the North is a hard place, but your eyes are older than your face," he rumbled eventually, before stepping over to Sansa. "Sansa, yes? My, you are the very image of your mother when she was your age."

Sansa bowed her head and the King moved to Arya. "And who would you be?"

"Arya!" She eyed him up and down. "Your Grace." The last two words emerged in a rush and were obviously prompted by her remembering her manners at the last minute.

The King bent down a little and looked at her. "Gods, you're a fierce one. Can you ride?" A nod. "Use a bow?" A nod. "Use a sword?" A half-nod, followed by Arya freezing and looking in Father's direction. The King roared with laughter and straightened up again. "Gods," he said again, this time with a note of sadness in his voice, "Lyanna come again." He stepped over to Bran and looked at him. "Brandon, yes?"

Bran beamed at him. "Yes, your Grace, and these are my friends, Robert and Edric."

The King smiled as he looked at them – and then he blinked. "Robert – Robert Arryn?"

Lord Arryn's son bowed formally. "Your Grace."

For some reason the King seemed to be genuinely thrown. "Gods, lad, you're… I mean that… you've grown."

Robert Arryn beamed at him. "Thank you, your Grace!"

The King nodded at him and then greeted his bastard son with a boisterous smile and a careful pat on his face. Then he turned to Father again. "Let's go to your solar Ned. We need talk at once. Stannis too." And with that the two of them strode off, joined by Stannis Baratheon and with Ser Barristan Selmy following.

Robb watched them go with a slight sigh. "And now it begins," he muttered. "Fury meets Winter."