Jon

He was out of breath by the time he got to Robb's room, preceded by a silent Ghost. As he hurtled around the corner and approached the doorway he could see that several servants were scrubbing at the floor, and at a trail that led off the other way, and that the Cassels were standing guard outside. Their swords weren't drawn, but their hands were on the hilts and they looked as alert as it was possible for them to be.

Robb was inside, stripped to the waist as Luwin carefully examined a shallow cut to his arm and then cleaned it with what looked like wine. Robb wasn't even wincing, even though it must have hurt.

Father was standing to one side with a scowl on his face that did not bode well for Robb's attacker, whilst Lady Stark sat next to Robb. She was pale and shaking – and judging from her eyes deeply, deeply, angry.

"You're alright?" Jon gasped the words when he could. "Where… where is that little… little sh-" He bit the word off as he caught sight of Bran and Arya arriving. "Idiot?"

"Dragged off to a cell," Father grated. "Under guard. Luwin will go to see him once he's finished cleaning Robb's wound. Apparently Mance Rayder's goodsister Val kicked him quite hard in the…" His eyes flickered at the two young Starks. "Crotch."

Jon snorted with amusement. Good. Serves that little shit right. Then he paused. "Val was here?" He raised an eyebrow at Robb, who shook his head.

"Not what you're thinking brother. She was in the corridor. Not my room. Without her help I'd have had to face him without a knife. And given the way that he screamed, she put all she had in that kick."

He sounded part bemused and part proud, and Jon looked at him and then at Father, who had an odd look on his face, one that combined amusement and exasperation.

There was a noise at the door, a barked command and then King Robert strode into the room. He looked as if he was ready to rip things limb from limb and he seemed to crackle with fury. The moment he saw Robb he stopped in his tracks and blinked.

"Gods," he said in a tight, perhaps overly controlled way. Then he saw the children. "Ned, perhaps your youngest should be sent away. They shouldn't see this."

Father sighed and then nodded. "Bran, Arya, you should go. This isn't something for your eyes."

The two younger Starks looked deeply affronted at this and Arya glared at the King in a way that predicted that she was about to say some words that Lady Stark was probably going to be horrified that Arya knew. Fortunately at that point Father cleared his throat. "Bran – Arya. Please go to your rooms. Robb's fine. I'll talk to you later." There was a collective indrawing of breath from the two and Father quashed any words by glaring a little at them. Both pouted and then left, dragging their feet more than a bit. As they left Arya looked sidelong at Bran, a look that made Father add: "And do not use your direwolves!"

Another sulky look and then they were gone.

The King watched all this with an amused eye – but then as he looked at Robb the amusement vanished in the blink of that eye.

"Gods, Ned, I'm sorry. I know that he's not my blood, now at least, but I'm sorry. That little shit. That useless little shit."

"Not your fault, Robert," Father sighed. "It seems that Joffrey did not take kindly to being proclaimed a bastard."

"Aye, but getting drunk and attacking your son? Gods, I'm sorry." He sighed and then peered at the wound. "Doesn't look too bad."

"The wound looks clean Your Grace," Luwin muttered with a slight smile of reassurance for Lady Stark. "The knife was Valyrian steel, so it's lucky that the cut is so shallow. It could have been very nasty indeed. I'll sew it shut, Lord Robb, so you will need the juice of the poppy."

Robb smiled slightly. "I've had worse," he muttered. "Do what you have to."

Father looked at him quickly, with what might have been a warning look, but the King was too busy frowning to notice. "Valyrian steel knife? What Valyrian steel knife?"

There was a pause as Father reached for his belt and pulled out a curved knife in a scabbard, which he handed over to the King.

The hulking other man took it and stared at it. "But this is mine! I won it off Baelish a year or more ago. Wait… this went missing a while back. SELMY!"

The white-cloaked Kingsguard came in, nodding in recognition at Father and Lady Stark. "Your Grace?"

"According to Lord Robb here, Joffrey Hill attacked him with this. Look familiar?"

Selmy looked at the knife. "That's your knife your Grace."

"When did it go missing?"

"Some months ago, your Grace. But Joffrey had it you say?" He peered at it. "You're a lucky man, Lord Robb. This knife is wickedly sharp. I wonder how Hill got hold of it?"

"The little shit stole it," the King said heavily. "There can be no other explanation. Gods damn it, he continues to shame me. He tried to stab young Robb in the back when he was unarmed." He closed his eyes and seemed to be struggling with something. Finally his shoulders slumped and he handed the knife back to Father. "I'd handle it myself, except that he's not my damn son anymore. I leave it in your hands Ned. I'll approve whatever judgement you feel fit to administer. Even if you want his head for a spike on the gatehouse here."

Father swapped a glance with the others and then nodded. "Thank you your Grace. I'll let you know when I make a decision."

The King nodded back and then stamped off, muttering something about needing a log and then some sword practice. Father watched him go and then looked at Luwin. "You'd best sew it shut as soon as you can."

"Aye, my Lord," Luwin muttered as he unrolled his instruments and then offered Robb a small vial, which he sipped from with a grimace.

Father had a word with one of the Cassels and the n closed the door and turned to Robb and the others. "Right, now what were you all but gurning about when I arrived?"

Robb pointed at the knife. "I've seen that knife before Father," he said grimly. "It's the knife that was used by the man who tried to kill Bran and Mother in that other time."

Everyone stared at Robb, and then at the knife. "You're sure?" Jon barked, an instant ahead of Father.

Robb nodded and then winced slightly as Luwin started to sew the wound shut. "It cut Mother's fingers, almost to the bone. She had scars afterwards and Luwin said she was lucky not to lose the use of some of them. The blood…" He paled. "You don't forget something like that. Yes, that's the knife."

Holding it in the air Father scowled at it. "The knife that Baelish said he'd lost to Tyrion Lannister, not Robert? I've had my doubts about that tale ever since you told me about it. It made no sense. But if it was another of Littlefinger's endless lies… Aye. I'd believe that. So. It was, we think now, passed on to that scoundrel by Joffrey. But why?"

There was a pause that was broken by Maester Luwin, who looked up from his careful sewing. "My Lord, I have observed the boy since he was disinherited. He is tall for his age, but more physically mature than mentally. And the mental aspect concerns me. Joffrey Hill is instinctively cruel – his brother and sister are both afraid of him – and I fear that the boy also has more than a touch of madness about him."

"He is inbred," Lady Stark said, slightly shakily as she looked at her fingers, obviously trying to imagine what such scars must have looked like. "Madness can be the result of that."

Which, of course made Jon wince a little. There was a lot of inbreeding in his own family tree, to the point where at times it was more of a family plank.

"There can be only two possible sentences for him," Father rumbled after a moment. "Death or the Wall."

"Kill him," said Lady Stark instantly. "He tried to kill our son, Ned!"

But it was Robb who objected to that. "That would be too quick, Mother. Plus Tywin Lannister is coming. We can't afford to alienate him any further. He must know that his children have been discovered committing incest and that Cersei is no longer Queen. By the time he gets here he will be humiliated enough. If he sees Joffrey's head looking down on him from a spike on the gateway… well, it will not go well. We need him. We need the gold of the Westerlands and the men that he commands. I loathe the bloody man but he is a great commander." He looked at Lady Stark. "Mother, I know how angry you are with Joffrey Hill, but we need to look at the bigger picture. I want him dead too, but exile to the Wall will suffice for me."

"I doubt he'd last long there," Jon muttered. "Given what we know what's approaching… being sent to the Wall would be a death sentence in itself."

Father hummed for a moment in thought. And then he grinned. "Aye. What a shame."

Daenerys

She was growing to hate the Magister's visits. They were always polite – just – and most of their attention was on her dragons rather than her. They peered at the trio, asked questions about how fast they were growing – and how long it would be before they started breathing fire.

She knew what they wanted. Braavos in flames, the Titan – was it even still there after that mad story about it bellowing a warning? – melted down, the Sealord a charred corpse and the Iron Bank a looted ruin.

All thanks to her. Or rather all thanks to her dragons. She wanted to be sick at times. They were holding her in a gilded cage, she lacked for nothing whatsoever, but it was still a cage.

She looked at her dragons as they dozed in their cages. They were growing and she needed to find names for them soon. But what? She'd been brought books about Valyria's dragons, book after book after book, some ancient and more modern. The names of many of the dragons had been in High Valyrian, although some of the later Targaryen dragons had had some rather odd names. She was not going to name any of her dragons something like 'Sheepstealer'.

So what then? The black dragon looked like a second Balerion. Could she call him that? What about the green one? Rhaegal perhaps, after Rhaegar, the brother she had never known? Perhaps that might not be a good idea. Rhaegar's actions had started the downfall of her family. She'd never name any of them after Father or Viserys. The first had been a monster and the second had tried to murder her. She bit her lip for a moment. She really needed to think about this in more detail.

A throat was cleared delicately behind her and she jumped a little. When she turned around she could see Lord Varys standing there, dressed in what looked like a merchant's clothes. He bowed a little in greeting. "I am sorry if I startled you my dear, but haste takes precedence over courtliness."

She stared at him – and then her heart sank a little. "What has happened?"

A small smile flashed across his plump features for a moment. "Always wise to assume the worst my dear," he said. "But in this case you were wise to. I have taken the liberty of ordering your maids to pack as many of your things as fast as possible. You must prepare your dragons at once. We need to flee Pentos and we must do so at once."

Icy water seemed to flow down her back for a moment but she made herself stand a little taller. "What has happened?" As she asked the question she walked over to the cages and covered each one with a thick cloth, making each dragon chirp a little in protest, before settling down to sleep.

Varys sighed as he walked to the window and stared out at the harbour. "You have met the Magisters of Pentos and doubtless you are not impressed. When Illyrio died defending you the level of their collective intelligence took a sharp dive downwards. They have spent a great deal of time talking about how they will use you and your dragons to conquer Braavos. They have spent far less time wondering how Braavos will react to that attack. Such as a pre-emptive strike." He turned from the window. "They are coming. An army carried on a fleet. They will be here before sunset, perhaps sooner. So – we must go."

She stared at him in horror. "The Braavosi are coming here? For me? No – for me and my dragons." The last words were not a question.

The older man nodded and there was sympathy in his eyes. "I fear so. As I told you before – you are a piece on the board of the Game of Cities for many people. A valuable piece."

A shudder of horror went through her. "So I must flee?"

A nod. "Yes."

"Where to? If I go to another city will not the Braavosi follow me there?"

This time the smile was slightly larger. "I know of a place that is safe. I will explain on the way. But we must go – and go now."

Which made her frown. "How? There are guards downstairs – on the gates and in the grounds."

"Ah, but many of the Unsullied here were once owned by Illyrio. In addition he had some… contingency plans, shall we say. There is a tunnel out of here, in the cellars. It leads to a place that I own. There are horses there and we need to get to a certain place on the Northern walls. There's another tunnel there."

She looked at him helplessly, memories of previous flights ahead of the Usurper's assassins running through her head. But then she nodded tiredly.

When she opened the door into the corridor she could see her maids scurrying about with boxes and clothes. They were surprisingly organised and she watched as they quickly packed her things up. Her more practical clothing was in the boxes, her prettier dresses were left behind. Which was probably a good thing. She looked at the clothes that the Magisters had brought her and then sighed and joined the general exodus for the stairs downwards, with three guards carrying her dragon's cages.

Down they went, until the windows vanished and the light came from lanterns, until they reached a doorway that Varys unlocked with a key. When the doors opened it was to a long narrow tunnel that they rushed through, the way illuminated with lanterns, until they saw another doorway ahead of them that Varys again unlocked.

On the other side was a stairway that spiralled up to another door that opened into a courtyard, where there was a carriage waiting for them with horses behind it and a waggon.

Before she could step towards the carriage and see to her dragons Varys turned towards her, a cloak in his hands. "Tie your hair back and put this on. When we leave this carriage you need to lean on my arm and use this." A stick was handed to her. She stared at it all and then sighed and did as he requested before finally seeing that her dragons were carefully secured within the carriage.

The packing seemed to take very little time and the next thing she knew she was in the carriage, alone with her dragons, with the blinds drawn. Varys had pulled on a hat and somehow made his face look rather different and was next to the driver. She heard a creak of gates, a snap of the whip and then the carriage lurched as they started forwards.

It seemed like a long trip, that carriage drive through Pentos. There were times when they literally walked and other times when they cantered. More than a few curses were thrown at them, but from the sound of it – and her eyebrows few up more than a few times – Varys cursed back just as loudly and with a lot of… invention.

Eventually they came to a stop. She waited in the darkness for a long moment and then the door opened slightly. "Are you ready My Lady?" Varys asked the question deferentially and she pulled the hood of her cloak over her head and picked up the walking stick. She remembered to lean against him and to use the stick as if – presumably – she was either old or sick. They passed through a doorway and into another courtyard.

As the servants and guards thundered past her and the gates closed behind everything she looked up at Varys, who nodded. As she took the cloak off she looked at the cages with her dragons she paused. Far off in the distance a bell was tolling. Five strokes. A pause. Five more strokes. Another pause. And then again. Another bell started to toll and then another and as she stood there she heard the sound on the street outside turn to cries of alarm. She looked around, feeling the beginnings of panic stir.

"Have they discovered that I'm gone?"

"No," replied Varys grimly. "That's the warning bell. The city is under attack. The Braavosi are here. We must hurry, we have been lucky so far."

They passed through another door that Varys had to unlock and then the party, some twenty five strong now, went down a long winding staircase that eventually led to yet another gate, this one wider and older than the previous one, judging by the stonework.

"An old way out of the city, built by someone long dead," Varys explained as he used a tinderbox to light a lantern. "I rediscovered it and refurbished it. It leads North out of the city, under the walls. It is long – and we must hurry."

It was indeed long and as they passed down it she started to feel weary. The walls were damp in places and here and there the floor was uneven, so she had to watch where she was walking. On and on they went on that seemingly endless trek, and once she had to calm down the little black dragon, who was calling for her under the covering of his cage, until eventually she could see a light ahead.

It was a lantern by a doorway. Once again Varys had a key and as the door opened she held her hand out to shield her eyes from the daylight that was almost blinding her. They seemed to be in another courtyard, in a rundown shabby looking manse that had yet more horses and a two waggons in it.

Once again they loaded up the chests and the cages that the guards and servants had brought with them. She fed her dragons and stroked them to reassure them and then as she mounted the horse that Varys had brought over for her she looked at the bald man. "Lord Varys, where are we bound for?"

He looked at her. "Andalos."

She stared at him. "But… there's nothing in Andalos. No-one. Nothing."

A slight smile crossed his face. "Not… entirely true my dear. You will see. Now – we must ride."

And ride they did, once everything was stored away, down a long valley and then up a ridge that had what passed for a trail on it. As they rode she looked at Varys again. "With me and my dragons gone, what will the Magisters of Pentos do?"

He shrugged. "Sadly, as I said, after the death of Illyrio the level of their collective wisdom went down a great deal. I have no doubt that once the Braavosi were sighted then various Magisters went to your quarters in a vain effort to find out if your dragons had miraculously gained the ability to fly and also breathe fire overnight." He sighed. "If they were sensible they surrendered quickly. If they were stupid then they fought."

They continued up the ridge, which twisted a little to the West and the setting Sun. It was then that she looked South at Pentos and her heart leapt into her throat for an instant. There was smoke billowing from the city, black and greasy. Smoke and flame in places.

"Ah," said Varys sadly. "They were stupid then."