Sorry for the delay on this, I started at my new job at the start of the month and it's been one huge rush of things to sign/write/think about.

Ned

Riding South was… difficult at first. He missed Cat and the children of course, he was horribly aware of the fact that he was riding away from running the North in the middle of one of the greatest crises in its history, certainly since the last Long Night, but there was something else. He felt as if he was needed at the Wall, but he was riding away from it.

Was it the Fist of Winter? Was it some aspect of being the Stark in Winterfell? Was it Winterfell itself? He was still frustrated by the lack of information that was out there, by all the unanswered questions that he had. If only Father had been able to talk him through the family history. If only Father had lived. Or Brandon. And if only the other half of that book had survived, the old half-burnt one. Torgen Surestone and what he had known had been on his mind much of late and he had talked to Dacey about what might be in the library, or the solar, of Surestone. Was there a hidden room there as well, as there had been in Winterfell and the Dreadfort?

But then, as he rode South, something else started to tickle down his backbone, the feeling that he was going in the right direction, that he was needed somewhere to the South. It was a strange, confusing, feeling, something that was right there at the edge of his senses.

At least he was going South in company. There had been some discussion about how Stannis Baratheon and the others were going to get to Harlaw. There were two options. One was to go to Torrhen's Square and then use the ships there to do down the river and then out to the Iron Island. The problem with that was the majority of ships there right now belonged to Tywin Lannister and in the words of Asha Greyjoy "Westerlanders are a bunch of useless fucking lubbers who can't build decent ships to save their lives". Stannis had pointed out that those self-same Westerlanders had been amongst those who had taken Pyke, which had earned him a glower from the Greyjoy girl.

The second option was to get a ship from Barrowton. It was a shorter trip downriver, it gave Ned more time with Stannis to discuss what needed to be done and to make decisions. Ravens flew ahead, riders came from behind, and the Hand of the King and the Lord of the North were kept up to date with what was going on.

They stayed at Castle Cerwyn the first night after a hard ride South. Old Medger Cerwyn had greeted them with all due respect and then quietly explained that he had been there when 'that old rascal Tywin Lannister' had seen his first wight's head. Ned had smiled a little and shaken his head at the tale, before listening to Lord Cerwyn's careful briefing on what House Cerwyn was doing to answer the Call.

The day after that they had continued South, with Frostfyre at his side from wherever in the woods she had been the previous night. Judging by his dreams, which had been about a chase involving a deer, he knew that she had been hunting and he had the persistent feeling of sated hunger at the other end of his senses.

Gods, life could be most odd at times.

South they rode, not as hard as the ride South from Castle Black, but hard enough. The Ironborn contingent were… not complaining, they dare not show weakness in the face of so many men of the North, but they were trying to pretend that they weren't saddle-sore and were surreptitiously asking about some of the liniment that Dacey had made for the party.

He was proud of the way that Jon and Theon were holding themselves in their saddles. Theon was not rubbing his skill at riding in the nose of his sister and her men, whilst Jon was behaving like the Stark he was now, organising, encouraging, leading. Lyanna would have been so proud of him.

South they rode and as they went he could see with his own eyes how the North was preparing for the coming war. Fields of oats and barley being harvested as men and women stared at the ground of the fields currently covered in sheep or cattle dung and talked of ploughing and sowing on there next, to let the soil recover on the other fields. Northmen were not idiots when it came to farming. The idiots had starved to death in previous centuries after not making the most of their fields.

And then there was the other thing, which made him feel that odd combination of bewilderment and pride at the foresight of his distant ancestor. On three occasions he laid eyes on what had once been slowly crumbling ruins, the remains of castles and strongpoints that had been abandoned decades or centuries ago – but which were now being rebuilt, repaired, made strong again. The Company of the Rose had strengthened the North in so very many ways. Lords of all kinds were spending hoarded coin – and it was starting to show, in the hustle and bustle along the roads.

Day after day, night after night, staying at castles and holdfasts and at inns. They passed the road to Torrhen's Square then kept riding South, dealing with ravens and riders all the time.

And they spent one night at Castle Coffeen. A small house, minor lordlings, but old Domeric Coffeen had been a friend of his father and had sent him not a few letters with words of wisdom over the years.

Bran Coffeen had been the man at the main courtyard to offer bread and salt however, the oldest son of Domeric. The large red-headed man had seen Ned's flickered eyebrow and grinned at him afterwards as everyone was dismounting. "Father's alright Ned. He just strained his leg after riding too much and running around like an old fool. He's in his solar, complaining about the Maester's instructions. He'd like you to meet him there."

Sure enough an extremely grumpy and impatient Domeric Coffeen had been waiting in his solar, a crutch by his chair and a certain look in his eye. "Lord Stark," he said with a seated bow. "Your pardon, but I am incapacitated and cannot greet you properly."

"'Tis no matter Lord Coffeen," Ned answered with a smile that turned a little sly. "Bran said you'd been running around like an old fool."

The older man turned a little pink. "Aye."

"What was her name?"

The older man turned a little pinker. "Erm, Alysanne."

He pretended to think about this, not that the other man bought that for a heartbeat. "The same Alysanne as before, the widow of that merchant?"

"Oh, stop that Ned. Yes."

"You should marry her."

"At my age?"

He stopped for a moment and then just looked at the old fool. "A chance at being happy is better than no chance at all."

The old man grumbled and shifted in his chair a bit, but he could tell that he'd planted a seed in his mind. "Word on the road is that you're off South to Barrowton."

He sighed. "Aye. Just between the two of us, there's trouble there."

"I know," Lord Coffeen said almost sharply. "Word's spreading. Fog on the barrows there. Some say it's the spirits of the dead, awoken by the Call. Some say it's ghosts of the original First Men, calling for vengeance against the Andals. Whatever the truth of it, Ned, it's trouble. And Barbrey bloody Dustin is losing control of the situation, or that's what the latest word is. She's not listening to anyone, especially the Dustins that came from Essos. But then she always was a proud idiot."

Damn it. He'd sent the Dustins South ahead of them days ago in the hope that they could bring back intelligence on just what was wrong, but it looked like Barbrey was being her usual stubborn self. He'd had a nagging feeling that something was wrong for a day or two now, a strange scratch behind his eyeballs that had been growing with every mile South that they rode and he'd wondered why the Dustins had sent no word back. "How much trouble?"

"Enough that I was on the point of sending a raven to you when word came that you were passing my way anyway. The fog's not natural, Ned. And there's smallfolk around there that are starting to panic a bit. Here – have some ale. You look peaky."

He was entitled to look bloody peaky and he sighed as he quaffed his ale and then brooded a little in companionable silence.

He had a bad feeling about this.

Robert

He really couldn't put it off any longer. He was leaving for the Wall in the morning – they should have left that morning, but some ravens had come in from Kings Landing about such a wide range of things that he'd put their departure off a day. They'd leave in the morning, at dawn.

In the meantime he was drifting about Winterfell, scowling at things and wondering how far South Ned had gotten so far. His old friend rode bloody hard. He'd done his exercises – he'd need to find a log or ten on the road to the Wall, as it wouldn't make sense to burden the supply horses with the one he'd been using – and he'd approved the latest game pie that the cooks had brought him. The head cook, a large woman who baked amazing pies, had announced that she was going to call it 'The Stag King's Triple Game Pie' (as it used venison, boar and rabbit) after him. It was delicious and he'd ordered three of them for the road.

He'd have to add an orbit or two of whatever exercise yard he was in on the road to burn the pies off.

He was bloody woolgathering again, but then he was saved from further procrastination by the sight of three small forms running towards the crypts yet again. He sighed and then quickened his stride. "Edric!"

The Terrible Threesome skidded to a halt, collectively visibly considered if they should make a bolt for it in the other direction and then caught sight of Ser Preston Greenfield (who was smothering a grin) and subsided to a sullen slouch. It was fascinating to see how close those three were. And it made him smile sadly when he remembered his early years in the Vale. But then he caught himself and smiled at them.

"Right then – where are you three off to in such a hurry?"

The Terrible Threesome directed what they probably thought was entirely surreptitious sidelooks at each other, but which were blatantly obvious to him. He answered for them: "The Crypts – to look for Vermax's eggs?"

The three boys froze in place, their eyes very wide and he dared not look at Greenfield, who he suspected was really fighting that grin. He rubbed his chin and then went down onto one knee so that he was level with them.

"Lads – how big were the dragons?"

Edric and the others stared at him and then they all stood on tip-toe and threw their arms up as far as they could reach. He raised his eyebrows for a moment and tried to ignore Greenfield who had a sudden coughing fit that sounded awfully like suppressed laughter.

"They were a bit bigger than that, lads. A lot bigger in fact. The dragon skulls that are in the lower levels of the Red Keep, well, some of the skulls alone are big enough for a man my size to walk through. Now, tell me. Could something that big get into the Crypts through a door that size?"

There was a long moment of silence – and then the three boys visibly sagged with disappointment. He sighed a little. "But that doesn't mean that Vermax didn't lay eggs somewhere else. Perhaps you could consult the histories? With Maester Luwin's help of course."

The Terrible Threesome perked up a little but then seemed to be caught between cautious excitement about a new Vermax theory and vague horror at studying. As they nodded slowly he smiled. "Now – I need Edric to come with me for a bit. I need to talk to him and his half-brother and sister."

The other two nodded and briskly trudged off, leaving a rather puzzled Edric. "Now – you're not in any trouble. But we need to talk to Mya and Gendry."

Mya was (of course) with the horses and she followed them to the forge where (of course) Gendry was working. Or rather not working, just sitting and staring at two pieces of armour, once with a glowing rune on it and the other without.

"The same rune, inscribed the same way, same dimensions, but one glows and the other doesn't. Why?" Gendry was staring hard and so engrossed that he didn't know that they were there until he cleared his throat, making Gendry look up, startled. "Your Grace – I mean Father – I mean Your Grace…"

Gods the lad looked rattled again. He raised a hand and then gestured at the others to sit down. And it was at that point that his nerve, or at least his voice, failed him. He paced about the forge for a long moment, glaring at various things. His three children – the true children – sat there and stared at him with some bewilderment. He looked at them – at their black hair and blue eyes – and then he steeled himself and sat down opposite them.

"Right. I leave for the Wall tomorrow. I wanted to have this conversation with you all this morning, but too much had to be done and I… had to put it off." They were still staring at him and he sighed. "Right. I am off to the Wall, as I said. And there is… there is something that I need to tell you all. Ravens flew this morning, ravens to King's Landing. You are all legitimised now."

There was a moment of utter silence – and then the three exchanged baffled looks with each other, although it was Edric who started to look the most stunned.

"Father," Edric muttered, staring at him. "Are you saying that… we are… are…"

He nodded. "You are all Baratheons. I have decreed it. None of you are now bastards, you are all my children. But-" He held up a finger. "The issue of who is to be my heir is not something that concerns you. For the time being at least my heir is your uncle Stannis." He looked at them all and then sighed.

"Life can be brutal at times and I might not come back from the Wall. This might be the last time we all meet. And then again it might not. But I had to tell you all that as of this moment – well, as of this morning – you are all Baratheons. House Baratheon needs you. The Gods alone know how small it is at the moment. But at the very least – it now has you lot."

There was a long moment of utter silence – and then Mya, with tears in her eyes, stood and then ran into his arms. Edric followed her, whilst Gendry stood, looked deeply uncertain and then finally took his proffered hand, with a look of stunned bewilderment.

He smiled. Family. Family was all.

Sandor

He sat there in Great Hall and stared into his mug of ale. As all the Gods were his witness, he had absolutely no idea what to do with his life next. Not the faintest fucking clue. His face was healed. For the first time since he had been a child he wasn't in constant pain. He could eat and drink without needing to tilt his head to one side to stop things dribbling out of the hole in his cheek.

He was whole again. Because of Gods that he had never really believed in, not truly. But now a man out of legend had healed him. And if he hadn't really known what to do with his life much before, after the little shits' disgrace, he really didn't know now.

All his adult life he'd wanted to take his vengeance on the Monster, the walking thing that was supposed to be his brother. And now? Oh, his hate was still there, it would never leave him, it was a part of him. But he had the oddest feeling that… well, somehow he couldn't put his finger on it. It was like he was on a knife edge of… something he had no fucking words for.

Tywin fucking Lannister had asked him again if he was willing to go to the Wall and protect his grandson. Well, his double grandson, which had to be eating up the old bastard inside. He'd told him no, that there was no way he was riding North to catch up with Mormont and the little shit.

Oh, he'd treasure the moment that he'd seen Joffrey bloody Hill, pale, gaunt even, a huddled figure in huge black furs, leave Winterfell and ride off North. The little shit had been a shadow of his normal arrogant self. Maybe Mormont would beat him into some kind of shape? Was that even possible? Did he care? No, he really did not.

But what was out there, North of the Wall? The wight heads spoke of something dark and terrible that made him shiver with something that felt… odd. Fear? Terror? What was it? He couldn't put his finger on it.

He shuddered and then drained his mug of ale, before sighing and then wiping his mouth. What was he to do?

"Another?"

He looked up to see a serving girl standing there. Well – a serving woman. He'd seen her before, fluttering about like a pigeon about him, half scared and half attracted by him. Beth, her name was. Some might call her plain, but she had an arse like a peach and tits that caught his eye. But… his face had repulsed her.

Until now, it seemed, which provoked some odd feelings inside him. Resentment that it wasn't until now that she seemed to like him? Well… perhaps he should get used to that. He smiled a little at her and watched her blush a little. "Another, please."

The ale from the jug she was carrying gurgled into his mug – and then she looked to one side, went as pale as a ghost and scurried away from the table. He looked in the direction that she had been looking at and went so very still. His brother, the Monster himself, was standing there and staring at him.

He glared at the man, making it very clear that he wanted him to fuck off and die in some squalid part of the world somewhere. But the Monster did not take the hint. Instead he just stood there and stared at him, as if he had no idea what he was.

Beth returned quickly with the fresh ale, keeping well away from the Monster and handing the mug over quickly before all but fleeing again. Sandor kept glaring at the Monster and the Monster just stood there and stared at him. After a long moment he finally sat down on a wooden stool that protested with a wooden groan.

Sandor quaffed his ale and then checked that the nearest brazier was a long way off. He wouldn't put it past his 'brother' if he tried to burn him again in order to make sense of the world again, or whatever passed for such thoughts in the huge man's head.

There was something wrong with the Monster's eyes. They were flickering about his face and odd little frowns kept coming and going. He looked as if he was trying to say something, but failing utterly.

"What," Sandor growled at last, "Do you want? Say what you want to say and then fuck right off again. Yes, my face is healed. Yes, the Old Gods did it. They repaired what you fucking did to me. Now bugger off."

But still the huge figure in front of him sat there, his eyes still flickering over his face. And eventually he finally said something. Just one word. "Dreams."

"What?"

"Dreams." The Monster said the word as if he was being dragged out of him. "Terrible dreams. And something… something's not right. Voices…" His face worked slightly for a moment and then went still.

Sandor stared at him. The Monster was not acting as he normally did. And the eyes, there was something about the eyes that disturbed him, but he couldn't put his finger in why. Eventually he shrugged. "Don't eat cheese before you sleep." He paused. "Now fuck off." And then he quaffed his ale some more.

The Monster sat there and then stood suddenly, with an abruptness that made Sandor almost – almost – pause in his quaffing. He was ready for whatever shit the Monster was about to try.

But instead Gregor Clegane just stood there, a strange look on his face. And then, just before he turned and walked away, he said something in an odd, bone-dry almost old voice. "Something dark is coming."

He eyed the retreating back of the Monster and despite himself shivered a little. There had been something about his voice that… again, he couldn't put his finger on it. And then Beth came over with another ale and oh yes, there was something in the upturn of her lips and the swing of her hips that spoke volumes.