Robb Returns Chapter 116, an a song of ice and fire fanfic

Jon Arryn

From the very top of the Tower of the Hand a man could see a long way into Blackwater Bay. A very long way. He stared at the water on the horizon. It looked peaceful, placid, sparkling blue. A classic Summer's day here in King's Landing.

Bur he didn't feel warm. He felt cold. So very cold. Ned had always been right. Winter was coming. Coming for the North, for the Vale, for all of Westeros.

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. The Small Council had broken up in near-chaos. Velaryon had gone off muttering about consulting the records at Driftmark, Merryweather had just staggered off looking stunned, Pycelle had left in the general direction of his ravens with a remarkably straight back, whilst Varys had rubbed his hands together and muttered that he might have to make some enquiries in certain places personally.

Knuckles rapped on the doorframe to one side and he turned to it. "Come in Renly."

Renly Baratheon walked in. He was missing quite a bit of his usual, well, swagger. This time he came in almost hesitantly. He smiled at Jon and then joined him at the window.

"A strange place, King's Landing," Renly sighed. "It changes your… viewpoint. Everyone looks to this place for leadership, but everyone in this bloody place is busy obsessing over what happens within the walls sometimes. It takes something horribly serious, like the head of a wight to kick people out of that viewpoint.

"Take me for example. I went with Robert to Storm's End, I was there with him when he found Stormbreaker, I saw a statue – a bloody statue, Jon! – come to life, with fire in its eyes and give Robert that sword and proclaim him Storm King, but within days of returning to this bloody place I'd half-forgotten it all. No, various lords needed a favour, various knights needed patronage, always the usual fuss and bother and churn of plots, for want of a better word. In a place like King's Landing… you get obsessed with all of that."

It was a good point and he sighed. "I know. All this talk of the Call, all this business with the Isle of Faces – that was the start of this chill wind that blew the head of that wight in. And yes, I know exactly what you mean. This poisonous place makes minor things seem more important than things that are more important outside the walls. Well – no more. The head will be displayed in the throne room, next to that wretched Iron Throne for a week. I talked to the man of the Night's Watch – he said that other… parts were already on the way South, so he's willing to tarry here for a week."

"Do you think that Robert has seen any of those parts?"

"If Ned is dealing with this Call, then I am certain of it. Who knows what else he might have in the way of proof?"

Renly shuddered for a long moment and then sighed a little. "I'll make sure that every Stormlord in King's Landing sees it. Where will the head be going to next?"

"Storm's End."

"Good. Then I'll accompany it. The Stormlands need to know what's coming."

Jon nodded – and then he pointed to the chair to one side. "Sit down Renly. I need to talk to you about something else." He waited until Renly sat with a slight frown. "You need to marry, and soon."

Renly stared at him – and then he laughed. "Marry? It is a little early for that, surely?"

He resisted the temptation to clutch at his forehead. "Renly, you are past 20 now. Robert was betrothed by your age. So was I. You are the Lord of Storm's End and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands. People expect it of you. A wife and a child show that you are a strong and stable Lord, founding a dynasty that will secure the Stormlands to the Crown for the next generation and more."

Renly shifted uncomfortably. "I will admit that various Lords have hinted at matters. But Jon, there is plenty of time for this and-"

"There is less time than you think!" Jon snapped the words out, before holding up a hand in apology. "Renly, what I am about to tell you must stay a secret. I know that you have been corresponding with the Tyrells. You cannot tell them this yet."

"Tell me what?"

"House Baratheon is not as… stable, nor as large as you think it is." He sighed and walked over with the book that he had placed on the table next to him. "In the past every Baratheon who married a Lannister went on to have children that had black hair and blue eyes. Every time. Why is it that Robert's children have golden hair and green eyes then?"

Renly stared at him and then at the page that Jon had opened the book to. The Great Houses of Westeros had its uses, even if it was very heavy. "What are you saying?"

"Robert has a number of bastards. They all have black hair and blue eyes and resemble him in some way or another. Why then is there nothing of him in Joffrey, Tommen and Myrcella?"

By now Renly was doing an excellent impression of a landed fish, his eyes wide and his mouth open. Eventually he rallied a little. "Then, if you are right… who is the father?"

Jon pulled a face. "The Kingslayer. Yes, her own brother. I have found a few servants who confirmed that they have seen Cersei in secluded locations within the Red Keep, in the company of her brother. One even said that she had seen the two embrace and kiss. I am keeping them guarded. I have a bad feeling that those servants who were said to have run away were in fact those who saw too much and were silenced by them."

Renly just sat there, stunned. "Then… Stannis is really the heir?"

"Aye. He knows that too."

"That trip to Winterfell… then… does Robert know?"

"Not yet."

A shadow flashed over Renly's face for an instant. "He'll kill her the moment he finds out, you know that don't you?"

"Hopefully he'll listen to Ned."

"Does Ned know?"

"I don't know. He did warn me about a possible Lannister plot against me some months back, at about the time that I sent young Robert to foster with Ned. If he does not know then Stannis will tell him. There will be a reckoning though. And when that happens Tywin Lannister will be furious – and humiliated. So we must be united on this. Whatever happens with Cersei, Robert will be without a wife – and also an heir. Now, he might legitimise one of his bastards, but this will be the greatest crisis to face us since the Greyjoy Rebellion. So now you see why you must marry."

Again a shadow flashed across the face of the younger man. "Jon," he said hesitantly. "You say that so easily, but-"

"I know that things are… complicated for you. I know that you have feelings for Loras Tyrell, your squire."

Red spots blossomed on Renly's cheeks. "Jon-"

He forestalled him by holding up a hand. "Renly, do you really think that you are the first man I have met who had feeling for other men? I am an old man and I have seen a lot in my life. Including lords who were… fond of their squires. Now, there are ways around this. My mother had a cousin who had something, well, similar." This was proving to be as difficult as he had thought it would be. "Put simply, we find you a wife who is… understanding about such things. Some girl of kind disposition and gentle heart who knows that you have affections for a man. And as to the matter of an heir, well, the Maesters have certain potions that, well, can assist on getting matters to, erm, arise, so to speak."

The redness had now taken over the entire face of Renly Baratheon. He also looked as if he had aged a decade in a moment. "Jon, how did you know?"

"Renly, I am not a fool. You thought that you were being careful in public, but as I said I am an old man now and I have seen much in my life."

There was a silence. "Then others know?"

"Perhaps. Some might have guessed, so maybe."

Another silence. "Gods. I wondered if perhaps some of my Stormlords were a little less effuse in their greetings of late."

"Renly, we can deal with this. As I said, a girl of kind disposition for a wife." He laid a hand on Renly's shoulder. "My boy, as I said, this is not something that is unknown to me. There is… precedent. Lords and knights that I have known. Do not look so worried, I will keep this a secret. We need to all stand together as much as possible. Let me know if you need to talk to me. And Renly – do not tell the Tyrells about this situation involving Cersei. I will be writing to Willas Tyrell myself, by a secret way that cannot be intercepted."

Renly nodded. "Thank you Jon," he said quietly. "Thank you for your counsel on this." As he stood Jon looked at him.

"Any time Renly. As I said – you can speak to me about this at any time."

Renly nodded absently and then slipped out of the door. As he left Jon looked after him worriedly. He should have talked to Renly weeks ago. Too much to do. Which just left one question. Who did he know who could help him to find a wife for Renly Baratheon? "The Queen of Thorns, perhaps," he muttered as he stared out of the window again. "No Lannisters though. Never again."

Ned

Robert's eyes were moist as he stared up at Lyanna's face. "Did you have to bury her here, in a place like this? In all this darkness?" Robert placed a winter rose at the base of the statue. "She should be on a hilltop, with the sun above and the wind around her."

"This is where she belongs, Robert," Ned replied sadly. "All Starks come here in the end. Brandon's here, along with whatever could be found of Father."

"The statue makes her look like a staid lady. We both know she was never that. She was a she-wolf. My she-wolf"

"I know, Robert," he replied sadly. "Unfortunately the only way to do her justice would be to have a moving statue on a horse."

Robert smiled wryly at this. "I still say she belong in the fresh air. But she was your sister. A Stark. I understand."

"All Starks come here in the end," Ned said again, before gesturing down the corridor to where a small candle could be seen. "See that? We interred the ashes of Rickon Stark, son of Edwyle Stark. He was the half-wight I told you off. Robert, he was born before the Conquest. But Robb and Jon spoke with him, fought with him and were with him when he died. All Starks come home in the end."

Robert looked at him and then sighed a little. "I keep dreaming of her, Ned. Lyanna. She's in a forest full of white trees, she's trying to tell me something, but something else keeps pulling her away. Ser Barristan tells me that Stormbreaker's linked to dreams, so you might be right about there being something about the weapons of the First Men that we need to understand better. The Selmys used to be the swordbearers, or something like that, to the Durrandons. Damn it, too much has been lost."

They stood there for a long moment, staring at Lyanna's tomb, lit only by the candles by the tomb and the torches on the walls.

"I bloody hate sieges. Boring bloody things. Never been on the defensive like this though. How we will be, that is. I'll need to see the Wall at some point, Ned."

"I know." He smiled wryly. "It's bigger than you think."

Robert snorted with amusement. Then he stopped. "Do you think that your father knew that this might happen?"

He sighed. "I did wonder. I don't know. Who knows how much warning we would have had if he had lived?"

Silence. "If Rhaegar had never taken Lyanna, what do you think our lives would be like?"

Ned snorted a little. "You'd be just the Lord of the Stormlands, obviously. Father might still be alive. Brandon would be the heir, I'd just be the second son, in a keep of my own somewhere. Maybe Moat Cailin, I always wanted to be the one to rebuild it."

"I thought you already were?"

"It was overdue. Who know I would have married? Maybe… maybe Ashara Dayne. Cat would have been Brandon's. Lyanna would have been yours." And the Old Gods alone know how many bastards you and my brother would have had by now, he thought with a silent sigh.

A longer silence. "Ned, I can't tell you what kind of a husband I would have been to her. A good one, I hope. Gods, I loved her. And yes, I've always had a wandering eye. But I would have tried. I miss her, Ned. This marriage to Cersei… it was never about love. I wish Jon had never talked me into it. She's a poisonous bitch. Mothers Joffrey too much – and there's something wrong with that boy. He's an idiot. A cruel idiot. That's why I was hoping that your Sansa could make something of him. Tommen and Myrcella though – they're sweet children. Whatever little I did right, I got that much right."

He took a deep breath. "Right, I have a log to find and some fat to sweat off. Gods, you should have seen me months ago. Fat. I got fat, Ned. But not anymore. Oh, and one more thing. I've brought two of my bastards with me. Remember Mya? She came with Redfort and Royce. And there's Gendry. He likes being a smith and he's bloody good with a hammer. Probably in your smithy right now. Hmm. Woolgathering again. I need that log. And that some sparring, so get your arse to the practice yard in an hour or so." And off he went.

Ned watched his friends' retreating back with a kind of wondering astonishment. Robert had changed. Then he blanched a little. That meant that three of Robert's bastards were in Winterfell at the same time as all three of 'his' children. On the one hand that made a comparison easier. On the other hand it meant that there was a higher chance that someone might look and wonder out loud about the differences between the two.

He turned and strode out. He needed to find Stannis now and talk to him. Fortunately it did not take long to find him – the Hand of the King had found the room that had been set aside for him beforehand and was reading a large number of messages. Ned nodded at the man in Baratheon colours at the entrance, walked in and then cleared his throat.

"Lord Baratheon, we need to talk at once."

Stannis eyed him for a moment, looked at the messages in front of him, made a notation and then nodded. "Corlys? Take these to Maester Luwin at once please. And close the door. Lord Stark and I are not to be disturbed."

The man strode in, took the messages, nodded and strode out again, closing the door behind him. Ned stepped forwards and gestured at the walls. "We can talk safely in this room. I made sure. Now – I know the truth about Robert's children with Cersei. As in they are not Robert's children. They are the Kingslayers."

Stannis drew himself up to his full height. "Aye, I know. But how do you know?"

Ah. The tricky part. "It's hard to explain. I had intelligence of it – intelligence that is hard to explain. I also read my copy of The Great Houses of Westeros and above all, having fostered Edric Storm, I know that it's more than passing odd that Robert's bastards have black hair and blue eyes when his so-called legitimate children are all gold of hair and green of eye."

There was the sound of teeth grinding from the direction of the Lord of Dragonstone. "What intelligence?"

"I do not think you would believe me if I told you."

"Lord Stark, the dead are marching on the Wall, led by the Others and my daughter has been healed by the Old Gods themselves. Now – what intelligence?"

He stared at Stannis, assessed the situation and then nodded. "The Old Gods brought my oldest son, Robb, back from the dead. He has memories of a world where the Call was never sent, where the Lannisters murdered Jon Arryn, where Robert came to Winterfell to persuade me to become Hand of the King, and where I agreed and went South. Where Robert died, in a hunting accident that could not have been an accident, and I discovered the incest – and was then betrayed and executed. Robb marched to avenge me, no-one believed your claims at first and something called the War of the Five Kings broke out. The Five were Joffrey, you, Renly, Balon Greyjoy as the King of the Iron Islands and Robb as the King in the North and the Riverlands. Chaos in other words. Chaos and folly. All while the dead marched on the Wall. Robb's part in it all ended when he was betrayed and murdered himself."

Stannis just stared at him, pale as milk. "That… Gods… he knew such a… Your son died?"

"He did. And the Old Gods brought him back to the here and now, in time to make a difference. Jon Arryn lives. You and I can work together to expose Cersei's crimes. This War of the Five Kings – this war of madness – will never happen now."

Stannis ran his tongue over what looked like very dry lips. "Gods, Ned. Your pardon, Lord Stark."

"Stannis, call me Ned."

A wry twist of the lips. "Very well then, Ned. Your son was brought back from a future that must never be." He seemed to absorb this, before licking his lips again and rallying. "Do you have a plan?"

"I do. Ever since I knew that Robert was coming here with Cersei, I have had a plan."

"What is it?"

"Tonight there will be a feast. Tomorrow there will be a hunt in the Wolfswood. Robert will go, as will many of the lords." And then he explained the next part of his plan.

Tyrion

Jaime's reaction to Uncle Gerion's tale of how he found Brightroar was one of stupefied astonishment – followed what looked like a state of shock. He didn't even ask about seeing the Valyrian steel sword that had cost Gerion so much to get. He'd just listened with his eyebrows climbing higher and higher until they had almost been in his hairline. And then he'd just sat there, staring into space.

Uncle Gerion had smiled a little at his reaction, whispered to Tyrion that he might have broken his brother a little and then slipped out with his son.

After a while Jaime had returned to himself, his eyebrows coming down. "Well," he said eventually, "I'd like to see Father's response to the return of Uncle Gerion. So he found Brightroar."

"He did."

Jaime had then stared blankly ahead again and then left the library, muttering something about life getting odder by the day. Ah, his poor brother. If only he knew the things that he had seen on the Wall.

The Wall… he had written a full account of what he had seen and done there for Father. Hopefully he'd be in the same room as Father when he read it. Father's face would have a fascinating array of expressions on it.

He stared at the books and then sighed and closed them carefully. The mystery of the strange throne-like chair at the Nightfort would have to wait. It was intriguing, but he had no idea what it was and as things stood he needed more information.

He pursed his lips a little as he waddled down the corridor. Winterfell was different these days – busier and more lively than it had been before – and it had hardly been quiet and staid before! As he reached the balcony that looked out over the courtyard he wondered what the place had been like during the days when The King in the North had ruled from here.

Right now it was busy. The King's party had largely been absorbed into Winterfell, although he suspected that Wintertown had taken quite a bit. Even then, given by the work that was going on around the First Keep, more space was needed. They were working on making parts of the ancient structure habitable and had pulled all the workers off the Broken Tower to do the work. At least the Broken Tower looked a lot less broken now, from what he could see of it, as there was scaffolding all over it, some of which was shrouded with canvas.

He looked down at the training yards to one side. Robb and Jon Stark were sparring with wooden dummies at the direction of the older Cassell. From the way they were fighting they were practicing the kind of blows you'd direct at wights. Fighting things that were already dead and therefore not very skilled at swords meant dismemberment. Judging by the weighted practice swords they were using they didn't want to use their Valyrian steel swords. He was still curious about how the Bastard of Winterfell had gotten that blade.

He moved to one side and then realised that the Starks were not alone. To one side was another set of dummies, where Theon Greyjoy and Allarion were also practising. And in the distance he could see Sarella Sand, dressed in something more feminine than her recent disguise, at the archery butts, practising with a bow and arrow. She wasn't very accurate but she looked grimly determined.

Hearing feet to one side he looked up and then suppressed a groan. Joffrey was standing there, with the Hound to one side. Worse, Cersei was also there. She looked at him with that usual look of cool contempt and then down at the training yards.

"The mighty warriors of the North," she spat quietly, but derisively. Then she looked at him. "Jaime says that Uncle Gerion is alive and here in Winterfell, or at least that was what he muttered as he passed me just now. He can't be serious."

"Oh, he's serious," Tyrion replied. "Uncle Gerion is indeed alive. Moreover that's his son down there, the one next to Theon Greyjoy."

Cersei and Joffrey peered at the lad, whilst the Hound looked supremely indifferent. "But that boy looks half-Essosi!"

"Half Summer Islander actually. A nice lad and very close to his father." This last was information that left them cold, but Cersei directed a look that was very near to being a sneer at the boy.

"So Uncle Gerion's back," Cersei said. "Valyria didn't kill him. And he's been in the Summer Islands?"

"He has."

"A shame he didn't find Brightroar. That might have almost cheered Father up."

Tyrion smiled cheerily at her. "What makes you think that he didn't?"

They both stared at him. "Brightroar has been found?" Cersei asked with a certain amount of asperity mingled with disbelief.

"It has. Uncle Gerion bears it. I've seen it."

"Brightroar!" Joffrey smirked as he seemed to swell slightly with pomposity. "Mother, this is excellent news! When I am King I will have not one famous sword but two! And a Valyrian steel sword is better than that skymetal thing of Fathers. I shall write to Grandfather at once – so should you, Mother!"

This seemed to be a leap of logic that escaped him. "What?"

Joffrey gave him a look that said that he thought that his uncle was a half-wit. "Brightroar goes to the head of House Lannister, which means Grandfather. After that it goes to me. Grandfather is old, Uncle Jaime can't have it because he's in the Kingsguard and they can't have swords that are better than the King's sword, you can't have it, because you're, well, you, so that just leaves me."

That still made no sense whatsoever and he was about to say so when he was forestalled. "No," said Uncle Gerion in a very cold voice as he stood in the doorway to one side. "You are about as wrong in that as you can be." He strode forwards, his hand resting on the pommel of Brightroar, and bowed slightly to Cersei and Joffrey. "Your Grace. My Prince."

Cersei stepped backwards with shock and her hands flew to her mouth for a moment. But then she suppressed the shock and stepped forwards again, as poised as before. "So formal, Uncle Gerion?"

"So formal, yes." His knuckles whitened on the pommel of Brightroar. "I have founded a new branch of House Lannister in the Summer Islands. And my brother will never have Brightroar. It's mine. It will be my son's sword after I die. I paid a stiff price for this sword. I earned it. And its previous owner gave it to me and me alone. It's mine – and then Allarion's after I die."

Joffrey had gone first pale and then red with fury. "Brightroar is the property of House Lannister! It was held by the Kings of the Westerlands! It belongs to Grandfather and then after him to me!"

"Why does this matter so much, nephew?" Tyrion asked in an effort to calm the wretched brat. "After all, you will have Stormbreaker in the fullness of time?"

Something odd happened to Joffrey's face at that point. "Stormbreaker is, is, amazing," he stammered. "But – Brightroar! It's been lost for so long! Longer than Stormbreaker!"

"Aye," said Uncle Gerion, "And now it has been found – and now it is mine. I paid a price for it!"

"Grandfather will match that price!" Joffrey cried eagerly and Tyrion wanted to groan and place his face in his hands.

Gerion Lannister stiffened, his knuckles going even whiter on the pommel – and then he reached up and flipped his eyepatch up to reveal the terrible scar that crossed the hole where his eye had once been. "Can even Tywin Lannister match this price? Getting this sword cost me my eye, as you can see. More importantly it also cost me the lives of a lot of my men, men who died because I was obsessed with this sword. Can he bring them back from the dead?"

Joffrey was as white as a sheet as he stared at that terrible empty eyesocket – and then he shook his head before hurrying away, retching as he went. The Hound shrugged a little, his own terrible scar visible for a moment through that curtain of hair, and then followed more slowly, as if he was amused by the whole thing. As for Cersei, she was made from sterner stuff. She just stood a little straighter. "I will write to Father about this," she hissed. "You have not heard the last of this… matter." And then she stalked off.

Tyrion watched her go, before turning to Gerion, who had replaced his eyepatch and was now watching the others practise. "That might have gone better Uncle?"

Gerion turned slightly and an odd look crossed his face. "They had to know. I'm not like Kevan, Tyrion. I'm not going to bow and scrape to Tywin. Too much has happened for that. And as for Cersei… she's always been an odd one. She expects so much and deserves so little."

"She is Queen, Uncle."

The odd look returned, before being washed away with a smile and a nod down at the yards. "Allarion looks good does he not? I've asked Ser Rodrik Cassell to teach him the Northern ways of fighting."

"He learns quickly," Tyrion replied, and it was true, the boy did. "He's a credit to you Uncle."

"What do you make of the others down there?"

He peered. "The Stark brothers look as good as they always do. Theon Greyjoy seems to be learning. As for Sarella, she's no archer – yet."

"Give the girl time," Uncle Gerion laughed. Then he sobered a little. "Funny thing about Robb Stark – his eyes are older than his face. Think about that nephew." And with that enigmatic remark he clattered down into the practice yards, to watch his son more closely.

Bronn

What he really wanted was to be back on that rock, his fishing rod in one hand, a bread roll with some ham in the other, a river-chilled bottle of ale within reach and above all the sun on his face.

Instead he was going through a great big book listing the supplies of every sort that the Foxhold had. Someone had once made a great number of hobnails for example, enough that the Foxhold was in no danger of running out of them any time soon, if ever.

They also had a lot of pickled cucumbers. Well, in a siege there were worse things to eat. There were only so many ways you could roast a rat on a stick.

Ursula Stone, sorry, Ursula Cawlish placed another book down next to the present one and then opened it to the page detailing the repairs that had last been done. She had stopped regarding him with open loathing and now merely eyed him in an uncertain fashion, as if he was a strange and bizarre creature. Which, strictly speaking, he was. Normally sellswords-turned-landowners tended to misunderstand almost everything, try and sleep with the wrong kind of women, drink the wine cellar dry and generally make a mess of a lot of things in the first six months. He was not going to do that.

Unfortunately he had a nasty feeling that he had become a piece in… whatever this was. It wasn't the normal Game of Thrones, not with this Call business roiling everything. He still remembered it in his dreams.

He mentally shook his head and looked at the new book. Oh look, more than a few local lords owed him money. A canny bird, the late Lord Cawlish.

Someone knocked on the door and they both looked up. "Maester Haster, what can I do for you?" Bronn asked.

"Lady Arryn is awake my Lord. And she is asking to speak with whoever is in charge."

Bronn leant back in his chair and steepled his fingers. "Is she now? Is she in her right mind, or is she still calling for the late very much unlamented Lord Baelish?"

Haster considered this carefully for a moment. "I would say that she is in as stable a condition as can be expected from her at the moment my Lord."

He rubbed his chin for a moment. Well, this was a surprise. He swapped a look with Ursula Cawlish, who raised an eyebrow at him and then nodded slightly. He nodded back. "Right then, I'd better meet her. Steward Cawlish, please accompany me."

She flickered an annoyed eyebrow at him , as if to say that of course she was coming, but then stood and followed him.

Lysa Arryn still looked terrible, but was less terrible-looking than she had seemed just a few days ago. She was still pale and wan, but there was a little more colour in her cheeks. She still looked as if she had lost a lot of weight very quickly – other than her arm of course – and her skin seemed to be a bit, well, loose in places. As they entered she turned her head to look at them.

"Where is Lord Cawlish!" She snapped the words peevishly. "This is the Foxhold, so where is Cawlish?"

Ah. Bronn hooked his thumbs into his belt and looked at his unwelcome guest. "Lord Cawlish is dead. I'm the new Lord of the Foxhold – Bronn Cassley."

"Lord Cassley," his Steward pointed out in tone of slight long-suffering.

"What she said," Bronn grinned with a tilt of his head. "I'm Lord Cassley."

Lysa Arryn gaped uncertainly at him for a moment and then shook her head. "Very well, Lord Cassley. I demand that you transport me at once to the Eyrie. I am the new Lady Regent of the Vale, despite this…" She waved at her stump. "This… indisposition, I need to get there as soon as possible. My son, my SweetRobin, he needs me. So I need a raven sent to Winterfell at once. My son must be returned to me at once, or the Vale will march on the North!"

Lysa Arryn's voice had quavered a lot as she had said those last words and Bronn stared at the bloody woman. Oh, this one was madder than a sackload of concussed stoats. He looked at Haster, who looked confused and then at Ursula, whose face had frozen into a mask of carefully hidden loathing for their 'guest'.

"Lady Arryn," he said after a moment. "You seem to be labouring under a few, well, delusions. Firstly, you are not the Lady Regent of the Vale. That's because your husband is not dead. Secondly, I'm not sending you to the Eyrie because Lord Arryn has told me to keep you here. And finally no raven will fly to Winterfell… because you've got no power here."

There was a pause as she stared at him, now white-faced again, and seemed to absorb what he had said. "Jon Arryn… lives?"

"Aye, he does." He eyed her warily. She seemed to be breathing rather heavily.

"But that's… impossible. He's dead. I saw him die. He's dead."

Bronn swapped worried gazes with Ursula and then shook his head. "He's very much alive. And not very happy with you."

The object of their worry froze into place. And then her eyes seemed to bulge and she thrashed into life on the bed. "Nooooooo! Not that horrible old man! I killed him! I killed him! I stabbed him and I killed him and he's dead and I am Lady Regent of the Vale and you must do what I say! Do you hear me? DO WHAT I SAY! Send word to my bitch of a sister that SweetRobin must return to me at once, or the Knights of the Vale will ride! And the armies of the Riverlands! My Father will support me! WHAT ARE YOU ALL DOING? OBEY ME!"

"Sedate her," Bronn snapped. "The milk of the poppy, Maester Haster. As much as it will take to keep her quiet. I want her healthy enough to take to King's Landing and her trial."

Haster nodded and then motioned to two guards, who held the now weakly thrashing woman down as the Maester poured something down her throat and then stroked it until she swallowed it.

As Lady Arryn slumped down again Bronn swapped a troubled look with Ursula. "She's going to be trouble, I know it," he sighed. "She's to be kept safe and healthy until we can get her out of here, mad or not. And now let's get back to those books. There's trouble coming, I can smell it, and I want Foxhold to be ready for whatever comes."

Ursula Cawlish stared at him for a long moment. "Yes my Lord," she said in a voice that sent shivers up and down his spine.

Ned

It had been such a long day, and yet it was not yet over. There was still the feast to come. Cat had organised everything to a nicety and yet he still wished that it was all over. There was so much to do.

But first he had one last meeting and he looked up from his desk in the solar as Jory escorted Lords Royce and Redfort into the room, before leaving and closing the door to stand guard outside.

Horton Redfort looked older than the last time they'd met – but despite the now completely grey hair and beard that were shading to white in many places he was still straight of back. He clasped arms with Ned with a smile and a slap to his shoulder before making way for Bronze Yohn. His old friend clasped arms with a grin.

"Welcome back to Winterfell, Yohn," Ned smiled as they pounded each other's shoulders for a moment and then stepped apart. "Be welcome to both of you." The offer of bread, salt and wine was hardly necessary, but it was important. As he lowered his cup he looked at them both. Each was wearing adornments to their armour – pieces of cloth were covering some parts.

"You called us, Lord Stark and we have come," Bronze Yohn rumbled. "The Call shook Runestone down to its very foundations."

"Aye and the Redfort too," Horton broke in. "A greater shock than the start of the Rebellion, when I heard about the death of your father."

"A lot has happened," Ned nodded. "And the Others have indeed returned. You have seen the wight parts that have gone about the land?"

"Yes," Bronze Yohn said with a wince. "A strange and terrible sight. But at Runestone we didn't need to see them to know what was coming. The runes, Ned." He pulled a piece of cloth to one side and Ned could see that the runed armour beneath was glowing dully. "The further North we get the more they glow. And at Runestone… well, I told you that there were certain places that we guard? The runes on the walls there glow even brighter than that. They're older than we thought – carved after the last great war against the Others, thousands of years ago – and there's more of them than I thought.

"They tell of the war and the weapons that it was fought with. The First Men came from all over to fight the Others and after the war they went home, but not before the Wall was started. It must have been the last time that the First Men were all united for one cause."

"Until now, for their descendants anyway," Horton muttered. "The King is here with the sword of the Durrandons and you have the Fist of Winter. There's word from the Reach that Otherbane has been found too."

"Aye, we heard that too," Ned replied. "Tyrion Lannister found Rocktooth, the axe of his ancestors, at the Nightfort, along with twin daggers called the Warnings."

Lords Royce and Redfort traded surprised glances. "That's good news indeed," muttered Bronze Yohn. "There was a legend of a sword of light from Dorne and a shield that was once carried by the kings of the Riverlands."

Ned frowned. "A sword of light? That might mean Dawn, the sword of House Dayne. Lord Dayne himself is here now – he bears it. As for the shield… well, I can send a raven to my goodfather. There might be some record in Riverrun." He leant back a bit and frowned. "That makes for a major First Men weapon for all the mainland Westerosi kingdoms except the Vale then. What did the Vale have?"

"This," Bronze Yohn said quietly as he pointed at the glowing runes on his armour. "The runes. From what the runes on the walls at Runestone say I think that the ones on our armour deter the Others in some way. How – I know not." He looked at his feet, his face working a little for a moment before he looked up again. "Ned, I am ashamed to say that despite my own house's words of 'We Remember', in this case we do not. Certain runes glow and certain words don't, and I'm buggered if I know why. I've brought books with me with each and every transcription in Runestone faithfully copied out, every rune on the walls, as well as sketches of them.

"I've had blacksmiths work on inscribing runes on new armour, but again some glow and some don't. There must be a reason for this, something recorded somewhere. My only thought about this is that my ancestors thought that the secret was so obvious that they never wrote it down – and so the secret was lost."

"Ned, at the Redfort there's a dim legend that there were once runescribers, those who knew how to craft runes of power. But who they were, how they did it… is a mystery." Horton Redfort looked more than a bit haunted as he said the words.

Ned sighed. Yet another mystery. He forced a smile. "Well, better to know what to look for than not to know it at all. I'll look through everything you brought. Maester Luwin here is dedicated to me and has been looking through a great many records."

The two Lords of the Vale nodded sombrely. "By the way," Bronze Yohn said in a more cheerful tone, "We saw Lord Arryn's son playing earlier with your own son as well as King Robert's bastard. He looked much changed from the last time I saw him, and all for the better."

"Ned," muttered Horton, "When we announced we were coming North a number of lords asked that we… observe Robert Arryn. There were rumours about him being weak and stunted. I am so very glad to see that they were not right."

"Aye," Ned said with a certain amount of pride. "He's changed a lot. He's free of the poison that his mother was feeding him, whether she knew it was poison or not. He reminds me of Denys Arryn a great deal."

"He's his father's heir then?"

"Oh aye – ah. You mean-?"

"There have been rumours, Ned."

"Put them at rest. He's an Arryn. Looks just like Denys at that age. He's not Baelish's son. The timings don't match up anyway – I have done some quiet questioning of my own. He is the son of Jon Arryn."

The other two men looked at him, nodded seriously and then Bronze Yohn smiled a little. "You have been to Castle Black?"

"I have. And before you ask, yes I saw Waymar there. He was well. He heard the Call, as did all at the Wall."

A fist knocked at the door and he looked at it. "Come!"

The door opened to reveal Jory Cassell. "Your pardon my Lord, but Lady Stark has sent word that you need to bathe and change your clothes before tonight's feast."

Ned rolled his eyes, but stood. "Your pardon, my Lords. My wife calls me." He paused. "Send the records to Luwin if you would. We shall look into this."

Jaime

As he escorted Baratheon into the Great Hall of Winterfell for the feast he was already listing all the things that would take place that evening. Robert Baratheon was a creature of habit and when it came to feasts he always followed the same pattern. He would bellow some comments in a 'speech', he'd guzzle wine like water, he'd gorge on half a boar, eye the chest of the woman with the biggest tits in the room, say something drunken and rude, pinch the bottom of at least one serving girl and generally be embarrassing. And nine months later a bastard would be born somewhere, unless moontea was on hand that night.

The feast did not start out the way that he predicted however. As soon as the hall was full Baratheon stood up. "I see many old friends here tonight – aye, and new ones as well. I see men who marched with me to the Trident. I also see men who fought against me. And tonight I also see men who fought in Essos.

"We all share something though. We are all men of Westeros. Aye, and women. And we all know what comes, what marches on the Wall. My old friend here, Lord Stark, often told me that Winter was coming. I never knew until the Call was sent out how true that was.

"Yes, the North has sent out the Call. We have answered it! Look around this hall. There are men and women here from all over Westeros. Stormlanders. Reachmen. Westerlanders. Crownlanders. Valemen. Riverlanders. Even Iron Islanders! We have come here, at this time, in this place, to answer the Call of the North. The Others have returned. We all know what's at stake."

The Great Hall was silent as everyone looked at Baratheon. Jaime squinted around. They were hanging on his every word, although Cersei seemed to be suppressing a violent need to roll her eyes at all this foolishness. Selmy, however… his back was straight and his eyes were bright as he looked at Baratheon.

"The North must know this – you are not alone," The King continued. "We will stand and fight with you. There is only one war ahead of us – the great war and it is here, now. We will fight on the Wall and beat back the Others. From now until the end of time, I pledge this here and now. We will fight and some will die, but we will win. Ours in the fury! Because Winter is coming!"

As he roared the last words he raised his goblet high and every person in the Great Hall stood almost as one and cheered him to the rafters. The hairs rose on the back of Jaime's neck. He hadn't been at the Trident before the battle of the Ruby Ford, but he had always wondered what Baratheon had said to his men there to make them fight with such fury.

The feast started and after a moment Jaime broke out of his reverie and started to look about again. And the longer he watched the more confused he became. Robert Baratheon was not guzzling wine as if it was water, instead he was sipping it. He wasn't sinking up to his jawline in roast boar, he was eating slowly. And he was not eying the serving wenches, he was instead involved in a very intent talk with Ned Stark and Stannis Baratheon, with the intermittent intervention from Maester Luwin, who would collect or deliver the occasional message.

It was all most peculiar.

And then it got odder. The feast was not a long one and although many stayed on to drink wine and ale and generally carouse, Baratheon was not going to be one of them, based on what he was saying.

He cast an eye at Cersei. She was busy talking in a rather icy fashion with Catelyn Stark, who was trying her best to be civil, based on the look on her face. When his sister seemed to sense his gaze she glanced in his direction and then blinked twice. Ah. Time to talk.

As Cersei stood and then swept out in the general direction of the privies he followed her, linking her arm in his as they went. "Interesting speech," he muttered. "They seemed to like it."

"They were drunk, they would," she all but sneered. "Have you explored Winterfell much?"

"I am a loyal member of the Kingsguard, I have inspected much of it so that I can protect the King and his family. The First Keep, for example, appears at first glance to be empty, but is actually being repaired in large part. Of course that means that the Broken Tower, which was under repair, is now empty."

"I see, dear brother. What time does my Husband leave tomorrow for this hunt of his?"

"About mid-morning."

"Are you joining him?"

"I have other matters to attend to at that hour. More inspections, for one."

"I am grateful for your diligence. Please let me know about what you find after he is gone on his hunt."

"Oh, I shall investigate matters most diligently. And… hard."

"I would expect no other." And with that she turned to face him with eyes that promised everything, before going off to the privy.

He walked back to the Great Hall and arrived there just in time to see Robert Baratheon stalk out, still talking to Stark and the Toothgrinder. As Stark walked past them a great dark shaggy figure stalked up to him and Jaime repressed a shudder. That thing scared him a bit, he had to admit. There was something about the way that it looked at anyone who approached Stark, as if it was wondering how to pull their arms out of the sockets and only then take a bite out of their throat.

A flash of white at the corner of his eye made him aware of the arrival of Preston Greenfield, who paused and looked at the direwolf as well. "Aye," his sworn brother muttered, "She worries me as well. Not for the safety of the King – He's too close to Lord Stark. Those eyes though…"

Jaime took the first watch that night, having asked for it. He was still getting used to Winterfell and much to his interest the castle was far warmer than he had first thought. Tyrion had told him once that the place had been built on top of hot springs and that the water was somehow pumped about inside the walls. All he knew was that his room had access to hot water at all times and he was going to enjoy a bath the next day.

Oh and another surprise. No chambermaids or other female servants were in the King's chambers. Instead the only sounds to emerge were loud snores from a very asleep Robert Baratheon. It was no wonder really, the man had been staggering around a courtyard earlier with another log on his shoulders. Well… not quite staggering. Striding. And then he'd had a sparring session with Ned Stark that had left the pair of them covered in sweat, leaning on their practice swords and grinning as they swapped old war stories.

When Preston Greenfield relieved him in the early hours Jaime did not go to bed at once. No, first he strode about the courtyard outside, sniffing their air, measuring and assessing. Only when he thought that the last of the servants had gone to bed did he make a move. He took off his white cloak, balled it up and then walked to a door to one side of the armoury where he had left a sheet that he had, well, 'borrowed' from a neat pile in the servants quarters.

His path had then taken him to the bigger courtyard to one side that led to… he slowed and stopped. He had the oddest feeling that he was being watched. But by who? He peered around carefully. Every now and then he saw a spear flash in the moonlight as a guard walked on the walls, but they were all far away.

It wasn't until he looked towards the Guard's Hall that he realised just who – or rather what – was watching him. A direwolf pup of all things. It was just sitting there, its head tilted to one side as it regarded him gravely. Well, perhaps pup was the wrong word. The damn thing was as big as a hound already, if a lot fluffier. Its ears swivelled slightly as he approached.

He eyed it carefully. "Shoo." It just sat there, staring at him. "Impudent little thing aren't you," he muttered and then blinked a little as the little direwolf seemed to laugh with a huff huff of sound. "Bugger off!"

He walked past it, having suppressed the desire to kick the bloody thing – a bad idea given its mother – walked around the Guard's Hall and then strode quickly to the Broken Tower. The door at the base of it was open and he pattered up the creaking stairs, past the first floor, which was filled with building supplies and onto the second floor, where someone had left a desk with plans neatly stacked to one side. It belonged to a Northman called Gethyn, or something like that, who was spending the next day in the First Keep repairing as much as possible. Jaime dropped the sheet there and then peered out of the window. Perfect. Isolated, with a creaking staircase that would give plenty of warning. The next level up was inaccessible, being blocked off by a wooden door – the plans said 'unsafe'.

His next task was to get some water and fortunately the well had a well-oiled windlass. The secret to assignments such as the one that would happen the next day was to not smell like sex afterwards. So – a sheet, a pail of water and some soap. All ready. It was all so very primitive, but so was the North.

As he left the tower carefully, looking about, he caught sight of that bloody direwolf pup. It was still staring at him. As he strode towards his quarters it pricked up its ears and then loped off. How odd. Well – nothing to worry about. He had a bath ahead of him and then sleep. And then, after that… something that made him feel more alive than anything else.

Jon Stark

He yawned as he walked down the corridor. Father had told them all to take it easy the night before, adding that they'd have to be up early. Well – this was early. Too bloody early. The sun had risen but it was earlier than he was used to. And they had to get ready for this bloody hunt.

He knew what was at stake. Father had explained everything in great detail, so they all knew just how important this was. The plan had to work. From what he'd seen of the little shit Joffrey Baratheon would make a bloody awful king – and Robb's tale of what the boy had done when he was king had been a terrible one.

A lot still had to be done though. Robb and Luwin were talking to one side with Stannis Baratheon and Jory Cassell. He sighed a little and then looked at the sun. Another few hours.

He spent the first of those hours checking out the horses and making sure that the saddles and other riding gear was in good shape. The grooms helped with that, but it kept him busy and Theon even wandered in at one point to help.

It was odd, how much Theon had changed. He'd gone from being an arrogant prideful idiot into a far more thoughtful person. Oh, there were still flashes of that old Theon now and then, but whenever he said anything meaningful it was only after a considerable amount of thought. Plus he despised his own Father, which gave him something in common with Jon.

After the stables he walked out into the training yards. Robb had had the same thought and was practising with Ice against a target dummy. He was much better at using the huge blade, but he still needed to practice with it and Ser Rodrik was there besides him, giving him instructions and advice, whilst on a balcony to one side Sansa watched with the Princess Myrcella. The little Princess seemed to have very wide eyes.

And then there was the second group, the smaller one. Ygritte and Val were standing next to Sarella Sand, with the red-headed Wildling giving the Dornish girl advice about the best way to aim and loose arrows smoothly.

After a while the Wildlings moved away and left the Dornish girl to her practice. Val went to watch Robb – just what was going on there? – whilst Ygritte sought him out. "Where's Dorne?"

"What?"

"Where's Dorne? She keeps talking about the place and how cold the North is compared to Dorne. Given how warm it is down here compared to North of the Wall, Dorne must be hellish. How far South is it?"

"All the way South – the Southernmost part of all Westeros. And yes, it's hot down there. Whatever she and Lord Dayne say about Dorne… well, you might not believe them, but it's very likely true."

She nodded slowly, before looking about the walls of Winterfell again. "I never thought I'd see anything like this. It's the biggest place in the world!"

"I've read that there are bigger places. King's Landing is huge. In terms of citadels Storm's End is big too."

Ygritte mouthed the names almost in wonder, before shaking her head a little. "So this is where you live, Jon Stark. Will you live here all your life?"

He paused at that. "No," he said eventually. "Lord Stark says that he'll grant me a holdfast somewhere. I'll be a bannerman to my brother Robb. Found a cadet branch – Snowstarks perhaps." It all seemed so unreal… a plan for a future that he had no idea if he would ever reach. He had to survive the war first and that was easier said than done.

"Does he have a Southron lady lined up for you then? All dressed up in la-di-dah dresses?"

He stared at her, baffled. "La-di-dah?"

"Silks and satins," she replied, mouthing the words oddly as if she had no idea what they were. "All thin and flimsy and no use North of the Wall."

This conversation was taking a very odd direction, but he shook his head. "No. My Father has no wife lined up for me."

"Good," said Ygritte. "I like a challenge." And then she stalked off.

She baffled him at times, she really did.

A throat was cleared to one side and he turned to see Father standing there. He looked amused for some reason, although the smile faded after a moment. "It's time."

The main courtyard was abuzz with activity as they walked into it. The horses had all been saddled, but Jon still checked his out of habit. Looked fine. Robb was doing the same to one side and they shared a look and a nod, along with Theon on the other side.

A booming laugh heralded the arrival of the King, who looked as if he had just stuck his head in a bucket of water, which was probably what had just happened. The man had been walking about with that log on his shoulders again, something that still awed him a bit. He'd grown up on stories about Robert Baratheon and the man was certainly every bit as impressive as those stories had made him out to be.

As the King heaved himself onto his saddle, with Ser Barristan Selmy next to him, he looked for Father, before finally spotting him. "Right Ned," he shouted as he took the proffered spear, "Let's get some boar for the supper table!"

The huntsmen roared agreement and then the first of them started to ride through the gates, a small thicket of spears. As he urged his own horse out Jon looked quickly around the courtyard. Lady Stark was on the balcony, with Arya and Bran next to her. In the future that Robb had come from Bran had fallen off the walls on this day. That was not going to happen today.

He could see Joffrey and the Hound ahead of him, both looking unamused. The little shit probably thought that he had better things to do than participate in this hunt, whilst the Hound was probably still hungover and surly after all the ale he had swilled the previous night. And to one side he caught a flash of blonde hair. The Queen.

As he passed through the gates he knew that if all went well he would return to a castle that would be… well, it wouldn't be boring.

Ned

There was a man on the gatehouse with a Myrish spyglass watching them. He knew that because he had issued orders for that to happen. The moment that the hunting party entered the Wolfswood then a rider on a very fast horse would be sent after them. It was all a matter of timing.

The trees were looming ahead and he sighed a little. Explaining all this was going to be… difficult. He and Stannis would have to talk Robert down from killing the Lannister Twins the moment that he saw them.

Robert was giving orders already about the hunt – where some of the best horsemen would go, how much of an interval there would be, all the things that went to making a hunt successful. Ned watched all this, issuing orders of his own here and there. Robb, Jon and Theon were to one side, talking quietly amongst themselves.

He wanted to look over his shoulder at the treeline behind them as he felt the minutes trickling through his fingers, but he dared not. He detested all this trickery and mummery, but he had no choice in this. The two had to be caught in the act and this was the best chance for this. Thanks to Arya and Nymeria he knew that the Kingslayer had already made preparations in the Broken Tower.

It came as a relief when the rider arrived, on a blowing horse. "Lord Stark, a message from the Lord Hand," the rider panted as he held out the note. He took it and unfolded it. Yes, a summons from Stannis, as they had planned it.

"Your Grace?" Ned shouted to Robert.

"What's wrong Ned?" Robert looked at the message. "What's happened?"

"Lord Stannis and my wife need me back at Winterfell. A minor dispute, but they need me back there. I'll be back, but I need to take Robb with me. And I need to borrow Ser Barristan."

Robert stared at him, confused. "Selmy? Why?"

"He's highly regarded and impartial. Stannis asked for him to witness the resolution of this." He smiled. "I'll be back – don't hog all the best boars to yourself – or the deer."

Robert groaned at the pun but nodded. "Alright. Ser Barristan?"

"Your Grace?"

"You heard?"

"I did your Grace. I'd be happy to help, but I do it under protest – my place is here by your side."

"I've got the others," Robert replied. "Greenfield too."

"Jon and Theon have hunted here often – they'll help you," Ned said as he turned his horse. "Let's get this done with."

The trio galloped back to Winterfell, but halfway there Ned held up a hand and they slowed. "Ser Barristan, my apologies, but I have taken you away under something of a false pretence. We are needed at Winterfell, but for a different reason – a far more important one. Treason."

The old knight's frown turned into an alarmed stare. "Treason, my Lord? Is the King in any danger?"

"None whatsoever – he is safe at the hunt, you have my word on it. But there is a situation in Winterfell, one that involves treason. I need you as a witness to this."

Selmy's eyes flickered over his face, before he nodded slowly. "Very well, my Lord. As I have your word that the king is safe, I will assist you in this."

They rode in silence after this, but not to the Hunter's Gate. Instead they went to a small postern gate that was at the side of one of the towers on the wall. Faithful Jory was there, with his uncle next to him. As they passed through the wall and into the Godswood he saw that Stannis Baratheon was approaching, with two of his own men.

"Lord Stark, Ser Barristan. We are all ready here. Your daughter says that they are both in the tower."

"Who are we talking about? Lord Stark mentioned treason, my Lord Hand." Selmy was frowning again.

"Oh, it is treason indeed. I will not say more, we need you to witness this in an impartial manner. But we need to move now."

Selmy still looked troubled but nodded – and then they were off through the trees. "Your orders have been carried out my Lord," Ser Rodrik muttered. "No-one is to go near the tower. There will be no warning of our arrival."

"Good," Ned muttered and then silence fell as they walked. The men were armed with a collection of weapons, including short swords, daggers and two crossbows. And above all they were not wearing anything that might clink or make a noise easily. He eyed Ser Barristan. The man was in his usual plate steel armour, but he also walked like a cat.

Nymeria was sitting at the base of the tower and looked at them as they approached – before huffing and then loping away. Arya didn't know why she had been asked to keep an eye on the Kingslayer, but had jumped at the chance to warg.

Ned turned to the others and held a finger to his lips before walking to the scaffolding and then pulling the cloth carefully to one side. A ladder led to a carefully constructed wooden walkway that curved upwards. Ned led them all upwards, treading carefully. The walkway had been built well and his inspection of it before Robert had arrived had shown that it was possible to use it quietly. That said, he moved as silently as he could.

Up they went, his heart pounding at the slightest noise made by anyone, up to the opening in the side of the tower. They passed through it and onto the stairs. The stairs leading up from the ground floor were not in good repair. These stairs however were. They had been completely repaired. Still, they went down just as carefully to the wooden door that blocked the way. Jory slipped past him and put an eye to the slight gap in it. Then he nodded. "They've closed the door," he said in a ghost of a whisper.

Ned nodded and then opened the door, which had been very well oiled indeed. As they assembled on the landing the crossbows, which had been cocked beforehand, were loaded with quarrels. The others placed a hand on the pommel of their swords and looked at Ned, who had an ear to the door. Inside he could hear moans and groans of passion. They were in luck. And then he leant back slightly and kicked the door open.

Jaime

Their first coupling in the tower had been one born of need and lust. After so long a time on the road, being unable to touch each other as they might have longed for had been torture, so the moment that he had closed the door to the room she had been on him like a falcon on a sparrow.

Heh. Some sparrow he was. They had fucked urgently, almost roughly, and he had been unable to make it last as long as he might have wanted it to.

Afterwards they had lain in each other's arms and all the pent-up torrent of bitterness had poured out of Cersei. She hated this place, she hated the North, Robert had no right to bring her and the children here, the Northerners were all savages, Stannis was an idiot and shouldn't be Hand of the King, Jaime should be instead, oh and she had written to Father and Brightroar would be taken from Uncle Gerion, by force if need be, and given to Jaime, or Joffrey, she hadn't made her mind up yet.

And the closeness, the smell of her, the touches, the kisses, all had led to this, their second coupling. This was longer, he was able to take his time on this, making her groan and shudder as he thrust into her. Nothing louder, they could not be detected, but the look on her face was amazing, showing him everything that she felt about him.

There was no warning. One minute it was just them, lost in that moment, and then the door burst open, almost coming off its hinges, and a group of men darted in, drawing swords as they came.

He froze in utter horror, shocked beyond belief. The stairs had not creaked – there had been nothing to warn of their approach. They had been discovered in the most compromising of positions.

And then as he saw Stannis Baratheon and Ned Stark enter the room, with someone else behind him, the moment of shock broke. Cersei shrieked in shock and jerked away from him, back as fast as she could whilst trying to use first her hands and then whatever she could grab of the sheets to cover her nakedness.

Jaime gaped at her for a moment as his rapid deflating cock came close to being hit by her feet – and then his instincts kicked in. Sword, he thought automatically, I need my sword. He rolled to one side, towards where he had thrown his clothes and left his sword, reached out with one hand – and then a boot hammered into his shoulder and he was driven to one side with a shock that made his teeth click. Sword, he needed to get to his sword. He pushed himself up and tried to lunge for it again, aware that Cersei had stopped screaming incoherently and was now screaming orders that they all get out, now, but suddenly a hand grabbed his sword and pulled it away – and there was a crossbow being pointed at him.

"Don't." Jory Cassel said the word with an intentness that promised that he would pull the trigger if he had to. He was fast, he'd always been fast, but could he outspeed a crossbow bolt? His sword was out of reach but his boots had his dagger in them and they were just over there and if he could just get to it…

A hand descended on the back of his neck and all of a sudden he was hurtling backwards to hit the wall. The impact made him see stars for a moment and then a gauntleted hand was wrapped around his neck and started to squeeze.

It was Selmy and there was a look on his face that he had never seen before. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard's eyes were blazing with incandescent fury, whilst his face wore a snarl of utter rage.

"You… you… I'll burn your cloak myself, lighting it with your page from the White Book! You are not worthy of them! You never were! You have no honour! YOU ARE NO KNIGHT OF THE KINGSGUARD! YOU ARE NO KNIGHT AT ALL!"

He may have been an old man, but his fingers were not, no, they were made of iron and they kept squeezing no matter how hard he beat at them with his bare hands and his vision was starting to go grey at the edges…

"SELMY! HOLD!" Ned Stark was at Selmy's side now. "They will both face the King's justice! But you have to let him go!"

Slowly, so very slowly, Selmy's fingers released their grip on his throat and Jaime took a desperate gulp of air into his lungs. Ser Barristan Selmy still loomed over him, a look of utter fury on his face. "He keeps a knife – a dagger – in his boot. Be wary of this one. He's an animal."

Jory Cassel strode over to his boots and pulled the dagger out, his eyebrows going up and down. "Nasty," he muttered. "You can put an eye out with something like this."

Cersei was still screaming something about having everyone executed when Stannis Baratheon steeped in front of her. "Be silent!" His roar actually shut her up. "You are both under arrest. The charge is treason to the Crown. Throw some clothes on them both. We'll need to hood them as well. Take him to a cell and confine her to her room. Search it for blades first."

"You cannot do this!" Cersei screamed. "I am the Queen!"

"Not for much longer," Stark snapped. "Not for much longer at all."