Sorry about the delay on this. Work has been somewhat insane of late, I came back from a major conference in Florida almost three weeks ago, I have a supplement to get to the finishing line this week and overall I am mentally and physically exhausted. I'm planning a few more updates in the next few weeks, but then we are off on holiday to see Egypt at the start of December. Normal service should be resumed after that.

Tyrion

If Jaime had looked bad before then he looked worse now. He had dark circles around his eyes, which seemed to have lost their old sparkle and life. He sat there at the table and carefully – almost laboriously – wrote out his confession, taking his time over it. He had some notes to one side that he would consult now and then, and his tongue sometimes protruded from his lips ever so slightly, something that Tyrion hadn't witnessed for some time, not since they had been a lot younger.

He knew how much Jaime hated writing. He'd come to learning it later than Cersei and far later than Tyrion had. Father had had to take personal charge of teaching Jaime to write and it had not been easy for his brother.

From the sheen of sweat on Jaime's forehead he was very likely reliving some of those lessons – memories of Father's dry tones and caustic comments of 'encouragement'.

On and on it went, agonisingly so. The scrape of the quill on the paper, punctuated by the subtly different scrape of the quill being dipped in the little bottle of ink. Sometimes Jaime would pause and frown and then go on to write again, as if he was concentrating on the next word.

And then, finally, it was all over. He placed the quill down with a slightly shaking hand and then pushed the confession across the table towards Maester Luwin, who looked it over carefully, shook some sand over it to dry the excess ink and then handed it over to the two silent other men at the far end of the room. Stannis Baratheon and Ser Barristan Selmy had witnessed every moment of Jaime's confession. Now they read it and contempt radiated off them. Selmy looked as if he wanted to rip Jaime's head off with his bare hands there and then, but was somehow restraining himself with a monumental effort. It seemed to pass muster, because Stannis Baratheon carefully folded it, jerked his head at Selmy and they both then stalked out, still grim of face.

Luwin sighed as he picked up the writing implements and then peered carefully at Jaime. "Ser Jaime," he said carefully. "How is your wound?"

"It hurts," Jaime said shortly.

"It is early yet, but it looks as if it is starting to heal. Does it hurt enough to stop you from eating?"

Jaime pulled a slight face. "No."

"Yet your guards tell me that you eat next to nothing."

His brother looked as if he was tired of this conversation. "I have little appetite."

"You must eat, Ser. Your body is healing and it cannot heal without food. And I will not see you starve yourself."

"I will talk some sense into my brother," Tyrion interjected. "Thank you Maester Luwin."

The old man nodded to him, looked at Jaime, and then left on quiet feet. As the door closed Tyrion looked at Jaime and suppressed a groan. Jaime was sitting there with a haunted expression on his face. "What is wrong, brother?"

But Jaime did not answer. Instead he stood and went to the nearest window, where he just stared at the horizon. Eventually he finally said: "I need a favour, Tyrion."

"Name it."

"I want to go the Wall as soon as possible."

He paused and then frowned. "You do?" Then inspiration hit. "Ah. You want to leave before Father arrives."

A sigh escaped his brother. "Yes. Can you blame me?"

"Given that Father will arrive here in a rare rage… no, Jaime. I don't blame you. Do you want me to talk to Ned Stark?"

An odd look crossed Jaime's face, a combination of shame, anger and humiliation. "Yes," he ground out eventually. "Please, Tyrion."

There was a pause. "I'll talk to Ned," Tyrion muttered. There was a lot he needed to talk to him about anyway, things that Jaime would never understand.

"'Ned'. You sound almost like a man of the North already, brother."

"I know what faces them. What faces all of us." He looked at Jaime. "Ned Stark will demand that you swear your oath on the Fist of Winter."

"Ah, yes, Stark's new mace. Or old mace. What of it?"

"An oath on the Fist is not something to take lightly."

Jaime looked at him oddly. "How so?"

"I was there when the Fist killed Ser Willem Bootle, Jaime. He laid his hand it, swore that he was innocent – and then he flew across the room, to land stone dead and smoking lightly. Ned Stark did not lay a finger on him. It was all the Fist. It is old, brother, and it has power. An oath on it has… meaning."

Jaime looked away. "Do you doubt my word," he said thickly, "Even you?"

"No," Tyrion replied quickly. "I know you."

There was another silence. "The guards vary in their names for me," Jaime said eventually. "Some call me Kingslayer. Others call me Oathbreaker. They think that I scorn oaths."

Tyrion pulled a face. "I know that you do not. You killed Aerys because there was no other alternative. No raven has come from King's Landing yet, but I do not need one. I heard it in your voice."

A long moment of silence fell. "And my second oath?"

Ah, here was a time to tread carefully over very thin ice and for once words failed him. "Cersei… you always… I mean that…"

"She led me astray," Jaime said tiredly. "I never could refuse her." He looked about with a tired smile. "And here I am, as a consequence. Broken on the wheel of foolishness. Bound for the Wall. You have seen it. Will I need fur linings for my smallclothes?"

"You will need advice in what to wear," Tyrion replied, his eyes searching every inch of his brother's face. "Jaime, you must not give up."

"Give up what?" Jaime asked tiredly.

"The fight to live. There's going to be a war at the Wall. A war that we must win."

"Your war against the dead? And legends? Against snarks and grum-"

Tyrion smashed his fist down against the table, making his brother jump. "Don't be a fool! You saw that cage! You heard the tales, from me, and the Starks and Uncle Gerion! Wights are real! The Others are real, Jaime. When you join the Night's Watch you are not going into a cold and dull exile, you will be entering a war zone! War marches on the Wall, war brought by enemies that are terrible in a way that you cannot imagine! Do you think that what I saw, what I fought against, what I killed was a trick? Forget whatever poison Cersei dribbled into your ears, Jaime! You are going to the Wall and there you will be defending all of us. All of Westeros. So you will eat and not waste away, you will fight at the Wall and you will not take the chance to throw yourself off it. You want to die at the moment brother, I see it in your face. No – enough of such foolishness. You are the best warrior I know of. You must fight to defend us all."

And with that he stormed out, without a glance back at his astonished brother. Right. He needed to talk to Ned.

Catelyn

Luwin was pleased with the progression of her pregnancy so far. He peered at her, prodded gently, asked the usual questions, drew his eyebrows down in thought once or twice and generally looked satisfied. And then he coughed slightly and slid his hands into the arms of his robes.

"My Lady, Lord Stark has asked me to request that you take it as easy as you can in the coming months."

It was a familiar request and she smiled a little and replied with the familiar response: "I shall do if I can – Winterfell must be run."

"I recognise that, my Lady, especially with his Grace the King here along with the Court. Perhaps if you could involve the Lady Sansa a little more? She is of an age, and will need to learn how to run a great house when she marries Lord Domeric."

That was a good point. "It is time that she learnt these things, I will admit that Luwin. I will talk to her. In the meantime I will try to rest as much as I can."

Luwin beetled his eyebrows at her for a moment and then smiled that little smile of his. "Very well my Lady." And then he looked over her shoulder and blinked a little. "Your pardon, Lady Baratheon, I did not see you there."

Surprised, she turned to look at the doorway. Selyse Baratheon was standing there, clutching her skirts and looking strained. "Lady Baratheon," she said, as she stood up and pulled her dress straight. "How may I help you?"

The tall woman with the large ears swallowed visibly and then nodded jerkily at her. "Lady Stark. I was told that Maester Luwin was here. I need to speak with him on… on a matter of a personal nature."

Luwin blinked a little and then spread his hands. "I am at your disposal Lady Baratheon. Should you need to speak confidentially then I hope that Lady Stark might be able to grant us a place a speak in here."

Selyse Baratheon visibly wavered on this for a long moment. "Perhaps you might both be able to assist me on this," she muttered. And then she swallowed. "I think that I am with child."

Cat looked at her carefully. She wanted to congratulate her, but there was something about the other woman. She was a stiff as a board, her face an emotionless mask – but her eyes kept flickering back and forth whilst her fingers twitched at her robes. She looked as if she was torn between terror and joy.

Luwin cleared his throat to one side, shot her her a glance that showed that he was seeing the same things that she was, and then stepped forwards. "Perhaps, with your permission, I might be allowed to ask you a few things?"

Selyse nodded choppily, before walking over to one side where she talked quietly with Luwin. Cat watched for a moment and then bustled to her little desk to one side, where she made some notes about what needed to be done in terms of feeding the court over the next week. Fortunately the presence of so many men who liked hunting meant that meat was not a problem and then in fact they would end up in a better place than she had planned.

As she put the quill down and stopped the little bottle of ink she looked up. Selyse Baratheon had an odd look on her face, one where joy was just ahead of terror. "I think, my Lady," Luwin said carefully, "That you are indeed with child. Congratulations."

She looked at him with a slightly wild expression. "Congratulations? Maester Luwin… I have only ever brought one child to birth successfully. Shireen. The others… I have had miscarriages. And… and… stillbirths. I have had my heart broken again and again, I have not been able to give my husband a male heir and… and now…" Her face twisted in a look of anguish, before she seemed to recall where she was and seemed to force her face clear of any emotion.

Luwin slid his hands into his sleeves and shot Cat a quiet look of concern under his eyebrows. "I understand, Lady Baratheon," he said gravely. "Perhaps I might ask some more questions, on a confidential basis?"

Another choppy nod and Cat returned to her list as the other two carried out a conversation in low tones. She could tell that Luwin was doing his best to be quietly supportive. When the voices finally fell silent again she looked up. Luwin was deep in thought. "Lady Baratheon," he said eventually. "You had your stillbirths on Dragonstone I believe?" A nod. "Various maesters have long debated the impact of noxious humours from the violcano there. I would strongly suggest that you remain here in Winterfell for the duration of your pregnancy. No travel that might tire you, no stress and only gentle exercise. Lady Stark here has delivered five children to term, with a sixth on the way, and I can assure you that I will do my best to assist you in a successful pregnancy here in Winterfell."

Selyse looked at him for a long moment and then nodded jerkily. Then she looked at Cat with a complicated expression on her face, one that combined envy, admiration, shame and hope. "Thank you, Maester Luwin. And to you Lady Stark. I will pray in the Godswood later, to beseech the Old Gods for a healthy boy. As strong as his father." Another choppy nod and then she swept out.

Cat watched her go and when the door closed she sighed. "I almost wanted to hug her, but I feared that she would take offense."

"Yes, my Lady. She will be… difficult. But I think that she will listen to me. To have had so many stillbirths… well, I would blame the environment on Dragonstone. I would also suggest that we keep a close eye on who serves her food."

Her eyebrows went up. "You suspect poison?"

He pursed his lips for a moment. "I would rather not take any chances. Environment is one thing, possible poison is another. Some women, regrettably, have more trouble than others in bearing children. Lady Baratheon might be one of those. I will observe her closely and let you know my thoughts on this."

"Thank you, Luwin. Now. What of the former Queen and the children?"

"Cersei Lannister has stopped throwing her food at the guards. I suspect that she realised that unless she stopped doing so she would remain hungry. She also remains… angry. Her threats have been most inventive."

She closed her eyes for a long moment and sighed. "Wretched woman. I have always disliked her. Does she still regard herself as being Queen?"

"She does, my Lady."

"I will have a word with Ned and the King. And the others?"

"Young Tommen is disconsolate, but I have been able to entertain him with some rather weighty tomes on cats. He seems… very interested in them. As for Myrcella… I was going to ask you to talk to her, my Lady. She realises with a clarity that I thought was beyond her years just how much all this will affect her future. She is a cleverer girl than I had thought. A kind girl too."

She sighed again. "I will talk to her. None of this is her fault. And Joffrey?"

Luwin's face tightened. "An unpleasant boy. He is almost as delusional as his mother. He refuses to believe what has happened to him. He still gives orders and then has a tantrum when they are not obeyed. I beg your pardon, but I am heartily glad that he will not be King. His behaviour… well, I am minded of the history that Lord Robb remembers from that other time."

That made her shiver a little. The boy had ordered the death of Ned in that other history, something that made her feel a chill even now. "I am most glad as well. Keep the boy fed and warn the servants about him. There is a cruelty about him and an arrogance that I don't want to see inflicted on anyone."

The old Maester bowed to her and then left. She picked up her list and looked at it. Winterfell wouldn't run itself – she had much to do.