Sorry for the delay on this. I have been insanely busy of late, and only got back from an equally insanely busy trip to Bermuda yesterday, so I am still a bit jetlagged.

Sandor

He stared at the mug of ale and then looked up at the high table. And at the tall man there in the green tunic. The old, old, man who seemed to be revered. Apparently he had once been Ser Duncan the Fucking Tall. But that would make him fucking ancient. And besides hadn't Ser Duncan the Fucking Tall died at Summerhall?

He snorted, drank some ale and then glared at the high table again. Then there was the Blackfish. The fucking Blackfish, one of the most contrary old farts in the Seven Kingdoms. Not a bad fighter from what he had heard. Oh and he was there with the Evenstar's daughter, a tall blonde girl who was not quite ugly but certainly not pretty. He looked at the pair. There was something there, between them. He didn't know what, but something.

Another snort, another gulp of ale and then he glared at the table to one side. The Monster was sitting there, with an empty plate in front of him. There was something wrong with him, he could tell. Well… wronger than usual. Speaking of wronger than usual, the Monster was on the brink of one of his 'episodes', he could tell. That hard old man Tywin Lannister, who was also at high table, had told off two of his largest men to shadow him. Heh. Nah. Not big enough. Not if the Monster was in the grip of one of his episodes.

His gaze flickered to the arse of one of the serving wenches, as she wandered through with more ale, placing a flagon in front of him but not looking at him. Ah. Another one afraid of him. Afraid of his face morelike. Perhaps he needed to find a whore somewhere. And perhaps he needed to drink yet more ale and then stagger back to his bed and wonder what he was going to do with his life, now that he was no longer sworn sword to the little shit.

Someone had actually asked him earlier on if he was going to accompany Joffrey fucking Hill to the Wall. He'd laughed in his face.

No. Fuck no. Go to that frozen hellhole with that little bastard? He couldn't think of anything worse.

No, he was free. And he didn't know what to do. Or where to go. He needed to think about that. King's Landing was a smelly shithole that ate gold. The Westerlands were Lannister territory and he'd had a gutful of those prideful, mad, incestuous bastards. The women of Dorne were amazing, but mad. The Vale was full of idiots. The Reach was tempting. The Riverlands were wet. Fuck the Iron Islands. And the North was… cold. But he liked the people. Odd, that. He'd have to think about it all.

He drank the dregs of his old ale and then pulled his new ale towards him before looking at the tables close to high table. Stark's bastard was talking with that Wildling girl of his. Poor fool. She had her claws in him already, he could tell. And then there was the other Wildling girl, the goodsister of Mance Rayder. She was… interesting. He could tell that she was interested in Stark's oldest lad. Oldest legal lad that is. But the silly bugger was being all noble. Twat.

His eyes flickered over the others. Stark's oldest daughter was talking to her betrothed, the son of that truly scary fucker Roose Bolton. He'd heard of the Leech Lord and even met him once, a long time ago. There was something… not quite right about that man. The son was different, he could tell. As for the other Stark girl… fuck, where had she gone? She and that Direwolf of hers?

Odd things, those Direwolves. There were times when he'd seen some of them padding about the corridors, with eyes that looked far too intelligent.

And then there was the Greyjoy girl. She was talking to her brother. She looked like a right interesting handful in bed, lithe and wrigglesome. She probably had a dagger or two hidden somewhere and if you pissed her off she'd probably cut your balls off though.

He swigged some more ale and then mulled things over. A whore or not? Probably… not. He was tired. And then there was the fact that the Green Man was staring straight at him, with an unreadable expression on his face. He tried to stare back, but those old eyes… there was something there that made him shiver suddenly and look away.

So he stood, drank the last of his ale and walked away. Back to his bed. He'd decide where the winds would take him another day.

Tyrion

If there was one thing that he desperately envied about Father's possessions then it was his cabinet. It was a masterpiece of the carpenters arts, something that looked like a trunk but which opened up into a small bookcase. It had drawers all over the place, with brass handles and leather covers and it was something that he coveted.

And now he coveted it even more, because Father had revealed that it had secret compartments. Some in very unexpected places. With all kinds of very unexpected information.

"I always wondered about just how much gold is still in the Westerlands," he said bemusedly as he looked at a very old map indeed. "I had no idea that…"

"There was so much still there?" Father quirked his lips dryly as he leant back in his chair. "Lannisters in past years have not delved as deeply as they could. I'm sure you can guess why."

He thought about it for a moment – and then enlightenment dawned. "Gold is valuable because it's rare. The more gold that's out there the less rare it is so the less valuable. Soby mining it at a slower rate than we could, we keep the price of gold up."

Father eyed him with what was almost approval. "Good," he nodded slightly. "The wealth of Casterley Rock depends on that. Be mindful of that. There's also the issue of what is stored in the Vaults. You need to be eternally mindful of that too. There is a full list of what is in there in my study in the Vault. The keys are always on my person and when I die they will always be on your person. You will see what is there the next time we return to Casterley Rock."

His mind wanted to whirl and he almost wanted a goblet of wine, but he had to keep a clear head for this. The sheer amount of wealth that was in the Vault had always intrigued him. Not that Father had ever even hinted at what was within it. So he merely nodded soberly and muttered: "Thank you Father."

"Don't thank me yet," Father rumbled. "You will always have the value of gold lodged in the back of your head, like a burr that cannot be removed."

Why, it was almost a witticism, not that he was going to say that, so instead he nodded again.

"There is also the issue of what is blocked off within Casterley Rock. You know about the passage that leads to the room where we now know that the true tale of Lann the Clever is. There are other rooms deeper in Casterley Rock, in some of the older areas that are now unsafe. I issued orders that those rooms be made accessible again before I left the Westerlands. That might take time, but the results could be… interesting."

Now this was beyond intriguing… but perhaps something for another time, based on the look on Father's face.

He was right.

"Joffrey will take the Black tomorrow morning. In the Sept. Perhaps in the Godswood as well. I want it to be as clear as possible that this is not something that he can avoid. The boy is a spoilt fool who should have been taken in hand years ago and who doubtless still thinks that he can avoid his fate. He cannot." Father's face was all angular planes and his eyes like green agates.

Tyrion's fingers drummed once lightly on the table, seemingly of their own accord, and then he spoke the words that hung unsaid in the room for the entire meeting so far: "And what of his mother?" He knew that he dared not say that word. Not her name.

The agates threatened to catch fire for a moment – and then Father pulled the slightest of faces. "Ah. Yes, we must talk of her." He stood in a quick and easy movement and then strode to the fire, which somehow did not then burn even harder beneath his glare.

There was a long silence, which Tyrion finally broke with the words: "Death or internal exile in the most desolate place in the Westerlands?"

There was a long moment – and then Father nodded slightly in recognition of his words. "Death would be fitting, given the nature and implications of her actions. Her crimes. But I cannot order her death. The title of Kinslayer would be a step too far – a step back to the days of the Rains of Castermere. No. I did wonder if Robert might take the decision out of our hands by doing the deed himself, but this new and sober Robert Baratheon is a cannier man than I had first thought."

"So not death then. Exile?"

Father's foot tapped on a flagstone for the merest of instances and then he turned and looked at him. "The question then is where? The location would be important. The more desolate and barren the better. Not anywhere near Casterley Rock. She knows too many people there, people she could manipulate. She thinks herself clever. And the Westerlands are… too familiar for her. A location there would require guards and after time has passed guards grow careless – or could be suborned." His face rippled with disgust for a moment. "An island would be better. Fewer resources, more isolated, less accessible… more fitting."

"Fair Isle is too large," Tyrion said quietly. "And I know of few small islands off the coast. And sadly there is always the risk of an Ironborn raid that might see her captured as a Salt Wife."

Something flickered in Father's eyes at those last two words, something that was almost calculating. "That would both punish and free her – and I want her confined. No, we might have to think about the other side of Westeros. There are islands off the coast of the Vale that might suffice. Perhaps a raven to Jon Arryn about this. Or perhaps one of the islands off the east coast of the North. Cold. Barren. Isolated. Perfect."

He looked at Father. They knew that the coming winter would be a cold one. Perhaps a second Long Night. Ah. He nodded slightly. "I can have a word with Ned Stark on your behalf perhaps?"

"Do so." The words were not snapped, but curt all the same. After a moment Father jerked his chin at him. "Discuss your wedding at the same time. I shall want details on both before I leave for the Wall."

"I shall." There was a long moment of silence, broken only by the sound of the fire crackling in the grate. "You mean to spy out the land North of the Wall?"

"I do. I shall also talk to him."

Ah. Jaime. But he might not want to talk to you, were the words that he wanted to say. "Of course," he said instead. "I understand."

Another long silence fell before Father finally said, very quietly: "What a waste."

He looked at Father carefully. But he could not find the words. "You find the King a cannier man now?" It was the best he could come up with.

Something that might have been a grunted laugh passed Father's lips. "Someone once called him the Warrior incarnate, back in the days of his rebellion. When it comes to war he is… knowledgeable. Skilled even. He knows when to roll the dice and when not to, both valuable skills for a king. In peacetime… he bores easily."

Father turned and looked back at the fire. "And that was her greatest failure. Yes, he loved Lyanna Stark after her death. I understand that more than many. Your mother's death left a hole in my heart that nothing can fill. Robert has a similar hole. She never tried to fill it, which was her greatest failing. She never tried. No, she wanted… him instead. So Robert had to fill the hole with wine and food and whores. Gods! What they could have done together! What a dynasty! A warrior like Robert Baratheon guided by the Lannister I thought she was!"

Another silence. A bell sounded somewhere outside, signifying how late the hour was. He stood up and looked at Father. "It's late Father. When will Joffrey take the Black tomorrow?"

"An hour after dawn."

"I shall be there."

"See that you do."

And so he left, leaving Father staring at the fire.

Robert

He needed to go to bed, he really did.

Sleep came hard some days, as he was no longer drowning himself in wine or beer and then trying to fuck every maid that caught his eye. Oh, there were still some saucy wenches out there that he very much liked the look of – there was a chambermaid who reminded him of one of his first in the Vale, with curves in all the right places – but he still had the feeling that whoring about at the moment would be a very bad idea. Especially given that Lyanna's grave was so close.

He needed to walk away from her memory. She had told him that. But how? His mind veered away from that and instead he stared at the fire in his room as he sprawled in his chair, a half-empty mug of ale in one hand that he'd been nursing for at least half an hour.

'Storm King'. The words almost mocked him. How could he be a Storm King when he had no idea what that meant? He looked at Stormbreaker and his eyes narrowed. He needed to stop fannying around and do… what? It was a sword. An ancient sword, an odd sword, according to Selmy a fucking glowing floating sword, which was bizarre beyond words, but he was buggered if he know how that had happened.

Selmy was still going through the records that his brother had sent over, but they were naggingly vague in places. Hints of powers, rumours of things fought, deeds done, songs sung. There was mention of memories of a book of Stormbreaker's exploits, perhaps one of the oldest in Westeros, long since lost. Perhaps the Citadel might have more information? Perhaps. And then perhaps not. The Maesters guarded their information like misers at times, doling it grudgingly out when there was little other choice. He wondered just what those dry old bastards were sitting on in that bloody great building of theirs. Fortress morelike, defended against whoever the Maesters defined as nosy buggers who had no business daring to ask to see any books.

He tossed the last of the ale down his throat and then walked over to look at Stormbreaker. The age of it still fascinated him, as well as the look of it. It felt, somehow, ancient. He hefted it thoughtfully and then raised it over his head. Thunder stubbornly refused to growl. He lowered it and then sighed. Naturally this would not be as easy as some of the sagas said.

No, in the sagas it was easy. A hero turned up, discovered a magic sword, waved it over his head, appealed to the correct God, had the sword burst into flames or something, fought a dark god, or something horrible from the shadows, triumphed and then settled down with a princess or Lady or willing girl who was probably visibly swollen with their first child by the time that they married.

Life was not a saga. He propped the ancient sword to one side and then pulled off his jerkin and looked down at his stomach. He could almost see a rib where once there had been nothing but fat and his skin was starting to stop sagging in all directions, but he still had a way to go. Gods, how far had he fallen? Getting back to where had once been was harder than it had been when he was young. Everything was harder than when he had been young.

He sighed and blew out the nearest candles, before going to bed. As he pulled the sheets over his body he stared at the ceiling and sighed a little. His dreams had been less intense of late, but still… odd. And then he closed his eyes.

When he did dream that night his dreams were odd and jumbled. He was looking for something that he could not describe, let alone name, something that seemed to be eternally ahead of him in a haze of fog. But again and again his fingers closed in on – nothing. So by the time that he woke up he was in a frustrated and rather grouchy mood.

He knew from long habit that the best way to shake himself from such a temper was hard work – so he threw on his clothes and stamped out of his room and then down to the training yards, Greenfield a silent shadow at his back, where he hoisted a log onto his shoulders and then started his usual circuit around the yard. And then another five circuits, just because he still needed a bit more self-punishment for getting so badly out of shape.

By the time he rolled the log off his shoulders and stood there panting, his hands on his knees, he had burned off the last of his mood, and he grinned as he stuck his head in a bucket of cold water. Gods, this was the life! Better than that nest of vipers in King's Landing.

A towel was held out in his direction and he took it – before noticing the man who had handed it to him. "Ser Barristan," he said, a little surprised. Then he paused and looked harder at the older man. He seemed… distracted. "Are you well?"

Selmy smiled ruefully. "Your Grace is perceptive."

"My Grace has eyes."

Selmy sighed slightly. "Your Grace, you know that I am not a… fearful man. I have fought in many battles. The Stranger and I are old friends. When he comes for me I will meet him with a smile on my face. I do not fear death. But I do fear the prospect of not having done my duty. Twice now I have tried to seek out the Green Man and ask his advice on what to do about the Kingsguard. And twice my nerve has failed me and I have walked away. I… I fear what he might say to me. Will say to me."

Ah. He looked at the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and saw the way that he was looking at his feet, before placing a hand on his shoulder. "Then he should say the same things to me. I failed you, Ser Barristan. I failed you badly. I did not support you in the appointments of members of the Kingsguard. I should have. You had doubts about some of the appointments. I should have listened to those doubts."

"Your Grace, I-"

"If there is anyone to blame, Ser Barristan, it is me. I was too drunk, lazy and indolent to help you. I am sorry. Ask the Green Man what you like. I will accept any blame."

Selmy ducked his head. "Honour to serve Your Grace."

There was a moment of silence and then he slapped the other man on the shoulder lightly. "The honour is mine."

He broke his fast with Ned and Cat in the Great Hall, a place that buzzed with activity as it filled up. The Stark children exploded into the place with their direwolves, the Greyjoy – no, Greymist – boy as well with his own and he smiled for a moment, almost wistfully, as he watched them. They knew their place in the world. Ah, to be that young again. And then his mood darkened a little. It was almost time, and sure enough Tywin Lannister strode in, bowed to him, broke his fast quickly and then muttered that it was time.

Yes, it was time for the little shit to take the Black. He stood, quirked his head at Ned, who kissed Cat on the cheek and also stood, before he, Ned and the Old Lion walked off to the Sept. Lord Commander Mormont was there, with Tyrion and Kevan Lannister and they all exchanged solemn nods.

And then the guards arrived, escorting the little shit himself. Joffrey looked as if he had not slept, but at least he was no longer walking as if his balls hurt. He merely walked as if they just ached. His eyes were downcast and he looked as if he was about to cry – but to his credit he did not shed a tear as he started to take his Oath. And he made it all the way through, without any problems or repetition. He'd probably practiced it, based on the way that his grandfather's blazing eyes never left him. Tywin Lannister had a face like stone, never moving a muscle, but those eyes… they were the eyes of a man who was furiously angry.

The Oath made, the little shit was escorted off. "He'll be sent to the Wall with the next group that goes there, in a day or so," Mormont rumbled quietly. "I'll go with him, to prepare the way for your own trip Your Grace."

"My thanks, Lord Commander," he replied, and Tywin Lannister gave a curt of acknowledgement of his own.

He was in an awkward mood after that. Not quite angry, not quite melancholy, something between the two. He strode around the ramparts of Winterfell, noted the work that was being done on the Broken Tower and the First Keep, and then finally surrendered to duty and joined Stannis in his room, with the messages that had come in. The Kingdom would not run itself.

And then, an hour before noon, they heard hurrying feet in the corridor outside, the barked query from Selmy, and then the door opened to reveal Maester Luwin. "Your Grace," the old man panted, "A message from Oldtown. The Hightower to be exact."

He took the proffered two messages, frowned at them, realised that they seemed to be identical and then read one of them. Then he read the other. Then the he read the first again whilst passing the second over to Stannis, who was frowning at him. And then they both stared at each other.

"This is…" Stannis ground to a halt. Then he started again. "This is madness."

"Aye," he replied grimly. "But can it be any madder than what we have seen so far?" His brother looked at him for a long moment – and then he shook his head. He looked at the Maester and then at the concerned face of Ser Barristan Selmy. "Send word at once to Lords Stark, Lannister and Tarly, that I require their presence at once, in a matter of the utmost urgency."

The two men nodded, went through the doorway and that started barking orders to passing servants. As they did he stared down at the messages again. He never thought that he would ever see such words. But… he forced down that thought.

Ned arrived first, Tywin Lannister not long behind him and after them both the Lord of Horn Hill. After they were all in and staring at him curiously he nodded at Selmy, who closed the door. Only then did he stand. "Mace Tyrell is dead. And in most odd circumstances.

Ned raised his eyebrows, Tarly pulled a face and Tywin bloody Lannister's left eyebrow might have flickered just a bit. "What kind of circumstances, Your Grace?" the Lord of the Westerlands asked.

And so he handed the two messages over. One to Ned and the other to his former goodfather, who read it as Tarly waited impatiently. Once Tywin finished reading it he seemed to read it again – and then again. Only then did he give it to Tarly – who read it and then looked astonished.

"But this is… this is…"

"Madness?" He smiled grimly. "Aye, there's been a lot of that lately. Madness indeed. Lord Tarly, you are of the Reach. Is that indeed the hand of Lord Willas Tyrell, the new Lord Tyrell?"

The bald man looked down at the message. "It is, Your Grace. I know well the hand of Lord Willas. Your pardon – Lord Tyrell."

"And what is the truth of this... gate?" Tywin Lannister sounded… bemused. "I have never heard any mention of it. A gate at the base of the Hightower… for what purpose?"

"And how could it kill a man? Men, from Lord Tyrell writes." Tarly sounded as if he had been struck on the back of his head by the Hightower itself.

"I don't know," he replied. And then he looked at Ned, who was still staring down at the message he held in his hand. "But from he writes he desperately wants you there, Ned. You and the Fist of Winter."

Ned looked up, strain written all over his face. "Starks do not prosper in the South," he said eventually. "But this is a request that would be hard to refuse. Willas Tyrell writes of his father's last words and the possibility of… blight?"

The room seemed to grow a little colder at that word. Tywin Lannister cleared his throat. "This might be utter madness, Your Grace, but given the nature of the war that lies ahead of us, we cannot risk any threat to what the Reach produces. Lord Tyrell requests the presence of Lord Stark. Perhaps Lord Stark should pay a flying visit to the Reach?"

Ned seemed to flinch slightly – and he knew why. Yes, Starks did not prosper in the South, as Ned's family could attest to, but the thought of blight in the Reach should terrify anyone. "Ned, you were planning to go to Barrowtown anyway. Continue on to the coast and take ship for the Reach. And right quick. Ascertain the truth of this. And take that stick of yours. I'll be heading for the Wall with my knife. Perhaps this is the stroke that the Green Man warned us of?"

Ned stared at him for a long moment. And then he reluctantly nodded.