Ned

The arrival of Robert and Stannis had had one good effect in terms of the tidal wave of paper from the South that was threatening to engulf his desk these days – much of it could be signed and then passed quickly on to the Hand of the King to be dealt with.

But there were other issues all the same, ones that only he could handle, albeit with much grumbling. It was increasingly obvious that he would have to ride down to Barrowtown soon to deal with Barbrey bloody Dustin and the fog that still lingered on the barrows there.

Luwin had gone through the records twice now and had found nothing but hints of fragments of bits of legends. The problem was that the fall of the Barrow Kings had been before the rise of the Maesters, not to mention the rise of records that were not carved on rock. Written records were… scanty at best.

Legend had it that the Great Barrow held the body of the First King, the very first king of the First Men, the man who had led them into Westeros. According to legend the barrow was also cursed. He didn't like the sound of that. If old things were waking up and old legends like the Others were walking the land, then what about old curses?

He sighed and then scowled a little. Right. After this business with the Lannisters was settled then he'd travel South. With the Fist. And Lord Brandon Dustin, the sandy-haired and rather diffident man who had been with the Company of the Rose, would go with him, along with his three sons.

And if Barbrey bloody Dustin objected to the presence of a cadet branch of House Dustin then they would have… words.

Knuckles rapped on the door and he looked up. Tyrion Lannister was standing there, dressed in dark grey clothing and with a look of extreme seriousness on his face. "Lord Stark, may I speak with you?"

Ah. There were a number of possible topics that might require a face that serious, and he stood and gestured for the other man to enter. "Please close the door behind you Lord Tyrion."

Tyrion nodded, shut the door and then walked over and took a seat in front of him. He then paused and stared at his feet, the wall, the ceiling, Ned's face, his feet again and then back at Ned. "I need to talk to you Lord Stark."

"I'd gathered that," Ned said dryly and Tyrion blushed a little. "What exactly do you want to talk to me about?"

There was a long pause as Tyrion seemed to literally brace himself as if he was about to face an onslaught. Aha. Ned suspected that he knew what this was about now.

"Lord Stark," Tyrion finally said after an excruciating pause. "I would like to ask if I might be allowed to talk to you about the, erm, marital circumstances of your cousin, the Lady Dacey Surestone?"

It was indeed as he had suspected. "You may."

Tyrion seemed to suppress the need to flex various joints in his fingers – and then he stared at Ned. "I would consider it a high honour – the greatest honour of my life – if I might be considered as a prospect for her future husband. I mean, as a candidate for her hand." He seemed to be very nervous and he actually stumbled over his words for an instant.

"You mean you would like to marry her?"

Tyrion stopped still – and then he nodded. "I would. I know that there are many factors that… that would argue against it. I am a dwarf. And I am a Lannister, a family that is now not in high favour in Westeros. And-"

Ned cut the poor bloody man off with an upraised hand. "Dacey had a word with me beforehand, as you well know. I am fully aware of what your family is like. I am also aware of what you are like. That you fought next to my sons not once but twice, at the Nightfort and beyond the Wall. You have killed wights. You have killed an Other. And, above all, you saved Dacey at that inn."

Tyrion straightened a little in the chair and then looked at Ned with a little nod. "Thank you, Lord Stark. Dacey is… is a remarkable women. She is intelligent. She is wise with the knowledge that she has from our shared love of books. She is beautiful." He struggled for a moment with some undefinable emotion. "I love her."

Ned regarded him thoughtfully. The man was deeply earnest. "I think that you need to know that I am deeply fond of my cousin, Lord Tyrion, and that I will not be very happy with anyone who upsets her. Should I agree to her marrying anyone, I would want certain assurances that she will be happy in her marriage. I know that such a thing is hardly a normal condition of betrothal, but given what happened with Bootle I think that I am within my rights to do so."

A ghost of a smile crossed Tyrion's face. "I was told on the ride to Castle Black by Lord Umber that many Northern Lords would be… cross… with anyone who acted incorrectly around her." And then he nodded. "I would be willing to swear an oath on the Fist of Winter that she would never have reason to regret marrying me."

Ned forced his eyebrows to stay in place at such bold words. Instead he nodded in recognition. He was about to ask the question that had been lurking in the back of his mind when Tyrion flushed a little and then said: "In terms of prospects I have to admit that I do not have very many. I may be Tywin Lannister's son, but I have never been acknowledged as his heir. I am a dwarf. And my mother died in giving birth to me. Father has never forgiven me for either, erm, 'crime'. It has therefore never been a secret that my Father wants Jaime to inherit Casterley Rock when he dies."

"I always wondered about that," Ned muttered. "Members of the Kingsguard cannot inherit."

This time the smile that crossed Tyrion's face was a bitter one. "Father always hoped that Jaime would somehow at some point be released from his white cloak."

"And now that your brother is swapping his white cloak for a black one?"

A shrug was the response to that question. "I don't know. Father's wrath will rival that of the Doom of Valyria, if on a smaller and more terrifyingly quiet scale, but I would be lying to you if I said that I could predict what my father will do now. I might be appointed his heir. He might make my Uncle Kevan his heir. He might marry again. I do not know. But it is possible that should I marry Dacey I might not inherit land or title or even coin. You need to know that."

Ned looked at the Lannister who sitting opposite him for a long, long moment. "If," he said eventually, "Your father appoints anyone but you as his heir then he is a far greater fool than I ever thought him to be. That or far more petulant. You have finished the report you were working on for him?"

"I have. Drawings and all."

"Good. I must think about this matter, for the sake of propriety and custom, but she wants to marry you and I think the match to be a good one, so I have to tell you now that I will look on your proposal most favourably."

Tyrion seemed to freeze in place. "You will?" The words came out as a squeak, and he then repeated them in a deliberately low and gruff voice. "You will?"

"I will."

"I expected more... questions."

Ned coughed slightly. "I do have a few. There has never been any stories of your fathering bastards, despite your… reputation."

Tyrion sighed a bit. "I make no excuse that I do have a reputation, Lord Stark. I am fond of ale and wine and I have frequented my fair share of… establishments. Such things were often done out of boredom or even just to have some friendly – so to speak – company. My father, as I said, does not like me. Parental affection has always been beyond rare. He has also always made it very clear that should I disgrace the family with bastards then… then I would have to… dispose of them. Before he did. As a result the very best Moontea has always been at my disposal."

Ah. That explained that. "I suggest that you never get bored around Dacey then. She will expect children."

Tyrion seemed to struggle with his face for a moment and then he nodded curtly. "Japing about that sentiment would, it just stuck me, be a bad idea."

"Very bad," Ned frowned – and then he smiled, stood and held his hand out. "I will talk to the family. Oh, and you can call me Ned in private. Would I be right in thinking that you need to talk to your own father?"

"You would," Tyrion said as his answering smile and handshake gave way to a frown. "He will be surprised but he… well he should have no reason to refuse this."

"He'd better not. His sails have been sighted off Flint's Finger two days ago. There's no word yet on which way he'll come – to Moat Cailin and the Kingsroad or up the rivers to Torrhen's Square or even Barrowtown."

Tyrion's head nodded jerkily. "He will be angry when he hears about all that has happened here."

"I know," Ned replied. "I will talk to him as soon as he gets here. I am not responsible for what has happened though – and neither are you."

This seemed to wryly amuse Tyrion. "Oh, he'll find a way to blame me somehow. But thank you for agreeing to talk to me – and to my father."

Ned nodded and returned to his desk – and the paperwork. After a moment he realised that Tyrion had paused by the still-closed door. "One last thing Ned. We do need to talk about how your son Robb died and fell through time. That's rather important." And with that he opened the door and left the room, leaving Ned staring after him in shock.

Kevan

The further North they sailed up that wretched river the more unsettled he became at what he was seeing all around them. The glowered at the river ahead of them. The Wolfsriver some called it around here, whilst further South it was called Wolfspear.

Bloody Northerners. Why couldn't they give a river a single bloody name and stick with it?

He looked back at the East side of the river and the activity there that was still unsettling him. Everywhere he looked he could see activity of some sort. People were lopping trees down, ploughing, sowing, reaping, building... preparing. He could see a cart over to one side that had stone stacked in it, stone that was being used to help repair a stone wall that divided two fields. And in the distance a windmill was being repaired as another one on the horizon worked steadily, its sails rotating in the wind.

The North was preparing for Winter. Preparing for the kind of winter that came once in a thousand years. And more than that - they were preparing for war at the same time. War with what winter would bring. He shuddered for a moment and then he sighed and returned to his cabin.

The five ships were just about alright on this river. There was just enough room to tack up them and once in a while the wind was from the South enough to let them shake out a reef and fly up it North-East. He was not much of a sailor, but even he knew that they were making damn good time.

The lack of Ironborn ships, thanks to the civil war that they were fighting that amused Tywin so very much, had been a surprise. What had also been a surprise had been the sheer number of ships heading North. Ships from the Reach, from Dorne and, yes, from the Westerlands. One of those ships was owned and commanded by Gawen Westerling, Lord of the Crag, and the head of an old and proud family, and that ship now followed them, after orders from Tywin that Lord Westerling provide him as much information as possible as to what was happening at the wall.

According to Westerling his son Raynald had gone to the Wall earlier that year with a small group of men in answer to the Call - and what he had seen there had so unsettled him that he had sent an immediate message back to his father. Something about Wildlings fleeing South, chased by something worse than the Stranger.

Something about wights. About heads in cages.

Someone shouted on deck, something about the lake being ahead and he stirred himself, pulling on his jerkin and walking up on deck. Yes, they had reached the lake that was the origin of the river. The Northmen here had a very original name for it - The Lake.

But that lake led to Torrhen's Square, the home of House Tallhart and the start of a road that led straight to Winterfell. All five ships set all sails and used every scrap of wind to beat their way up the Lake. That was a good idea. Kevan had a bad feeling that something was in the air. There had been something about the way that people had been pointing at their banners the past day and a half, as if they were uneasy about them, or certainly unsettled.

By the time that the sun was starting to set they were all tied up at the wharves and jetties of Torrhen's Square, small as the harbour there was.

What was not small was the castle there. The walls were thirty feet tall at least and thick. A nasty place to try and take on the fly, not that such a thing was surely possible after that passage up the river.

Helman Tallhart, the Master of Torrhen's Square and apparently the equivalent of a knight in the South, was not there to great Tywin and the others as they disembarked. Instead there was his young and at first rather flustered wife, Gemma Tallhart - who, unless he was mistaken, had formerly been of House Caswell in the Reach. Pregnant too, given the slight swell of her stomach. Very interesting.

However surprised she might have been, Gemma Tallhart soon settled down, had her steward bring bread, salt and wine for her guests, apologised for her husband, who was apparently off dealing with a minor dispute between two sets of smallfolk about new grain, or some such nonsense, and then offered Tywin guests quarters in Torrhen's Square itself.

Tywin had, of course, accepted as graciously as he was able to - with a slight bow and a quirk of the lips that was not quite a smile - and then had retired to his room and started to snap out orders about the journey to Winterfell.

"Tell Westerling to send word to his eldest son as soon as possible," Tywin started off. "I want as much information as possible as to what is happening with regard to that. And then, Kevan, find out what has happened about Baratheon and his arrival at Winterfell. I'm sure that a small flock of ravens are on their way to me from Cersei about the way that she claims she has been mistreated, or about what Baratheon has been doing. There were some odd reports from King's Landing before they left - something about the King becoming far more active. I want to hear the latest information. I detest sea travel at times - it makes it hard to know what is happening."

Knuckles rapped on the door and they both turned. "Come!" Tywin barked, and the door opened to reveal Lord Westerling in company with a pale Maester who was clutching a message that looked as if it had been carried by a raven. "What is it?"

Westerling strode in looking grim to say the very least. "News has arrived from Winterfell. It came two days ago. Lord Lannister... you must prepare yourself for bad news."

Kevan stood at the same instant as Tywin, as dread roiled through him. "What news?" Tywin barked, and the Maester handed over the scroll with a shaking hand.

"Fell news, my lord," the man said and then he fled, closing the door behind him.

There was a pause, and then Tywin unrolled the message and his eyes flickered over the words. And then he froze in place, his eyes unmoving and his chest barely moving. After a long and terrible moment blood seemed to suffuse his face, as a look of the utmost rage spread over his visage, before he scowled, controlled his expression and then bent over the message again.

"Westerling," he muttered after another moment. "You know what this says?"

"I do."

"How far has this... message spread?"

Lord Westerling winced a little and then sighed. "A long way. I would be surprised if King's Landing does not know this by now."

Another ripple of rage crossed Tywin's face, before being quashed rapidly. "Very well. Leave us. Now."

Westerling nodded and then all but fled the room. As he did so Tywin held out the message for Kevan. "Read it."

Deeply confused - but filled with dread - he reached out and took the message. It read: "King Robert, the First of his name, has divorced Cersei Lannister on charges of treason, incest and adultery, in that she was discovered fornicating with her own brother, Ser Jaime Lannister. This was witnessed by Lord Eddard Stark, the Hand of the King Lord Baratheon and Ser Barristan Selmy. Both arrested."

For a long moment he stared at the message. This was madness. It made no sense whatsoever. Cersei would never do anything as... insane. As... disgusting. No. It was impossible.

"This is madness," he said eventually. "No. Beyond impossible. Brother, say the word and I will set sail today for Casterley Rock to call the banners. This is an insult."

But instead of agreeing Tywin just stood there, staring at the fire, his eyes almost as ablaze as the grate. And then he finally passed a hand that shook a little over his eyes. "No," he said eventually. "We will go to Winterfell and ascertain the truth of this."

Utterly bewildered he looked at his brother. "I don't understand. This is... revolting. It has to be a mistake. Cersei and Jaime would never do something as revolting as that. Incest? Treason? Never!"

There was another pause. "Did you read the list of witnesses?"

Oh. He looked again. And then he blanched. "Stark, Stannis Baratheon and Selmy." He paused. "They are not men known for lying. Just the opposite in fact. Oh Gods. Tywin, this is bad. But why-"

His brother interrupted him. "All men with ridiculous standards of 'honour' and other things. Not liars. Never liars." Tywin said the last words slowly. "And then there is the thing that I sent Westerling out of the room for."

This was bewildering. "Which was?"

"Just before Tyrion was born... Joanna came to me. Said that she had ordered that our twins be separated into rooms on the opposite sides of the Rock. That... that they were too... close."

He froze in place. "No. Not that."

"She said that... they'd been found... being intimate."

"Tywin, surely they were too young for that!"

"That is what I thought too! Foolish perhaps but too young to know!" More fury on his face, leavened with... something else. Uncertainty. "After Joanna died, Cersei... begged to have her old room back. Next to Jaime. Begged me with tears in her eyes."

There was a long pause as Kevan thought through the horrifying implications. "But then... what are we to do?"

Tywin's face worked again, as rage, incomprehension and indecision all warred within him, and Kevan had the sensation of being present at a battle that came down to a decision balanced on the blade of a knife.

"We go to Winterfell," his brother said eventually, in a hoarse voice that spoke of something close to desperation. "We go to Winterfell and we find out the truth about this."

Kevan stared at his brother for a long moment. "What if this is false news?"

Tywin stirred slightly. "Then we will call the banners and raze the North from the Neck to the Wall."

He nodded. But there was still a question that had to be asked. "And what if... what if this... is true?"

But Tywin merely hunched his shoulders and shook his head for an instant.

As Kevan left the room his brother was still standing there, staring out of the window. Staring North.

Robb

"I wish I had a Valyrian steel sword," Theon griped as he looked at the remains of the training dummy that Robb had just decapitated. "It would make life a lot easier."

"I wouldn't say that," Robb panted as he hefted Ice in both hands. Yes, the blade was far lighter than anything else that size that was made with normal steel, but after a while the effort did have an impact. "You need to rethink how hard you should swing the damn thing. I'm having to re-evaluate every bloody thing, every time I fight anyone. Or any thing."

"You're right," Jon groaned as he looked at the remains of his own training dummy. "I'm having to restrain myself. If I put the full force I'm normally used to into my blows I'd spend half my time staggering whenever I bloody fight."

Theon raised an eyebrow and then shrugged. "Well now, if I'm to found a new House here in the North, I'd better try and earn a Valyrian steel sword from somewhere. I can't exactly inherit one."

"Earn one?" Robb asked. "They're rare enough as it is!"

"I know," Theon replied slightly forlornly. "Well, you never know. Enough bizarre things have happened that I might stumble across one of the lost ones."

Jon coughed in a meaningful manner and Theon's eyes widened for a moment as he realised what he'd said. Dark Sister was still a secret and those who had noticed the blade had been told that it had been a gift. Which was true, but they were all doing their best to deflect any such questions.

They shut up and concentrated on more practice after that. A new pair of practice dummies were brought out and after a while they too were in pieces. As he picked up a piece of one of the arms Robb suddenly noticed that Father was standing to one side, watching them. And he had an odd look on his face.

"Are you alright Father?" Jon asked, looking at him seriously.

"Yes and no," Father replied as he walked towards them and then looked around carefully. "This is not a conversation for idle ears."

They all looked about, but there was no-one nearby, with the exception of a trio of small direwolves and the larger shape of their mother – who sniffed the air and then looked at Father with an air of utter unconcern.

"Firstly, Tyrion Lannister has asked if he can marry Dacey. I am minded to allow the match, as your cousin has already told me that she wants to marry him. I think that they would be good for each other. And there must always be a Surestone in Surestone."

Robb pulled a slight face but then nodded. "Very well. What has disturbed you though?"

Father coughed slightly and then grimaced. "At the end of our conversation, as he was leaving, he said that he and I need to talk about how you died and fell through time."

Three sets of eyes turned to Father at once. "Ah," Robb said eventually. "He must have finally worked it out. Mance Rayder did say that a Child of the Forest told him that he had to go to the Nightfort with the man with the golden mind and the boy who died and fell through time. Tyrion's not stupid. Eventually someone would have worked it out."

"Interesting that he mentioned it after talking to you about Dacey," Jon said thoughtfully. "Not before."

Yes, that was interesting, and Robb scratched his chin in thought. "I can talk to him if you like Father. He knows that much. And with his Father coming… well, we need to avoid any chance of people jumping to conclusions, especially if they don't have enough information. We need to know what Tyrion will tell his father. We need the Westerlands, Father."

Father looked at him… before eventually nodding. "Very well. Talk to Tyrion. Be cautious." He laid a hand on his shoulder. "You know the stakes. Especially with Lannisters. Tyrion is not like his faithless brother or sister, but he is still a Lannister."

"I won't let you down Father," he said. "I'll need to talk to him today."

Father nodded and then strode off. Robb sighed a little as he watched him and then hefted Ice before walking over to where its scabbard and slid it in. Then he smiled at the others. "I'll be careful," he grinned, noting their looks of exasperated patience. "I can be diplomatic, you do know that don't you?"

Jon just raised his eyebrows at him, whilst Theon smiled and shrugged a little. Robb laughed and strode off to his room, Grey Wind going on ahead of him like a small furry guardian. The little direwolf was growing fast, but he was still quite small compared to the Grey Wind of his memories. He also seemed to be sniffing something in the wind, because twice he stopped and paused, furry nostrils quivering.

Robb looked about at both times, but there was no-one there. Odd. He shrugged and strode into his rooms, where he hung Ice onto the hook by the door. It still felt odd to have it for himself. He looked at the sword for a long moment as he stood by the bed and scratched Grey Wind just behind his ears. He often wondered just what had happened to Ice in that other world. It had vanished in King's Landing, lost in the catastrophe that had overtaken Father's forces when Cersei bloody Lannister had moved against him.

He shrugged internally. Things were very different now. He moved to the doorway and then looked back. Grey Wind was still sitting on the bed, his head tilted almost quizzically – and then he stiffened and started to growl. Danger, Robb heard the warning from the direwolf, danger.

Alarmed he looked around – and then, sensing something that he couldn't describe, he leapt back as a knife swished through where he had been standing. A boot connected with the door, which slammed in the face of an approaching Grey Wind, who was snarling.

As Robb recovered his balance he finally caught sight of his attacker. It was that brat Joffrey. He looked unkempt and unshaven, he was dressed in a stained doublet and he was weaving more than a bit – he stank of stale wine and Robb realised with a sinking heart that the brat was drunk. He was also holding a dagger that looked extremely sharp.

"Stinkin' wolf boy," Joffrey slurred. "Stark bastard. Y'r father ruined my life. 'm a prince. Gr'nfather will reward me f'r killing you and presenting him with… with your head. I'll be…. Be a prince ag'in."

The bastard was drunk and mad. Robb slapped at his belt for his knife – which was, of course, on the other side of the door, behind which Grey Wind was howling and clawing at the door. I need to get this fool out of the bloody way, he thought desperately.

Joffrey swung again, with a wildness that made his eyebrows go up and Robb danced back. Another swing, with a wobble in the middle and Robb repressed a curse as the knife sliced through his doublet as if it was made of paper and nicked his arm. Valyrian steel, the bastard had a knife made from Valyrian steel and there was something about it that looked familiar. Another swing, another dance back, but this time Joffrey stumbled slightly, off balance, and Robb backhanded him about the head with a vicious blow that the GreatJon had taught him before Oxcross.

It seemed to stun Joffrey, who ran his spare hand over his face and then stared at the blood from his bleeding nose. "I… I'll kill you for that," he blustered, but there was something in his voice that spoke of rising fear. "Kill you."

"Robb, catch!" Someone shouted the words and he quickly looked around and then caught the scabbarded knife that had been thrown in his direction. In the blink of an eye the scabbard was on the floor and he turned on Joffrey with fire in his eyes.

"Drop the knife, Hill," he spat.

The name was a mistake. Joffrey quivered with rage and then leapt at him again. This time Robb was ready – he dodged the blow and then stepped in and grabbed his attackers knife hand with his left as he stabbed with his right. A wide-eyed Joffrey barely caught his arm in time – his knife left a red line on the bastard's wrist and then they stood there quivering with exertion.

Joffrey opened his mouth to say something, but Robb acted first. He heaved Joffrey's knife hand around so that it smashed into the wall and then at the same time he headbutted the drunken fool full in the face. The collision left him seeing stars, but he was ready for it. Joffrey was not. There was a crunching noise as his nose broke and he reeled back from Robb, the knife clattering to the floor as he brought both hands to his face and wailed in agony through a broken nose.

Robb kicked the knife away to one side and then stepped forwards – but someone else got there first. A booted foot lashed out from behind him and crunched into Joffrey's crotch. There was a moment of utter red-faced stillness and then Joffrey made a noise that reminded Robb of the time when he had heard a pig being butchered by a novice butcher, before collapsing in a sobbing, bloodstained heap.

He bared his teeth and restrained the impulse to cut the little bastard's throat. Instead he stepped backwards and looked at his helper – before blinking. Val was standing there. She had a dagger in each hand and she looked angrier than he had ever seen her before.

"This little prick deserved that," she spat, before looking at him. "Should we kill him?"

Joffrey made an inarticulate noise of further distress and Robb looked down in disgust as a certain smell came from the sobbing form on the ground. Gods, they'd have to scrub that spot.

Boots thundered in the hallways as guards and others approached at a run, drawn by the noise. Grey Wind was also howling in protest and Robb sighed and opened the door for the direwolf, who darted out and then snarled at Joffrey, before sniffing the air and then backing away, his hackles rising.

"What in the name of the Old Gods is going on here?" Father did not bellow the words, but the way that he spoke commanded instant silence. He looked at Robb. "You're bleeding."

Robb looked down at his arm. "It's just a scratch Father." The words 'I've had worse' hung in his head for an instant, until he bit them back.

Father sniffed the air and then looked in disgust at the sobbing Joffrey on the floor. "Best not take any chances. Have the Maester clean it. And someone take this idiot to a cell. I thought that he was confined to his room."

A roaring noise boomed down the hallway and every man – and woman – with a weapon made ready to fight. After a long, tense, moment the figure of Sandor Clegane appeared. He was staggering from wall to wall and the side of his head was covered in blood. "Where… where is that little bastard?!"

Father looked at him, his eyebrows raised, before pointing at the human puddle on the floor. "He attacked my son, Clegane."

"He hit me on the fuckin' head with a bottle. Little shit's drunk." Clegane seemed to finally think about what else had happened – and then he threw his back and laughed. "The little shit attacked your son! Only one sentence for that! Well, two. Let me be there when you take his head off Stark!" Then he clutched at his head. "Gods, my head hurts."

As two guards picked up a keening Joffrey and Clegane staggered off again Robb reached down picked up the dagger that the bastard had used to attack him with. It was familiar. Very familiar. He looked at Father and then at Val, who were both watching him. "I wonder where that little shit got a Valyrian steel dagger?"