Apologies for the delay on this, I've been putting two magazines to bed whilst also dealing with the disappearance of our mortgage (mad grin).

Yes, Tywin Lannister will be arriving in Winterfell in Chapter 134. Yes, it's taken him a while to get there, but there has been a lot of get into place first. Enjoy!

Bronn

He often wondered what the spiders in the crypts ate. There had to be some kind of food down here. He thought about that and then shuddered. Well, the tombs of the more recently dead Cawlishs were sealed.

He walked down the passageway, looking into the rooms to each side. Yes, all crypts. Good stonework. Solid. Excellent. He passed on, looking at the tombs with a little more interest. Old statues of old, long-dead lords stared back at him, swords on their laps. Or what remained of swords at times, some little more than rusty shards.

And then he paused and stared. Hmmm. Interesting. Some of the coats of arms on the earlier tombs were… interesting. He continued on, looking about. More good stonework, nothing bricked up, excellent. He tilted his head at the statue that had not just a rusty smear but also an old dust-covered shield.

"Lord Cassley."

He paused and looked behind him. "Steward Cawlish." He wanted to call her Ursula, but he knew that she was not yet ready for any familiarity. Yet.

"Can I ask why you are in the crypts?"

"Oh, just having a look around."

"For what?"

"Weak spots."

"In the crypts?" She deployed a raised eyebrow at him.

Ah. He looked at her. "Every keep has a weak spot. Every one. It might be the old wall that the previous lord didn't get around to replacing or strengthening. It might be the sallyport that didn't get a new gate, as had been planned." He paused and then grinned at her. "Ever heard of House Honeyfeather, in the Reach?"

Ursula Cawlish blinked. "No, my Lord."

"Don't blame you. Small house. Small keep. And not so much 'Honeyfeather' by name, more like 'Pissanvil' by nature. A secure keep though. Locked up tighter than a drum. A sellsword was once hired to retrieve a Valyrian steel dagger from that keep, as it was said by another local lord that they didn't really own it. The sellsword spent four days inspecting the bloody place from all angles. Finally he discovered an old disused privy hole overhanging a cliff. And it's amazing what a well-motivated man with a rope and a grappling hook can do."

There was a pause and then she raised an eyebrow at him. "Was that sellsword you?"

"Yes."

Another pause. "A disused privy hole?"

"Yes."

She lowered the eyebrow. "So you're looking for weak spots?"

"I am." He looked around. "Seen one or two places to keep an eye on. Nothing bad, mind you, but I'm just checking the last areas."

She looked at the tombs. "Anything here?"

"No." He tilted his head. "The stonework down here is the work of the First Men. And I didn't know that the Cawlishs once married into the Mudds. Was this place once a part of the Riverlands?"

"A long time ago," she replied softly as she looked at the nearest statue. "The Vale and the Riverlands used to fight over it. And yes, one of my ancestors – no, two of them – married into the Mudds. A very long time ago."

They stood there for a moment amidst the long-dead Cawlishs before he looked at her. "Was there a reason why you came looking for me?"

"A raven came from King's Landing. It seems that King Robert has divorced Cersei Lannister, on a charge of incestuous coupling with her own brother. And the royal children have all been disinherited. They're all bastards."

A weight he hadn't known was on him fell off his shoulders. "So, the news is out there?"

"It is."

"Good thing I was down here. You can tell people that I was 'very surprised' when you told me. I hope that you were yourself surprised?"

The other eyebrow flickered. "Oh, astonished."

"Good." He pulled a slight face. "Any word from Haster about Lady Lysa whatever the hells her name is now? Arryn? Tully?"

She went slightly pink and her chin went up. Oh dear. Not a good sign. "Still demanding things that she has no right to."

"Well, as soon as she's fit I want her out of here. Out and off to King's Landing or the Eyrie. Away from here. That woman's raving mad and I still think that she's a threat to us."

When he looked at her again Ursula Cawlish had a rather odd look on her face. "I agree Lord Cassley." Yes, there was definitely something there.

He could work with that.

Kevan

The ride East from Torrhen's Square was… hard. Tywin drove the men at a fearsome pace, in a way that reminded him of the days that led to the fall of the Reynes and the Tarbecks. And that was something that frightened him more than a bit. His brother could be as relentless as an avalanche when sufficiently enraged. And Tywin was indeed enraged – but coldly so. Tywin was even more dangerous in circumstances such as these.

When they stopped for the first night at a small keep that had a particularly young (and terrified) Lord the first thing that he checked was if there had been any further news from Winterfell. To his relief there was not. No news of executions, no word of exiles, nothing.

Tywin was curt with everyone, even him, and the men trod lightly around him, even Kevan himself. He knew what kind of things might set his brother off, so he warned the officers and the men and drove himself just as hard to keep on top of any little… hiccups.

He had already warned Gregor bloody Clegane not to do anything stupid. He'd then warned several large guards to keep an eye on the wretched man. Tywin regarded him as a tool, if a very blunt one. Kevan viewed him as an unstable murdersome idiot and he still didn't know why his brother had brought him with them, other than to show that he commanded the loyalties of the Mountain.

East they rode again at dawn on the second day, passing along the road that ran through the hills to the North of the Barrowlands. Every settlement around them seemed to be busy sowing or tending to crops and he viewed it all with a growing sense of dread. There also seemed to be some fairly intense efforts at breeding livestock in places, with sheepherders standing back from the road to let them pass. Some of them were quite winsome women, but he didn't have to snarl at the men to stop them from stopping to talk to them. Tywin's wintery gaze was enough, cowing even the Mountain.

On they rode, walking the horses when they were blown, but still pressing on. He doubted that anyone else could keep that kind of pace, not even Robert Baratheon himself.

The first surprise was when they came across an old keep that had once been all but a ruin – but now there was a group of tents to one side and a building had been restored, with more on the way. The banner that flew was that of a running black direwolf on a red background and Tywin had been curious enough to ask whose keep it was as they ate their midday meal just after the Mountain had been stopped from trying to headbutt a tree to stop one of his headaches.

The man who strode up to them, guards behind him, was tanned and looked vaguely familiar. Lord Rickard Redstark was his name, and he told them he was restoring what had been one of his family's old holdfasts as his own.

"House Redstark?" Tywin had not quite scoffed. "That family has been gone from the North for centuries. Not since…" And then he had paled a little, which for Tywin was unusual. "Not since the Conquest."

"The King who knelt was also the King who sent members of important families East to Essos, in the Company of the Rose. Just in case. Cousin Ned can tell you more, but we have come home to fight the Others. Safe trip Lord Lannister." And then he strode off again.

Kevan watched the man leave and then ordered that the camp be struck as soon as the men had finished eating. True enough, Tywin ordered them back on the road soon after, his face as hard as stone. As they resumed their ride East he overheard Tywin mutter something that made dread run through him. Four words: "Something dark is coming."

He had a bad feeling that more surprises were on the way.

Robb

By the time he finished speaking the two men in front of him were both white-faced and gaping at him. The fact that they were the two most powerful and important men in all of Westeros… was amusing in no small way. He kept that to himself however. Best not to stir anything up.

After a long moment Robert Baratheon sank back into his chair, which creaked a little in protest, and then looked at him and smiled crookedly. "Gods… no wonder the Old Gods sent you back, lad. Me dead, Ned dead, half the realm on fire and the other half getting ready to go to war… and all the time the threat of the Others was hanging almost unseen over the Wall. No Call. Gods. What a fucking mess."

"And Joffrey on the Iron Throne," muttered Stannis, his eyes voice hoarse. "And Renly… gods. Renly dead from foul magic."

Robb eyed the man carefully. "My mother saw his death and described the… thing that killed him. She described it to me afterwards."

Stannis ran a shaking hand over his face. "Renly. I gave him my food at the siege of Storm's End to keep him alive. And he repaid me with betrayal."

"In a world that is no more. A time, I mean. Gods, this is making my head spin. How did you cope with it Ned?"

"Badly, at first," Father replied from the window, where he had been staring out at the courtyard below, his hands behind his back. "It's always hard to hear Robb tell of what happened."

"A shadow with my face." Stannis shuddered, before catching himself. "I will give orders that if this Melisandre of Asshai appears anywhere near my family or the court she is to be killed at once."

The King pulled a slight face at this, but then looked back at Robb. "The Greyjoy boy knows about this, doesn't he?" It was a surprisingly shrewd query and Robb nodded after a moment. "And that's why he wants to change his name?" Another nod.

There was a long moment and then the King let out a bark of laughter. "If I didn't know better you've had your revenge for that other future, Ned!"

Father turned and quirked an eyebrow at him. "What's that?"

"Roose Bolton's trueborn son is to marry your daughter and renounce his family's legacy, that fool Balon Greyjoy is about have his last son take a new name and Jaime Lannister has taken the Black. It only needs Walder Frey to fall over and break his scrawny neck to complete it all!"

Father smiled slightly. "I wish that I planned such a revenge. But I did not. You know why I did not tell you of all this when you arrived now. You wouldn't have believed me."

"Aye," the King rumbled, "I would not." Then he looked at the door. "Ser Barristan!"

The door opened to reveal the white-cloaked warrior. "Your Grace?"

"Is Theon Greyjoy out there?"

"He is your Grace."

"Send him in, if you please."

"Aye your Grace."

When Theon entered there was a look on his face that reminded Robb of those men who had gone into battle for the first time. His chin was up, but there was something in his eyes that combined many emotions – hope, a little fear, some uncertainty but also resolve. He stood in front of the King, Mist at his side, and bowed. "Your Grace."

"You are here again to ask permission to change your name to that of Theon Greymist?"

Theon swallowed. "I am, your Grace. I wish to found my own house here in the North, as a bannerman to House Stark."

"You are aware of the implications of this?"

"I am."

The King looked at Robb for a moment. "Young Robb here has recounted the future that he remembers. I understand why you have made this request now."

Theon's eyes jerked rapidly to Robb and then back to Robert Baratheon, before he nodded jerkily, a sheen of sweat suddenly on his forehead. Mist looked up at him for a moment, before making a huff noise that seemed to reassure Theon. "I want nothing to do with my father your Grace. When he rebuilt the Iron Fleet he placed my life in danger the moment the first hull was laid down. He cares nothing of me. I care nothing of him. Lord Stark has been a far better father to me than my flesh and blood. I am of the North now." And then he fell silent, flushing slightly as if with embarrassment at how many words had escaped his mouth.

The King looked at him for along moment from beneath a pair of beetling eyebrows, before finally making a decision. "Theon Greyjoy, bend the knee before me."

Theon went down one knee at once, visibly trembling just a bit.

There was a long moment and then the King said: "Rise, Theon Greymist. You will have to swear your vows to Lord Stark, but from this moment you have founded a new lordly house here in the North. Do you have any idea of what banner you will fly in your keep, wherever it will be?"

Theon stood, shaking slightly with emotion, before pulling out a piece of cloth with a coat of arms stitched onto it. The King took it. "A blue wolf running over green waves under a grey sky?"

There was an odd noise from Father behind him, and he half-turned to see the Lord of the North deep in thought.

"A good choice," the King rumbled. "Any words yet?" Theon shook his head, obviously overwhelmed. "Very well then. Talk to Lord Stark in a bit. But for the meantime, that's all. Off with you."

Theon looked at Robb, mouthed 'Ale?' at him and then walked off looking happy but dazed. As the door close behind him Father rubbed his nose. "Interesting banner," he muttered, and then something under his breath.

"Who else knows about this?" Robert Baratheon rumbled. "Cat?"

"Aye, her and Jon. Luwin too. Jeor Mormont. And a few others at the Wall – Benjen and Maester Aemon. Oh and Tyrion Lannister, who worked out certain clues."

"And now us. Let's keep it to that. Too many more and who knows what might happen."

Father nodded and looked out of the window again. "And now we await Tywin Lannister."

The King nodded, a scowl on his face, but just as he seemed about to say something there was a rumble of voices in the corridor, before the door opened to reveal Ser Barristan again. "Your pardon your Grace, but there is a lord from the Reach who craves an urgent audience with you."

"Who is it?"

"Lord Randyll Tarly your Grace."

The King's eyebrows flew upwards. Then he swapped a gaze with Stannis, who looked as if his eyes had turned to agate gems, before sighing and then looking at the door. "TARLY! Get in here you old warhorse!"

A lean bald man with a grey beard strode in, dressed in travel-stained clothes strode in and took a knee in front of the King. "Your Grace."

"Stand. You've come a long way. The Call?"

Lord Tarly went pale for a moment as he stood. "It was loud at Horn Hill, your Grace," he muttered and Robb could see the others prick up their ears. "Loud enough that… well, my oldest son heard it more than I did. And he found Otherbane, the spear of the Gardner Kings, hidden at Horn Hill. Lord Willas Tyrell holds it now. And he sent me, your Grace. The Call has been sent out and the Reach will answer. As I have some small knowledge of war Lord Willas sent me to find out what exactly the threat is and what the Reach needs to send most urgently."

Robb raised his eyebrows and then saw the others react as well. "Otherbane?" The bald man looked at him and he nodded at him. "Robb Stark, Lord Tarly. My father holds the Fist of Winter, and his Grace holds Stormbreaker, both weapons of the First Men."

"Sit down Tarly," the King muttered. "And tell us all that has happened in the Reach."

Theon

He sat on the bench in the courtyard, next to the table and small cask of ale, and stared at the mug in his hand. He felt… oddly numb. He had thought that he'd be feeling exultant, and there was a shade of that in the back of his head, but for the most part there was this shocked stillness in his head.

There was still no sign of Robb, but Mist was staring at the doorway in a way that made him feel that he and Grey Wind would join them soon.

He was no longer a Greyjoy. Instead he was a Greymist, the first of his name. He had a better idea of what he was feeling now. Part anticipation about the road ahead, part exultation about his new freedom – he was no longer a hostage to his father's madness – and part fear about failing.

His new house would be based on him. Him. Was he strong enough? He was sure that he was, but… there was that nagging feeling. Normally he could look back on the fact that he was – had been – a Greyjoy and take fresh strength from that. Not anymore.

"Are you alright lad?" Ser Rodrik Cassel was looking down at him quizzically. "You've been staring at that ale for quite a while."

"I'm…" He paused and then drank some of his ale. "I'm no longer Theon Greyjoy any more. His Grace has given me permission to found my own house now. A Northern house. I am… I am now Theon Greymist."

The elder Cassel stared at him for a moment, his eyes widening a little, before the old man smiled and slapped him on the back. "Congratulations lad! Or should I say Lord Greymist?"

"I think it is Lord Greymist," said a voice to one side, and he turned to see Robb approach, Grey Wind next to him. Mist wuffled a greeting at his sibling and then the two direwolves sat and stared at them. Robb poured himself a mug of ale, nodded at Ser Rodrik to do the same and then held his drink up in a salute. "To Lord Greymist! The newest bannerman to House Stark!"

As they all saluted and drank Theon felt the shock of it all lessen a little. It had happened. He had stepped out of the shadow of Balon Greyjoy. It should have been that moment in his life when the sun broke through the clouds. Instead it started to rain gently, a shower that spattered down onto the shingles on the half-roof above their heads.

But they were dry enough where they were and as they finished the mugs he showed the older man his idea for a sigil. Ser Rodrik peered and nodded approvingly. "Any word on where you'd have your keep?"

He shrugged. "Near the coast perhaps. I always wondered about founding a Northern navy on the Western coast." He felt his nostrils flare a bit. "Protect the coast from the Ironborn."

Ser Rodrik gazed at him keenly for a moment before nodding sharply. "A good idea," he grunted. "Another thumb in the eye of your father."

Robb looked at the white-whiskered master of arms. "Did you ever meet Balon Greyjoy?"

"Saw him once," was the reply. "After Pyke fell. Man had a face that looked as if he'd eaten a vinegar-soaked rotten onion." He seemed to be about to say something else when all of a sudden there was a shout from the East Gate, followed by a horn being blown. The older Cassel put his ale down and hurried out into the rain, looking up at the gates, where his nephew was standing with a Myrish spyglass in hand. Theon swapped a troubled look with Robb and they both followed the older man, having tugged up the hoods of their cloaks, with their direwolves padding gravely after them.

After a moment a guard ran out towards Ser Rodrik. "A party on the road," he gasped. "Bearing the banner… of House Harlaw."

"Ironborn?" Cassel barked and Theon felt his eyebrows fly up. What was the Reader doing here?

"How many?" Robb asked, his eyes keen.

"Just a half-dozen of them, my Lord."

Robb looked at Theon, who pulled a face. "Not many." His felt his face harden. "Watch them and find out why they're here."

His friend nodded. "Admit them, but watch them, as Lord Greymist said." As Ser Rodrik and the guard hurried off Robb looked at him. "Are you ready for this?"

Not really, but he set his chin. "I'll need to be."

The party that rode through the gates were indeed Ironborn because they rode as if they were sacks of straw. Not one was a good horseman, but two were slightly better than the others. The first was an old man bearing the banner of House Harlaw, a white scythe on a black background. The second was more interesting, a girl in her mid-twenties, dressed in dark leathers, with short black hair and a nose that was rather impressive. Rather familiar as well.

As the assorted group dismounted, one muttering that he needed a new arse, the two Cassels walked up to them. "What is your business in Winterfell?"

The girl drew herself up. "I am Asha Greyjoy, here bearing a message from Lord Rodrik Harlaw, of Harlaw, for his Grace King Robert." Then she paused and exchanged a quick glance with the man with the banner, who nodded fiercely at her. "And we have heard the Call."

So, it was Asha after all. He thought it was her, although his memories of his sister were hazy with age. He put a hand on Mist's head for a moment and then frowned a little. How would this play out?

The Cassels both turned to look at Robb, and it was only then that the Ironborn seemed to notice them – and the direwolves. Several of them muttered at each other, whilst Asha raised a rain-soaked eyebrow at them.

"Lord Robb, this is Asha Greyjoy," Ser Rodrik rumbled. "And party." He glared at the other Ironborn in such a way that made them stir uneasily.

Robb tilted his head as he looked at the Ironborn – and then he looked at Theon. "Lord Greymist," he said quietly, "Would you help me escort Lady Greyjoy to his Grace the King?"

He nodded. He wanted to grin, but some how this felt right. "Aye. I would." His sister seemed to dismiss him with a glance, albeit a troubled one because of Mist, before almost openly eyeing Robb's arse as he led them towards the Great Keep. He had a feeling that his sister might have a few shocks coming to her.

Edmure

It was a mercy to execute the mad Septon Blackfoot.

As he was dragged to the place that had been chosen to execute him it was obvious that he was still raving mad, drooling and laughing as he cried at something that no-one else could see. The men were subdued as they watched him approach and he could understand why. He was completely insane and could not understand that justice was being done. Did he even realise that he had committed crimes that warranted the death penalty?

Blackfoot was dragged to the spot in front of him and he straightened and did his best not to swallow with nerves. This had to be done. His Goodbrother always said that the man who pronounced the sentence should also be the man who swung the sword.

The sword in question was being held by Patrek Mallister, newly returned from Seaguard and oddly quiet. He'd said that his father was marshalling aid for the Wall with all dispatch and that the Call had been heard at Seaguard.

He really needed to talk to Ned.

Patrek held out the sword, which had been sharpened especially for this, and he took it. It was heavy. That was a good thing.

"Kneel," he commanded. Blackfoot just stood there in front of the block, laughing softly and crying at the same time. There was also that sudden stink about him that made Edmure wrinkle his nose in disgust and he pulled a face and nodded at the guards, who forced the Septon to his knees with out much difficulty.

"In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, I, Edmure of the House Tully, son of Lord Hoster Tully of Riverrun, Lord of the Riverlands, sentence you to die. If you have any last words, now is the time."

The Septon did not say a word – he just hummed and smiled and cried. Edmure looked at Patrek for a moment, who grimaced, and then sighed. "Very well."

But as he lifted the sword in the air and prepared to swing it the Septon actually finally said something: "…can you hear it?"

He paused, confused. "Hear what?"

There was a pause. "They come." The Septon said the words in a wondering tone. "They are coming. I hear them. I hear him. Faint. So faint. He's coming." The giggle turned into a sob. "Kill me."

He stared at the man and then hefted the sword again, gauging where to strike on the man's skinny neck. And then he brought it down, as hard and true as he could. The impact jarred his wrists, but he had judged it right and he panted a little as he stepped back from the headless corpse. The head itself rolled on the ground for a moment, before coming to a stop, the eyes twitching once, twice and then ceasing to move as they went dull with death.

There was a collective sigh from all the men around him and he looked up to the balcony to one side where Father was standing, watching it all. Hoster Tully gave his son a single firm nod and then walked tiredly back into the hall.

Edmure looked at the nearest guards. "Give his body to the Silent Sisters. He served the Seven, before his ambition doomed him, so treat his body with due respect."

The men nodded and then bent to their work and as they did Patrek approached and took the sword from him. "Normally," his old friend said, "We would go out now and find wine and wenches and forget the cares of the world. What do you think he meant by his last words?"

He remembered the sensation of metal meeting flesh and bone, and shuddered. "I don't know," he said carefully. "But wine sounds like a good idea to me at the moment."

Asha

Winterfell felt… intimidating. Not that she would ever admit that to anyone. No, she made herself walk as normally as possible, perhaps with a suggestion of swagger. Anything to prevent anyone from suggesting that this place made her uneasy.

The direwolves really made her skin crawl a bit though. There was something about them, something… serious, for want of a better word. Every now and then one of them would look at her in such a way that made her feel very odd indeed.

The two young men leading her deeper into Winterfell also made her think a bit. 'Lord Robb' had to be Robert Stark, Ned Stark's heir. He took after his Tully mother and although he was young he looked as if he was old enough for a tumble or two. Nice arse too. But there was something about his eyes that looked a bit strange, as if his eyes were older than his face.

As for the other lad, he hadn't taken his hood down when they went indoors, unlike Robb Stark, and there was something odd about him as well. He had a direwolf but his name was Greymist and not Stark, and she had thought that only Starks could have direwolves. Perhaps he was Ned Stark's bastard son with a new name…

She shook her mind off the men and concentrated on where they were going. They had entered a doorway and were heading up a set of stairs that doubled back on itself as it went upwards, and then along a long corridor. Up another set of stairs and then another corridor that led to a closed door that was guarded by a white-haired man in armour with a white cloak.

"Ser Barristan," Robb Stark said with a respectful nod of greeting. "We need to see His Grace at once. This is Asha Greyjoy, with a letter from Lord Harlaw."

The old Kingsguard nodded at the Stark boy and then looked at her, with a slight tilt of the head and a narrowing of the eyes that made her suddenly aware that this man was dangerous in a way that she had seldom seen before. "One moment," Ser Barristan muttered, before knocking on the door and slipping in. When he returned he nodded. "His Grace is within."

The room was obviously Lord Stark's solar, judging from the maps on the walls. But it was the four men within it that made her swallow. She remembered them from after Pyke had fallen and after that, for a while, three of them had appeared in her nightmares. Stannis Baratheon, the man who had smashed the Iron Fleet at Fair Isle. Ned Stark, the Quiet Wolf who had besieged the castle and finally Robert Baratheon, the Demon of the Trident himself. And then there was Randyll Tarly, the grim lord of Horn Hill and the man who had carved a bloody swathe of his own through the Iron Islands during Father's ill-fated rebellion.

Tarly was standing in front of the largest map, staring up at it and was pale. As she entered she heard the words "A hundred thousand?" fall from his lips, and then he seemed to catch himself and rally.

As for Robert Baratheon he was not what she thought he would be. She remembered the Demon, but had been told by Ironborn merchants who had passed through King's Landing that the King had gone spectacularly to seed in recent years. Well, those merchants must have been wrong, because the King looked as powerful as ever, although there was something about his midriff that looked a bit saggy. However, his shoulders were as vast as ever and his gaze was azure and frankly rather intimidating.

And there was the huge direwolf by the fire, which made her eyes widen as it looked at her with eyes that seemed to size her up and then dismiss her as a potential threat.

"Well then, Asha Greyjoy," the King boomed. "Come forth. You have a message from The Reader I have heard?"

She bent the knee for as long as she could bear and then she straightened up and handed the letter over. The King took it with a frown, peered at the seal, cracked it with snap of the thumb and then opened it to read the contents.

"How bad is the civil war in the Iron Islands?" The question came from Stannis Baratheon, who was watching her with a stony expression.

She paused, considered bluffing it out a bit, and then looked the man in the eye. "Bad. My father denies that the Call was real. Greenlander mummery he called it."

"Did you hear it?" Stark rumbled, his eyes narrowed.

She licked suddenly dry lips. "I heard it," she muttered as he mind went back to that day. "I was at sea when I heard it. It was… no mummery. It was real."

"But your father denies it?"

"Balon Greyjoy always was a fool," Stannis Baratheon rumbled. She wanted to glare at him, but she couldn't deny that his words were true.

"The Reader calls for help from the Crown," the King said thoughtfully as he handed the letter to his brother. "Says that Balon Greyjoy is killing those who say that they heard the Call." He looked at her with eyes that seemed to blaze suddenly with fury. "And he confirms the fact that your father, despite being told not to do so by me, has rebuilt the fucking Iron Fleet. Did he hate his only remaining son, a hostage here in Winterfell, that much, to risk his life?"

She swallowed. That had been something that she had been hoping that the King might miss. Truth be told, she knew that Father had written Theon off years before and had been grooming her as his eventual successor, even though it went against tradition. Time to tell the truth. "If my father had not then he would have been overthrown by his own lords as being weak. Bending the knee to you was… hard, for many, your Grace."

Something odd glittered in the eyes of Robert Baratheon for a long moment. Then he smiled, or rather he bared his teeth at her. "Well, it's a moot point I suppose. You're now your father's only potential heir at the moment. Plot a careful course."

She blinked at him for a long moment as horror slowly stole over her. "Theon is dead?"

"No," Stannis Baratheon muttered as he passed the letter over to Stark, who read it quickly. "He's just… unavailable for your father."

"I don't understand."

The Hand of the King shrugged. "You will."

But she persisted. "Is my brother dead?"

"No," said Robb Stark. "He lives."

Baffled and more than a bit angry she looked about the room and then glared at the still-hooded Greymist boy, who seemed to be glaring back at her angrily. "What are you staring at?"

The direwolf next to the boy flattened its ears and then glared back at her, confusing her even more, but then the King spoke up again: "So your father has called for a truce and a meeting, but The Reader thinks that it's a trap?"

She looked back, her thoughts skittering around like a seagull on a frozen pond. "Aye. And I agree with him. Father does not normally do… truces. He will try and gain an advantage."

"You mean break Guest Rights." Stannis did not ask it as a question, he merely stated it. "If it's even offered."

"Aye, you have the right of it," Asha admitted. "My father will… probably imprison me. For my own protection, so to speak." The words tasted bitter in her mouth, like ash leavened with burnt sea salt. "I don't know what he plans for Nuncle Rodrik. But he will remove us as leaders of those who know that we have to help the Night's Watch." She paused, the next words almost closing her throat as they formed themselves in her mouth. "Father… Father gave Nuncle Victarion orders to raze Harlaw to the ground when he attacked us with what remained of the Iron Fleet. I… I do not know him anymore."

There was a long silence as the men in the room all looked at her, even the bearded Reachman who had finally stopped staring at the map on the wall and muttering things under his breath.

"What help do you need, Asha Greyjoy," the King eventually said. "What can I do?"

She nodded at him. "Recognition of who we are, your Grace. We represent those who heard the Call. Those who know that we have to send aid to the Wall. And those who know… that the Drowned God…" She fell silent for a moment as she struggled with the words. "Is wrong." They were the hardest two words that she had ever said in her life.

The others must have realised that by the look on her face, and after a long moment she composed herself again. "Lord Harlaw," she said in a low voice, "My nuncle Rodrik, found runes in High Harlaw. Runes that glowed eventually and which told a tale that… that spoke of the Drowned God being mad. A… mad thing that was once one of the Old Gods, but who had been driven to that madness by the fight against what was behind the Others."

As the others frowned and bestirred themselves at her words she pulled out a second letter. "Lord Harlaw transcribed the runes and said that they should be sent to Lord Surestone here in the North, a man who is known to my nuncle as an expert on the old ways of the First Men. Nuncle Rodrik said that he is a good man who can be trusted with any truth."

It was Lord Stark who took the letter with a sorrowful gaze. "Lord Surestone was my cousin. He is dead – and is much mourned. But his daughter lives and carries on his life's work and is here in Winterfell, so I shall pass this on to her. You have my thanks."

She nodded at Lord Stark and then looked over to the King. But the next words that were spoken came from Greymist. "A mad god? Aye, that sounds right. I saw him as a foul creature on an island made from the bones of the dead your Grace."

Surprised she looked over at Greymist again, whose head was lowered as he clutched at something strung around his neck. "What would you know of the Drowned God?"

"More than you," came the reply. "I have denied him. I follow the Old Gods now."

Something prickled at her scalp. "Who are you?"

Greymist, with hands that shook a little, pulled down his hood and she finally got a good look at his face. "I was once Theon Greyjoy. But no more. Today his Grace allowed me to choose a new name as a bannerman of the North, in service to House Stark after my so-called father all but abandoned me. Now I am Theon Greymist. Of House Greymist. And I am a Northman."

Ah. That explained so much. She was torn in a dozen different directions, wanting to snarl at him, embrace him, pity him, understand his actions… She settled for looking at his direwolf, who looked back at her with a pitiless gaze. "I think I understand," she said thickly after a moment. "We must talk, brother, but I understand."

"And I think that I have a solution to your problem," Stannis Baratheon broke in. "You and your uncle need support from the Crown at this meeting? Then you shall have it, in the form of me. If the Hand of the King attends, then not even Balon bloody Greyjoy can try to break his word."

"He might have others who are not sworn to him attack, to get around breaking Guest's Right," the King said, frowning at his brother. "Oh, and he hates you, Stannis!"

"I can live with that," the Hand said with a bitter smile. "Besides, it's not like I'd be going alone. I'd be the dagger in the boot for Lord Harlaw."

The two Baratheons stared at each other for a long moment, before the King smiled at his brother. "A dagger in the boot indeed. No – something more lethal than that. Very well." He turned back to her and was about to speak when there was a knock at the door. "Come!"

The door opened to reveal a grey-haired Maester, who bustled in with a message in one hand. "From Castle Cerwyn, your Grace."

As the Maester left the King unrolled the message. Then his eyebrows flew up before beetling down. "Tywin Lannister was at Castle Cerwyn when this message was sent." He handed it to Stannis Baratheon. "He will doubtless be here tomorrow." And then he looked back at her. "I'm afraid that your trip back to High Harlaw will be delayed a few days. The Lannisters are coming."