Sorry for the delay in this. We have had a great fortnight in the Caribbean on a P&O cruise liner, having a great time and soaking up the sunshine. I am (almost) fully recharged, I have a tan for once - and we came home with rum and chocolate!

Tyrion

Books about the Hightower tended to be... well, bulky in some places and thin in others. There was a lot about the raids by the Ironborn and quite a bit about the Andal invasion and even more about the Gardener Kings and their terrible fate at the Field of Fire. But when it came to the founding of the Hightower itself... well, not a lot.

He peered down at the book and then mentally made a note to try and send a raven to Casterly Rock about the Hightower. Surely something had to be in the archives. He thought about what the Citadel might have in its archives and pulled a slight face. Something nagged at him every time he thought about the Citadel these days. He wondered just what the Maesters might have buried in those priceless and oh-so-inaccessible book stacks of theirs.

Boots sounded on the floorboards to one side and he looked up to see the door open as Father entered the room. To anyone who did not know Tywin Lannister he was his stone-faced usual self. To those who knew him as well as Tyrion did, he was in a slightly amused and yet slightly bemused mood.

You just had to learn how to read the lines around his eyes.

"Is something the matter Father?"

Father sat down and directed a slightly glowering look at him. "You," he said quietly, "Are marrying a rather remarkable young woman. As I have said before – treat her right, or there will be a long list of people who will be more than willing to chastise you."

He thought of Roose Bolton, GreatJon Umber and above all Ned Stark and repressed a shudder. "Oh," he replied quietly, "I am very much aware of that fact. Can I ask why you are mentioning this now?"

His father made no reply other than to hand over a sheaf of papers. Bemused himself now he looked at them. And then he noticed that the handwriting was Dacey's. Ah. He riffled through a few pages. The word 'progeny' left off the page and he felt sweat bead his brow. "Ah," he said, a most inadequate word for what he was reading. And then again: "Ah."

"Yes, Lady Surestone has laid out the various options in terms of your children and their titles. Your firstborn son will be Lord of the Westerlands after you. Your firstborn child will also be the lord or lady of Surestone. Therefore, should you have two children then the titles will depend on the sex of the children, and should there be more than two, well, provision has been made for all eventualities. A clever and imaginative girl, no, woman. She will be a great asset for you, at your side."

As Tyrion stared down at the papers Father stood. "You are researching the Hightower I see."

More than slightly thrown Tyrion looked at the books. "Erm, yes. I was trying to find more information for Ned Stark when he leaves tomorrow."

"His forthcoming departure has caused a great deal of discussion about many things. He wishes to be present at the wedding of his cousin, obviously. As he leaves tomorrow, and will be gone for possibly many weeks, if not months, that means that you will marry Dacey Surestone tonight."

His brain seemed to stop working for a long moment. When he spoke again he made sure that it was not in a squeak. "Tonight?"

"Tonight. You are not accompanying the King and I to the Wall, as you know. I suggest you use the coming days to make your bride exceedingly happy." The words 'Get the girl with child' hung unsaid over the conversation. Ah. Father was actually trying to be pleasant. He wasn't sure if he could get used to this.

"I'm delighted, but surely this is a bit short notice in terms of clothes and so forth? I mean, I don't want Dacey to complain about-"

"Save your breath. She has already had a cloak created by the Starks. The ceremony will happen in the Godswood. You can assuage Westerlands sensibilities later with a confirmatory marriage in the Sept, or even do both again at Casterly Rock."

More shock. Then delight. And then a vague feeling of worry. He was going to marry Dacey. Right now. He did not want to disappoint her. She'd see him naked for the first time. There would be, well, sex. What if he was not what she had in mind? What if... what if he stopped asking stupid questions? He loved her. She had made it very clear that she loved him. They were going to be married.

And so the next few hours were spent in a whirlwind of preparations. Father had had some fine clothes made in his exact size, along with a fine belt for the Warnings to sit in. Rocktooth would be a bit much, but it was important to show Lannister heirlooms that had been made by the First Men.

As he stood in front of the Heart Tree in the middle of Winterfell's Weirwood he made himself calm down a bit, as his heart was hammering at his ribs. This was happening, it was actually happening. Ned Stark, resplendent in his fur-trimmed cloak, Frostfyre at his side, stepped in front of him and directed a look at him that was part welcoming, part reassuring and part terrifying, before he cleared his throat. "Who comes before the Old Gods on this night?"

He looked back to see that Dacey had arrived, escorted by Robb Stark. She looked beautiful. Robb cleared his throat slightly and then intoned: "Dacey, of the House Surestone, comes here to be wed. A woman grown, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessing of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?"

"Tyrion, of the House Lannister, heir to Casterly Rock. Who gives her?"

"Robert, of the House Stark, cousin to Dacey."

He seemed to be an observer to the rest of the ceremony, almost watching as some presence controlled his body and gave the correct responses. He could see the King standing off to one side, a hulking figure who said not a word. Uncles Gerion and Kevan were off to the other, both grinning, whilst the Starks seemed to combine smiles with glowers. But his eyes were on Dacey. Just Dacey. Her smile and her eyes were a little nervous – but also promised him everything.

Oh, he was going to have to be at his best tonight.

Domeric

Sansa had sewn him a new patch with their concept for the new banner of House Bolton on it, and he looked at it with deep approval. Yes. Close enough to the old one to reassure, but different enough to matter. It had been a fine line to thread, literally, but they (or rather Sansa) had done it.

He looked at the South Gate and sighed. He felt as if he should be going with Lord Stark. He felt as if he had been doing next to nothing for weeks now. The future of the North, no, the future of Westeros itself, was at stake. And he was sitting in Winterfell, doing next to nothing.

Now, Father had made it very clear that he was to do nothing. Until he married Sansa and they had children he was the last direct heir to the Westerosi branch of House Bolton. Yes, there were cousins here and there, but they did not bear the name of Bolton. And yes, there were the Boltons who had served with the Company of the Rose, but they had been abroad in Essos for centuries and were therefore – according to Father – not quite right.

He had a sneaking suspicion about what was not right about them, they had abandoned certain… traditions that he suspected that Father wanted to keep open as options. And that was the gentlest possible way that he could describe such things.

No. Never again. He and Sansa would never allow it ever happening again, and their children would be brought up to be more like them than Father. He thought about Ramsey, the brother he had never met, again and he shuddered. Oh, from what he had heard about Ramsey, he would have embraced the old days with a vengeance.

"Your little bird not here then?"

He started a little with surprise at the voice, before looking about. Ah. Sandor Clegane. The man with the horrific burns to his face was standing to one side, clutching a mug of ale and looking his usual bitter and sardonic self.

"'Little bird'? Domeric asked. "Do you mean Sansa?"

"Aye. The little fluttering one? Do my… looks make her feel uneasy?"

He looked at the scars on the man's face, or what he could see of them through the curtain of hair that he left hang over it. "Aye," he said eventually. "Can you blame her?"

Clegane snorted and then shrugged. "Oh, you're smitten with her. You're from the family that flays, aren't you?"

He knew that the man was trying to bate him and he just tilted his head to one side in response, drawing on the lessons that Lord Redfort had taught him. "No longer." He was proud of the way that he said the words – flat and firm. Clegane looked at him, his eyes filled with something that he couldn't quite describe – and then he drank some of his ale and shrugged.

"You sound very sure of yourself, Ser." Clegane said the title as if it disgusted him.

"I am very certain. I have sworn an oath upon it. On the Fist of Winter no less." He looked coolly back at the tall man. "You do not seem to like titles like 'Ser', do you?"

Clegane bared his teeth at him in something that was not quite smile and not quite snarl. "The man who did this to me," he pointed at his scars, "Was later seen to be fit to be made a knight."

He stared at the man and barely knew what to say. Fortunately someone else did. "Leave the boy alone Clegane."

Rather aggrieved to be called a 'boy' he turned to meet this newcomer – and then he stopped and blanched a little. The Green Man. The man whose very presence gave him goosebumps, for reasons that he could not explain.

"You again," Clegane grunted, before swilling more ale, some of which dribbled out of the hole in his cheek. "What the fuck do you want old man?"

He bristled at that. Could the wretched man not at least moderate his language a bit? He was no knight, and seemed to despise those with that title, but surely he could show some respect. But before he could say anything the Green Man walked past him, laying a hand on his shoulder briefly as he passed. The older man then just stood there and stared at Clegane, as if sizing him up – before shaking his head a little and sighing.

"What?" Clegane grunted sourly. "What do you want? I keep seeing you staring at me every now and then."

"The Old Gods have a strange sense of humour at times."

Both he and Clegane frowned at this. What did he mean? And then Clegane spat to one side. "Fuck your Old Gods. And the New Gods. And fuck you."

Domeric was about to remonstrate with him when the Green Man did something unexpected – he laughed. "Ah, Clegane, do you think that you intimidate me at all? The things I've seen would freeze you to the marrowbone. I've met people who would make you piss yourself with terror. And I've been through things that would have you crying like a girl. You think that your face is bad?" He held up his hand and unrolled his sleeve to reveal the burns on it. "This was from wildfire, boy. And you want to know why I have been watching you? For this moment. Now."

There was another moment of confusion – and then the Green Man's arm lashed out and grabbed Sandor Clegane's unburnt ear, as he would a small and errant child. Clegane howled with pain and rage – and then the Green Man turned and strode off, pulling Clegane as he went. Domeric gaped at it all, confused beyond words. What was happening. "You too, Bolton," the old man called over his shoulder. "Come along. We need a witness for this." So he followed them both as the Green Man strode along to the Godswood of Winterfell.

"Let go of my fucking ear you old cunt!" Clegane roared as he tried to regain his balance, but the Green Man seemed to keep veering his arm around just enough to frustrate him. Domeric trotted after them, a fascinated and both amused and baffled spectator.

"You need a lesson in manners young Clegane," the Green Man said as they approached the Heart Tree. "And a lesson of a different sort. You don't believe in the Old Gods do you?"

"Fuck you! Let go! How are you doing this?"

The Green Man pulled Clegane up to the Heart tree and let go – and then he put one hand on the tree and the other around Clegane's neck. The Hound clutched at the hand – and then he froze. So did Domeric. There was red fire burning in the eyes of the Green Man. He'd seen that fire before. The Old Gods were here.

"You don't believe in the Old Gods, do you Clegane?"

The Hound made a noise of inarticulate terror.

"Well, they are here now. And seems that you need a lesson in balance. That's what the Old Gods preach. The scales of life, as it were. You were burned once by your brother. I was burnt too. And now I know why. It's time to level the scales." And with that he removed his hand from Clegane's neck and placed it on the burned part of his face.

Clegane roared with pain – and then light seemed to shine from the Green Man's hand, light that suffused the Hound's face. The big man froze. The light brightened, from a glow to a blaze and Clegane whimpered with what was either pain or sheer terror. Brighter and brighter went the light and Domeric could hear people shouting outside the Godswood, asking what was going on – and then it faded.

The Green Man sagged against the Heart Tree, his chest rising and falling as he panted. As for Clegane, well he fell to the ground like a wet sack of meal. For a long moment Domeric thought that he was dead – and he stirred and tried to push himself up.

"What… what… the fuck… was… that?" Clegane slurred the words out.

"Look in the pool."

And so Sandor Clegane looked into the pool in the Godswood – and saw that his burns had gone, replaced with pink unscarred skin. And he wept.

Robb

Father was already in his riding gear when he arrived in his Solar, with Frostfyre asleep by the fire. He did his best not to sigh as he started to list all of the things that he needed to keep an eye on, ranging from making sure that Mother did not fret too much in her condition to ensuring that the former Queen was kept well-guarded until she could be moved to whatever her final fate would be. He wondered what that fate would be.

And in the meantime there was the constant need to look to the Wall. To support the Night's Watch. He sighed a little and then smiled slightly when Father sent a questioning look his way. "I thought that life was complicated enough in that other time, when I was as war. But this… this will be harder in a way. There's so much to do."

"You'll be fine, Robb. You've been the Stark in Winterfell before – in this time, which is what people will think of. Use your other experiences well. And listen to the others when you have to."

He looked at Father and nodded. "I wish I was going with you. To Barrowtown at least."

Now it was Father's turn to sigh. He reached out and placed a consoling hand on his shoulder. "I know, Robb. And I know that you have memories of some very dark days after I left Winterfell in that other time. But I know that you can do it."

"Thank you Father." He looked back at him. "And final words of wisdom until you return?"

"Lady Dustin is a contrary creature, so if I need help I will send for it. I hope that I do not though – not with the Fist of Winter with me."

He frowned. "She sent me very little help when I called the banners in that other time. You know her better than I do though."

"Aye," Father said with a slight grimace. "Oh and keep thinking about marriage alliances. Lord Westerling is here, but not his daughter. Have you been thinking of her?"

"I have," he muttered. "But as you said she is not here and… things are different now."

"I've seen you talking with Mance Rayder's goodsister, Val, a lot. Robb, I know that your mother and I want you to be happy, so we have not pressed a match on you. But you must think very carefully on this matter."

He thought about Val and then realised that he was blushing slightly. "Father, I don't know. I have not decided on anything right now. I like Val a lot, but I know that there would be problems with some of the Lords of the North if I married a Wildling – even if we are now allied with them. I know that alliance is new and that people have long memories of bitter enmities with them." He paused. "I need to balance my heart and my head."

There was a pause and then Father nodded. "A second Long Night is coming," he said quietly. "We don't know how long it will last. We don't know hoe many will die in this war that is to come. We don't know how many things – traditions and other things – will have to be torn up as we do our best to survive. As you said, balance your heart and your head. House Stark must survive."

The moment of silence that followed was a long one – and then it was broken as Frostfyre awoke with a start and then a fist pounded against the closed door. Father turned with a frown. "Come!"

The door opened to reveal Jory and Domeric. Both were pale. "My Lord," the Bolton heir almost stammered, "Something has happened that you must know of at once. The Green Man has healed Sandor Clegane of his burns in the Godswood. He… he placed his hand on the burns and his eyes burned with red fire and then – light came from his hand the burns were healed! I witnessed it myself."

"Aye, and I saw the light from the Godswood myself my Lord," Jory added. "Quite a few people witnessed that light."

He exchanged a startled look with Father – and then they both strode out, followed by Frostfyre.

They found Sandor Clegane sitting on a bench that a white-faced guard had obviously pulled out for him. The smaller of the two Cleganes was pale, his eyes wide and stunned and his hands shook as if he had had a palsy. And his face… was indeed healed.

Robb stood there are just stared at the pink skin on Clegane's face, stunned. And then after a moment he shook himself mentally. If the Old Gods had brought him back in time from his death, why should he be so surprised at the Green Man healing Clegane?

Clegane himself was too stunned himself to speak and when Jory thrust a mug of ale at him he had to grip the container with both hands in order to still his shaking hands and then lift it to his lips and quaff vigorously.

As for the Green Man himself he was leaning against a nearby tree, looking a bit pale but quite pleased with himself. When he saw that he and Father were looking at him he smiled slightly. "It needed to be done," he said enigmatically. "Clegane needed to understand." And with that he strode off.

The hour that followed was a long one. He and Father had to order Clegane back to his room and tell the servants and guards to not follow and stare at him. Which many did anyway. Various others came up to ask what in the Hells was going on, including the King and his brother.

But after that Winterfell seemed to settle down a bit and everything seemed to rush towards the departure of the joint party to the South. He saw Theon first, his direwolf at his side. "Are you sure that you don't want to leave Mist here?"

Theon shook his head and then grinned cockily at him. "A direwolf at my side should convince my father that I'm a Northman now!"

"What if your father disagrees, or hurts Mist?"

Theon's smile vanished. "If he touches Mist I'll… well, he'd be sorry. Besides – Jon is taking Ghost with him."

Which was true and Jon appeared next, his own direwolf at his side, carrying his saddlebags. "Clegane's getting drunk in the Great Hall," he said as he started to saddle his horse. "Sandor Clegane that is. Oh and his brother went to see him."

"Those two hate each other," Theon frowned as he saddled his own horse. "What happened?"

Jon shrugged. "The Mountain just stared at the Hound as if he'd seen a ghost and then wandered off, his shadows following him. They looked worried. Is the man mad?"

There was an awkward silence and then Robb shrugged as well. "He's the Mountain. He's a not man, he's a weapon."

And then there was the sound of boots to one side and Ygritte strode in, carrying her own saddlebags. She was wearing riding leathers that fitted her rather well, had a plain sword at her hip and had her unstrung bow and quiver slung over one shoulder. As she saddled a horse she glanced over at them. "What are you looking at?"

"What are you doing?" Jon asked the question with strain in his voice.

"This is a horse," Ygritte replied, as if talking to a small child. "Some call them horsies. And this is a sad-dle. The sad-dle goes on the horsie. I'll then ride the horsie. Is that clear enough or is that all too complex for you, Jon Stark?"

Theon and Robb swapped a glance and then both suppressed a snicker. Jon flushed. "You are not coming with me."

"Yes I am."

"I forbid it!"

"You forbid it do you? And who are you to me to forbid things?"

This was a question that left Jon spluttering with baffled rage and she smirked at him. "You know nothing, Jon Stark. Now that that's settled, get used to it. I'm coming with you to Pyke."

This was enough to make Jon throw his hands in the air with frustration, before finally, after a long moment of glowering at Ygritte, returning to the job of saddling his horse.

As Robb and the three riders walked into the main courtyard there was a frenzy of activity. Father was hugging Mother, who looked teary-eyed, whilst Sansa, Domeric, Arya, Bran and Rickon watched, their faces showing different emotions.

"I'll be back in time to see the babe born," he heard Father tell Mother, before kissing her gently and then hugging her again. And with that he hugged the remaining children, shook Domeric by the hand and then turned to face Robb. "You will be the Stark in Winterfell when I am away, Robb," he said loudly. "Lead the North in my absence. The Long Night comes again and with it war against the Others."

"I will not let you down Father," he said with a formal nod, before stepping into his father's embrace. "Come back this time, I beg of you," he whispered in Father's ear. "I don't want it to be like the last time I remember you leaving."

"I'll be back," Father whispered in reply. "Count on it." And then they stepped away from each other.

"Good luck in the South, Lord Stark," the King boomed to one side, before sweeping Father up in a fearsome and possibly rib-cracking hug of his own. "Let Lord Tyrell know that what you do there is with my full support." The King smiled. "Good luck Ned. You have a long journey ahead of you. I will help Robb to protect the North in your absence. You have my word on it."

A final trio of people emerged to one side and Robb turned to see Stannis Baratheon emerge with his wife and daughter. He did not hug his wife but he placed a hand on her cheek and smiled at her for almost three heartbeats. "Be safe here, wife," he rumbled. "Listen to the Maester in all things about the babe. You will always be in my thoughts." It was typical of the man and Selyse Baratheon nodded choppily.

"Do your duty – and come back to us," she said quietly and there was something in her voice that seemed to move the Hand of the King.

Stannis squatted down to face Shireen, who looked at him worriedly. "Look after your mother," he said with a kind look. "And take care of the Terrible Threesome." And then he hugged her gently and seemed to mutter something in her ear that made her throw her arms around his neck. When she released him she was red-eyed.

"MOUNT!" Father roared and there was a general movement in the courtyard and men and women stuck feet into stirrups and then pulled themselves up into saddles. Father watched it all, standing up in the stirrups once or twice and then looked down at Frostfyre, who was watching him. Jon and Theon had their own direwolves on their saddles, as they had on the great ride South. There was a long moment – and then Father raised a fist in the air and pumped it once. "RIDE!"

The twin parties turned to the South Gate and then started to trot out, slowly at first due to the congestion at the gate. The banners of Houses Stark and Baratheon started to snap in the wind as the men holding them released the leading edges. Out they went, a cavalcade of leather and steel on horseback, until eventually the courtyard was empty and the work of shovelling up the horseshit could start.

Mother stood at the gateway for a long time before seeming to sigh and walk off, but it was Robb who ran up the spiral stairs of the tallest guard tower to watch the column ride off to the South. Smaller and smaller the dots became, until the rearguard rounded a corner and descended a little and were lost to sight.

It was only them that he realised that the King was standing next to him. Robert Baratheon just looked at him. "Are you alright lad?"

Robb stared South at where Father's column had disappeared, before looking around carefully. "Your Grace, my last memory of my father from that… other time, is when he went South with you, to be your Hand. And I never saw him again."

The King sighed and patted him on the back. "That was then. This is now. Come on. Joffrey Hill is off to the Wall in a bit. You can tell him to bugger off and never show his face again in Winterfell."

Which was of some small comfort.