Sorry for the delay on this. I've been very busy the last few weeks, plus two members of my family are currently fighting cancer - an aunt and an uncle.

Theon

The evening meal in the Great Hall that night was… subdued, almost. It was not loud it was not boisterous in any way, it was just… quiet. The King was at the head of the table, next to his brother Lord Stannis and his all but brother Lord Stark, and they talked quietly but intently, gesturing at a small map of the Realm on the table.

There was a moment of sudden silence to one side and he looked over to see that Tywin Lannister had arrived, his brothers next to him and a faint air of tension over them. The silence deepened for a moment and then everyone resumed what they were doing at a slightly louder volume. He suppressed a smirk. It was not a good idea to smirk anywhere near a Lannister right now.

Tywin Lannister strode to the empty chair at the head table that had been set aside for him, bowed shortly to the King, who nodded back at him, and then sat and speared some meat off a platter that a servant had hurried to bring to him. He then ate, staring at the table with what looked like unseeing eyes.

Theon watched him carefully and then looked at the other Lannisters, who were eating and glancing at the head of their House worriedly. And then after a long moment the King looked down the table. "Lord Lannister, we need your counsel on the matter of mobilising the Realm – especially over the issue of how and when to man the Wall. I would be grateful to know your thoughts on this."

He frowned for a moment and then watched as Tywin Lannister chewed, took a swallow of wine and then leant closer to the map on the table and joined the low-voiced conversation. Theon couldn't hear that much of what he said, but occasionally a word could be heard, such as 'harvest', 'stockpile' and then 'Night's Watch'. After a while they all resumed eating and drinking, although every now and then one of them would lean towards the others and say something.

He sighed a little. Robb had gone to bed earlier, tired, and Jon was off somewhere in a hunt for the Terrible Threesome, who had apparently been hatching some kind of plan to search the crypts for the legendary dragon egg of Vermax. Exactly how a large dragon had gotten into the crypts seemed to have escaped them, but apparently they had a plan to look for it.

Once he finished his food he stood, nodded at those around him and then walked out of the Hall and looked up at the stars above him. Those same stars shone above Pyke. And also the Stony Shore. He'd been thinking about the latter a lot this past day. There were a few old abandoned keeps here and there, but he'd been looking at the maps and he thought that he might have spotted a few good anchorages here and there. A keep, a potential port, land to till, a holding to protect… there were possibilities.

Well now, look at him. A Lord, thinking of the duties of a Lord. He just needed men and a wife, and that latter thought made him think of Ros. Should he pay a visit to Wintertown and the brothel where she was? Too late tonight perhaps. Or was it? He liked her and he was pretty sure that she liked him. She seemed to, anyway. It was hard to tell with whores.

And then he heard a crunch of boots approaching, followed by the clearing of a throat and he sighed a little and turned. His sister was standing there, a mug of ale in her hand.

"I was wondering when you'd seek me out, sister."

"I had a lot to think about," she said, before bringing her other hand out from behind her back and handing him another mug of ale. "Here you go. I don't like to drink alone."

He took it and quaffed, before wiping his mouth. "Not bad. You want to talk about what I've done?"

"I do." She seemed to struggle for a moment for words, before deflating a little and then waving him over to one side, where there was a barrel with a spigot hammered into it. Ah. More ale. "You're a Greenlander now."

"I am."

"Lord Greymist."

"That I am."

"Father won't be pleased."

He scowled at her. "Father can fuck off." She glared at him and he threw the remains of the ale down his throat and then poured himself another one. "Oh stop that. When did father make the decision to rebuild the Iron Fleet after Pyke fell and I became a hostage? A day? A week? A heartbeat? I could have been put to death at any time if word had gotten out. Did Father ever think of me?"

Her scowl withered a little as he stared at her – and then her eyes flickered down away from his. "He had his duty to our people."

"Your people. I'm not Ironborn now. I'm of the North."

"Because of Ned Stark?"

"He was a true father to me. Didn't scowl at me or hit me for playing anywhere near him. Didn't shout at me for asking what was happening. I respect him." He stared back up at the stars. "I never respected Father. And now I'm not a hostage anymore. I'm Lord Greymist. I'll have a holdfast in the West and I'll do my best to protect my people. As a Lord should."

She studied him carefully. "And you worship the Old Gods." It was not a question, it was a statement.

"I do."

"You mentioned the Drowned God. And that… you'd seen him?"

He looked at her bleakly – and then he told her all about the two dreams he had had. Every part of them. By the time he finished speaking her eyes were very wide and she was pale and shaking. She peered at the weirwood medallion around his neck – and then she refilled her mug, quaffed it in a long series of swallows and then refilled it again. "Gods," she said eventually. "No wonder you worship the Old Gods."

"I don't want to think about what would have happened if I'd met… him. The Drowned God. Gone mad? Become a second Damphair?"

She shuddered. "Be glad you haven't seen Damphair in years. He's older and madder than ever. He'll be there at the parlay. I'm looking forwards to seeing his face when he sees that Stannis Baratheon, the Hand of the King, is there."

He nodded. "I've been thinking about that. I might be there with him. Father needs to know what I've done. What the King has declared. That you're his heir now. And that I deny the Drowned God."

She peered at him. "Are you drunk, brother?"

"Not as drunk as you."

"Spitting in Father's face from Winterfell is bad enough. Being right there and then when you do it…"

"Has to be done," he said hoarsely. He'd been thinking about this a lot. The King's announcement about his name and future was already spreading. "Father can't pressure me into anything. I'm from the North now, the decision is made and the King has announced it. I'm Lord Greymist and Father can't change that. And with you his sole heir that might force him to make peace a bit quicker."

Asha stared at him for a long moment, as if she wasn't sure what he was. "Are you serious about this?"

"I am." He stared back at her. "And I was in the room where the Call was sent out. I heard it. That's more important than father and his fucking dreams of independence."

His sister quaffed some more ale as she looked at him. "Nuncle Rodrik will be welcome that. Alright. Fair enough." She nodded at him.

He nodded back and then strode away. Damn it. He needed Ros.

Robb

When morning came he decided that it was a day for a shave. There were times when it felt odd to feel how smooth his chin was, compared to the short beard that he'd had once… in that other, terrible time.

There were times when he almost wanted to just forget every memory he had of that other, terrible, time. But he couldn't. He had made mistakes then, bad ones, and he had to remember them if he was to stand any chance of learning from them.

Such as the memories of his wife… and what she had cost him. He couldn't be that stupid again, putting his own wishes ahead of his duties. But… he thrust that thought aside. No. That would be a bad idea.

He finished shaving, ran a hand over his chin, and then finished dressing, pulling on a linen shirt and a leather jerkin, before sticking a knife in his right boot and a dagger in his belt on his left side. Joffrey Hill may be in a cell, awaiting an escort to the Wall, but he had no intention of ever being caught without a weapon ever again. Or, come to that, Grey Wind. His direwolf had barely left his side since the attack.

He wondered sometimes what had happened to Grey Wind in that other time. He had a bad feeling that he would not have survived for long. That made him wince and he looked at Grey Wind, who was staring very intently back at him. Then he smiled and reached out to scratch the fur just under the direwolf's chin.

As they both wandered out into the main courtyard he could see that the King was already limbering up with that log of his at his feet. He smiled a little. The difference between the King of his previous life and the King he was looking at now was brutally clear. If he hadn't seen it for himself he wouldn't have believed it.

Jon was sitting at the seat he'd taken to sitting at since his legitimisation, sniffing at what looked like a freshly made bread roll. There were more of them to one side and he grabbed one and then peered at the little wooden tub filled with fresh butter, before grinning, ripping open the roll and then using his belt knife to transfer some butter on it.

"I hope that knife's clean," Jon groused in a good-humoured manner. "You haven't been cutting up anything for Grey Wind's morning meal have you?"

"Oh, just some old rancid beef bones," he replied, before laughing at Jon's face. "It's clean!" The roll was still warm and the butter had melted quickly. It was delicious and he quickly grabbed another, before looking around for more food.

"You're hungry?" Jon asked.

"Starving," he mumbled through a mouthful of bread and butter. "Too much running about yesterday." A servant placed a platter of meat to one side and he snagged a piece of ham with his knife. "Tension, too." He looked about for a moment and then lowered his voice. "Tywin Lannister apparently had a word with his daughter. He took a knife into the room with him. Didn't use it on her, but I heard that she was as pale as a ghost afterwards."

Jon looked at him and snagged his own piece of ham from the platter, something that made Ghost's head suddenly appear from under the table with a look that spoke of the utmost optimism. Jon looked at his direwolf with what was supposed to be a quelling look, before grabbing another piece, ripping it in two and then tossing one to Grey Wind and the other to Ghost, both of whom snapped them down with almost identical snaps and gulps.

He blinked slightly as he felt something like happiness prickle around the edges of his mind, followed by a certain wistful hope and he looked at Grey Wind carefully. The direwolf looked back and he smiled slightly. "Arya wants to give us lessons," he muttered. "Warging lessons. But there are times when I almost…"

"Know what your direwolf is thinking? I've felt the same Robb. It's… a strange feeling isn't it?"

He nodded thoughtfully. Wargs. They not only existed, but he was one himself. They all were, the children – real and apparent – of Ned Stark. He had wondered how long it had been since that had happened with the Starks and had mentioned it to Luwin, who had frowned and then muttered something about consulting the books.

They had already been able to make use of Arya and Bran's warging abilities, but he could already think of a dozen ways of making use of warging on a battlefield. There were drawbacks as well – what happened if your direwolf died whilst you were in his or her mind? – but he could use this. Or rather he could have in a conventional war.

That wasn't what they were facing now. He'd have to learn new tactics and develop new strategies. Teach them too. Jon's skills on that front were… lacking.

Breakfast soon ended and as they wandered out into the courtyard he looked around. To one side he could see various servants pulling out straw targets for the archers amongst them and he wondered if Sarella would be there soon. Doubtless she would. It would be a brave man who married that one. And then there would also soon be the Free Folk. His thoughts skittered away from one of them No. The other one however…

"No sign of Ygritte this morning?" He asked the question lightly but grinned a little when Jon's posture stiffened. "That one likes you."

"She's fierce. I like her too. Oh, stop smirking like that Robb!" His brother looked sombre. "There'll be those who say that she's unworthy of even a legitimised bastard."

He nodded. "Aye, those who play the Game of Thrones. The thing is that we're not playing that any more. Not for a while. Survival first. Oh, I know, there will always need to be alliances between families, but you're not-"

"An important piece on the board?" Jon pulled a face. "I don't want to be. I want to be overlooked. I'm going to be your bannerman, Robb, just like Theon."

"Brother and bannerman," Robb corrected him. "Never forget that."

"Aye," Jon said with a small smile. "I'll never forget that." A look of sympathy crossed his face. "At least I can marry who I want. What of you?"

Robb looked about carefully. No-one was near. "I tried that once. It didn't end well." He shrugged. "I'm Father's heir. Survival or not who I marry is important. Father might say otherwise, but I know that there will be implications."

Jon sent a sympathetic look his way and he was halfway through another shrug when he heard a horn blow from beyond the nearest gateway. Hight and clear, brassy and somehow ancient. And everyone who heard it stared at the gateway.

"What was that?" Jon asked.

Shouts came from the gateway and after a long moment a guard emerged from a stairwell, caught sight of them and then all but ran to them. "My Lords," he panted. "A party is at the gates, with a banner that no-one has ever seen before. A white tree with red leaves on a green background."

That was the banner of… he paused and searched his brain furiously. He had not the faintest idea whose banner that was. But a weirwood tree was of the North. "How large a party?"

"About thirty strong my Lord."

"Admit them. But watch them."

"Aye my Lord." The man ran off and after a short time the gates creaked open to admit the party. They were all wearing green cloaks and as he saw them enter Winterfell he opened his eyes at one of the leading riders.

"Uncle Brynden?" His shout stilled the courtyard as he looked at the man with the salt and peppered hair – although was there less salt than he remembered?

"Robb!" The Blackfish said warmly as he dismounted and then tossed his reins to a groom, before striding over to him, his eyes keen. Which was confusing. It had been years since Great Uncle Brynden had met him, in his time at least. How did he know him now?

"Great uncle Brynden." They embraced, slapping each other's backs, before stepping apart again.

"We need to talk," the Blackfish muttered, looking about the place and then staring at Grey Wind. "Especially with your father. And you need to meet some people." He turned to the others in his party who were dismounting behind him. "Brienne of Tarth and the Green Man."

Robb froze. Brienne of Tarth… Mother had known her in that other time and he looked over to see a tall blonde woman approach. And behind her was an old man – and old tall man with an air of authority – who wore a green cloak with a hood that had horns on it. But… the banner, the horns, the title…

"So you are the Boy Who Died and Fell Through Time," the old man said softly as he loomed over him. "There is a lot we must talk about."

He stared at the Green Man and then at Uncle Brynden. "Oh yes. We need to talk."

Cressen

He closed the large book, drummed his fingers on the cover for a long moment and then sighed and picked it up so that he could return it to the bookshelf. As he returned to his desk he glanced out of the window and stopped to brood.

They had finally stopped searching for Patchface. Instead the fisherfolk had been told to keep an eye out for the body, but by now there wouldn't be much left. Not after the waves, the rocks, the crabs and everything else. He just wished that he could have talked to the man for longer on the terrible night when he had died.

Something had touched the man. The more he thought back at what he had once thought was nothing more than the babblings of a madman… what if he hadn't been? What if he had been a seer, someone who prophesised the future? He'd almost died in Shipbreaker Bay that day, he'd trailed his coat under the nose of The Stranger… what if something had marked him somehow?

Which raised the question of who. And how. And that part made him shiver a little. Anyway, he'd ordered that people who had known the Fool write down or tell others who could write, about what Patchface had said, no matter how trivial some might think it had been. There was probably nothing in it, but you never knew.

He returned to his desk and continued to brood there. There was no mention in any of the histories anywhere in Dragonstone – or King's Landing or in the Citadel apparently – of the Godswood here on the island. The Andals had not known about it, let alone the Valyrians and Targaryens.

So that meant that it must have been hidden a very long time ago. Long enough that there had never been even a whiff of rumour about it. Which was a good thing, given the nature of some of the Targaryen kings, like Baelor the Blessed, or as he liked to refer to him in the privacy of his head, Baelor the Cracked. Someone as 'holy' as that king would have ordered the Godswood destroyed.

Fortunately it hadn't been destroyed and had survived so that Shireen and Gendry could discover it. He twiddled his thumbs a bit over that. He disliked the odds of such a chance. He had a nagging feeling of unease, as if someone was looking over his shoulder. The grave in the Godswood had been that of a Green Man, they knew that much from the runes. They were rumoured to be able to dream of the future. That made him shudder. Was that why he felt so uneasy, because a man had dreamt of Shireen and Gendry thousands of years ago?

Voices outside made him look up and after a moment a knock was delivered on the door. "Maester Cressen? It's Valmand."

"Come in." As the blond-haired man, who had a large drop of Dragonseed blood in him, scurried in Cressen stood. There something about the look on his face. "What has happened?"

"We found something," Valmand panted. "You told us to locate all the seams of dragonglass on the island. There was one we knew of down by the strand, in the cliff there. There's… paintings. On the rock. Old ones. Very old ones."

He blinked and then hurried for the door. "Show me!"

It was a long way down to the strand and the wind was blowing hard enough that his robes clung to his legs and almost made him stumble once or twice, but he barely noticed. There was a group of men standing at the entrance to the cleft in the cliff and they made way for him, one of them handing him a torch. Valmand had one too and he led the way into the bowels of the cliff.

Yes, there was dragonglass here, a lot of it. There were marks here and there as if someone had mined part of it, and he wondered who and when. And then they passed through into another area beyond that, which contained a lantern that someone had left there.

He stopped dead when he caught sight of the paintings. They were everywhere. Swirls and sworls of paint. Patterns that made his head hurt for a moment. Handprints here and there… and he peered at some of them. Yes, some had four fingers and a thumb, but others… were smaller. And had the wrong number of fingers. And what might have been claws.

"The Children of the Forest were here," he muttered, his mouth dry with shock. "Here with the First Men." He turned back to the other paintings. Yes. There were images of men and Children of the Forest… meeting? Shaking hands? There were runes under some of the images and he frowned at them. Some seemed to be in the language of the First Men, but others…

"Maester Cressen." Valmand was drawing his attention to another painting. And as he looked at it the hairs on the back of his neck stood up on end. White and blue paint had been used to paint this one. The images were of… almost ethereal things, figures with white flowing hair and hands that seemed to… He blinked. There was a glow about their hands and to one side there were other figures that looked like… corpses of men. Standing corpses. Wights perhaps?

He turned on the spot, looking at all the paintings around him. And then he looked at Valmand. "You did well to bring this place to my attention. The paintings are important. They are not to be touched. Bring me… my box of coloured inks from my study, all the foolscrap paper you can find and as many quills you can get your hands on. We must copy this. And I must write a long report for the Citadel on this."

And write a book to add to the collection on Dragonstone, he thought. Those runes… They meant something.

Barristan

He had always thought that the moment that had heralded the beginning of the end of Aerys Targaryen's rule had been the moment that Tywin Lannister had thrown the pin shaped like a hand at the feet of the Iron Throne and then turned on his heel and strode out, ignoring the combination of insults and cackles and mumbled orders that had come from the mouth of the Mad King.

At that moment Aerys had lost the services of one of the most knowledgeable, ruthless and above all capable men in all of the Seven Kingdoms. The one man who might have been able to stop the long slow snowballing of disaster that had led to the virtual destruction of the Targaryen Dynasty.

He was reminded of that now as he listened to Lord Lannister as they stood in Lord Stark's solar. The Lord of the Westerlands was stating quietly but intently just what he would do in terms of supporting the war that was to come on the Wall. He spoke of moving supplies to the Wall, of sending building materials to the castles, he asked the Lord Commander about which castles needed the most work and which the least, he spoke of preserving food for the long winter that was to come, of mining coal, laying down stocks of firewood, expanding the fishing fleet and of forging weapons.

He spoke nothing but common sense and practicality. It was as if the years had rolled back and he had been Hand of the King.

The current Hand of the King had been sitting to one side, taking copious notes on paper and only occasionally grinding his teeth. Occasionally he would look askance at Lord Lannister, as if he was pondering what exactly he was.

The others also sat and listened. Lord Stark next to the great map, the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch at his side and over to his left His Grace the King, a great brooding presence, blue eyes flickering between the map and Lord Lannister. Occasionally one of them would vouchsafe a fact in answer to a question, or answer a question asked. And then Lord Stark pulled out the head of a spear with tines at its base from a bag by the desk.

"For fighting wights," he said quietly. "The men will have to be trained in its use. They'll be too used to fighting live men who collapse and die once you deliver a killing blow. Wights don't do that."

Lord Lannister took the spearhead, inspected it carefully and then nodded. "Practical," he said eventually. "And easily replicated. With your permission Lord Stark I'll have this sent south, to the foundries of the Westerlands. The Reach should know of it too. We will need what they have." He looked at the King. "What are your immediate plans Your Grace?"

The King leant forwards slightly, his eyes going from the map to them. "I need to spy out the lay of the land. This war that is coming will be fought at the Wall, so I need to see it. Lord Commander Mormont, I'll be returning to the Wall with you. The Hand of the King will going to the Iron Islands to stamp out the bloody civil war that seems to have started there after the Call was sent out. And I believe that lord Stark is headed down do Barrowton?"

"Aye," said Lord Stark quietly. "There have been odd tales of fog on the barrows there. It might be connected to the Call." He shook his head. "There's a lot about it that I suspect we do not know."

"Aye," the King echoed. His fingers drummed briefly on the table and then he seemed to collect himself. "My Lords, Ser Barristan, I need your help on a matter of the utmost importance. We have all seen what war can be like and we all know how fickle the Stranger – or the Old God equivalent – can be at times when choosing men to die. We've all seen men stumble, so the arrow meant for them takes the man behind instead. We've all seen men who looked hale and hearty at sunset, but who were dead of camp fever at dawn the next day. We are going to war against an enemy that no-one has fought for thousands of years and there is much we don't know and can't therefore plan for.

"So, one thing must be settled – the succession. If I die tomorrow then my brother Stannis will be King – and I have to say here and now that he would be a good and strong king." He clapped a hand on his brother's shoulder, who winced just a little but who looked as content as Stannis Baratheon ever did.

"But – and it grieves me to say this – I'd be a fool if I admitted that as his current heir is his daughter Shireen there would not then be a problem. Shireen's clever and wise and no longer scarred by the greyscale thanks to the Old Gods. But there will be fools out there who claim that we cannot have a Queen, the descendants of the fools who started the Dance of Dragons. And there will also be fools who claim that I am not a strong king because I do not have an heir born of my loins."

The faces of Stannis Baratheon and Tywin Lannister both tightened for a moment, before they both sighed and then nodded a little – most reluctantly.

"As I see it therefore I have three choices. One is to marry again and produce children. But there's no guarantee that she'd be fertile, there'd be a 9-month wait at least for a child and even then what if it's a girl? The second is do nothing, other than to confirm Stannis as my heir – which he is. Lady Selyse is pregnant again and she might bear him a boy. But, again, there's no guarantee of that and if she bears him a girl that makes Shireen his heir, leading to the problem with fools that I mentioned. And the third choice is for me to legitimise some – not all, I'm not Aegon the bloody Unworthy! – of my bastards. Naturally there's a problem with that as well, in that only one of them, Edric, has noble blood. And Edric's too young to be King, there'd have to be a regency. Gendry's a better age, but he has no noble blood and he's a blacksmith."

The King sighed and then leant back in his chair. "Ned, you are my oldest and dearest friend, as well as the Lord of the North. Stannis, you are my Hand, and also my brother. Lord Lannister, you were hand of the King for many years. Lord Mormont, you were once a major lord in the North and now you are the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. And Ser Barristan, you have served on the Kingsguard for decades and been on the Small Council for years. Advise me, all of you. The Realm is about to go to war and who knows what will come?"

There was a long silence in the room as every man in it seemed to collect their thoughts intently. But it was Lord Lannister, who looked his age for a long moment and then leant forwards. "Your Grace, I understand your predicament. I would suggest a combination of those three options would be the prudent course of action. As you said, we will soon be in a war the like of which we have not seen for centuries. It would behove all the ruling families of Westeros to strengthen themselves by adding to their numbers.

"Yes, confirm Lord Stannis Baratheon as your heir. That would set the Succession in stone for the time being. But also look to marry again. Winter is not yet here and with it the Others will come, so we presumably have some time. As you prepare the Realm for war consider the marriage proposals that are doubtless on their way as the news spreads of my daughter's… disgrace." His voice hardened for a moment on that last word. Then he cleared his throat and continued. "As for your bastards here in Winterfell I suggest that you legitimise them, or at least consider the matter carefully. Watch them for their potential, the boys at least."

And then Lord Lannister signed wryly. "It has been made clear to me of late that there are times when potential can be right under your nose, but that sometimes you overlook it for various reasons." The King looked confused for a moment, but then Lord Stark mouthed the words 'The Imp' from behind the Lord of Casterley Rock, and he relaxed and nodded.

Lord Lannister continued: "At the very least legitimising them would enable you to expand House Baratheon beyond its current size and allow you found, if need be, cadet branches."

There was a silence after he stopped speaking and everyone eyed him carefully. Barristan found himself wondering what that cool appraisal had cost him inside. Just days before he had thought that his grandson would be King, and now he was giving advice to the man who had disinherited the boy and his siblings.

But then they were not the King's children. None of this was… normal? Politic? He wasn't sure what the word was.

"Lord Lannister's advice is sage, your Grace." The words came from Lord Stark. "I agree with it wholeheartedly. Do not rule any one option out. Consider legitimising the bastards, marry again and in the meantime keep Lord Stannis as your heir."

"And if anyone complains about legitimising the bastards, then they're fools," the Lord Commander rumbled. "You need Baratheons. Besides, all three here are good lads and lasses. So what if Gendry was brought up a blacksmith? Aegon the Unlikely ran about the Realm as squire to a hedge knight. At the Night's Watch we see all kinds of people. You'd be surprised at who shows their true metal up there once they arrive."

"Edric is half Florent. The Tyrell's will be wary of him automatically," Lord Baratheon mused thoughtfully. "But then they'd be wary of Shireen and the new babe, if it's born healthy. Not that I give a damn about what Mace Tyrell thinks."

The King issued a short guffaw. "Aye, well." He paused and then frowned. "You have made excellent points, all of you. Ser Barristan – anything to add?"

"Just that the Kingsguard will serve your heirs loyally Your Grace – no matter who they are or what their background is."

And then there was a sudden knock on the door, or rather a sudden staccato series of knocks. "Your Grace!" It was Greenfield and he sounded rather shaken.

Barristan strode to the door and at a nod from the King opened the door. Greenfield was on the other side, along with young Lords Robb and Jon. And behind them stood… the Blackfish?

"We need to see His Grace the King," Lord Robb said quietly. He nodded at them and allowed them in, staring hard at the Blackfish and the odd tall blonde woman in armour that followed him. And then he blinked as an even taller man stepped into the room, ducking under the lintel to allow access for the antlers on his hood.

The moment that the tall man entered Lord Stark stood so suddenly that his chair slid back. Everyone stared at him and then looked back at the tall man, who seemed to be vaguely amused.

"You're a Green Man, from the Isle of Faces." Lord Stark seemed stunned. Then he seemed to see the Blackfish. "Brynden?"

"Ned," the grizzled older man said with a nod. "Your Grace, my Lords. I present the Lady Brienne of Tarth. And the Green Man, of the Isle of Faces. Not a Green Man, Ned. The Green Man."

The tall man with antlers lowered his hood – and then the world seemed to freeze in place as he felt all the blood flee his face. He knew that face. It was older, but he knew it. But that was impossible.

Given the gasp from Lord Lannister he was not the only one to recognise the Green Man. "You!"

"Me," the Green Man said as he looked at them all. "Lord Stark. Your Grace. I am the Green Man. I was once known as Ser Duncan the Tall. And we have much to talk about."