Apologies for the delay on this. I have been working from home for the past two weeks and last week the UK was placed on lockdown against this damn coronavirus. Everything has gone to hell in a handbasket and my sister and I have all but placed our elderly parents in quarantine.

For those of you who do not know, I work for a re/insurance magazine. That means that I know that the re/insurers are taking this thing VERY seriously. You know what? SO SHOULD YOU. We will get through this. We will. There will come a time when we will be free of this horrid thing. Until then stay safe, don't hug your loved ones if you or they have a cough, use latex gloves and a facemask at the store and practice social distancing. And get ready for some tough economic times ahead, because this thing is going to hammer our economies like nothing we've seen since the 1930's unless we are careful and smart.

Stay safe everyone.

Samwell

Archmaester Ebrose was not a man who could ever look gaunt. However, as he read the report that Sam had written so very carefully after finishing his research and then sleeping for eight hours, there was a ghost of gauntness about his face.

The old Archmaester finished reading and put the report down, before staring bleakly across the table at some undefinable place on the wall over Sam's head. "I talked to Perestan about your report. Marwyn too. Both endorsed it in the highest possible terms. You should be very proud of this, Lord Samwell. You really do have the making of a very fine Maester. I know, the very thought of that would make your father have an apoplexy, but my comment still stands."

Sam nodded and smiled slightly for a moment, before the smile fled. Yes, he was proud of what he had written. The problem was that what he had written had terrified him. "Archmaester, we need to tell Lord Tyrell. It's just that… what we have to tell him is, well, somewhat horrifying."

"We have to tell Lords Tyrell and Hightower that there's a dying god in the cellar of the Hightower itself, lad," Ebrose sighed. "Come on, let's get this done."

They crossed to the Hightower on one of the Citadel's boats, rowed by servants who looked nervously over their shoulders at the Hightower until the man at the tiller roared at them to keep their minds on the stroke and not clash their fucking oars like a mob of lubbers. He didn't look at the Archmaester, he could almost sense the glower on the man's face. The general population knew that there was something to worry about at the base of the Hightower. If they knew the truth… He shook himself slightly, unwilling to appear to be too apprehensive and then hoping that the men were not watching him. They were not – they were concentrating on their stroke, thanks to the furiously glowering man at the tiller.

As it happened Lord Tyrell was in his grandfather's office at the very top of the Hightower and he was surprised that it was the Archmaester who was huffing and puffing more than he was when they got there. He had to admit that he was a little lighter on his feet than he had been before. It might have been all that dashing around in the Citadel and the fact that he'd been forgetting to eat every now and then.

When they were admitted they found Lord Tyrell sitting at the desk and Lord Hightower at the window, glowering at the horizon. There was a map on the desk, a map of the Reach.

"Lord Samwell, Archmaester Ebrose," Lord Tyrell acknowledged them as they sat in front of him. "How can I help you?"

Archmaester Ebrose harrumphed a little, directed a beetling brow in his direction and then sighed. "Lord Samwell here has translated the runes around the gate." The words were short and simple but they made Lord Tyrell sit up straight in his chair and Lord Hightower spin on his heel and stare straight at him, his eyebrows raised.

"How?" That one word was directed by Lord Tyrell at himself and he nodded at his liege lord.

"The runes were written by the Children of the Forest, my Lord. They built the gate, and the lowest course of the Hightower. Now, we did not know their language. But they were allied to the First Men and they taught the First Men how to write in runes. There are a number of places where they made agreements and alliances, or something similar, and wrote those agreements down in runes carved in rock in their separate languages, but with the same words. I translated the words the First Men used and compared them to the other carvings and, well, worked out the language of the Children of the Forest."

There was a slight silence that was broken by the Archmaester. "My Lords, what Lord Samwell has done, very carefully and diligently but above all accurately, is an extraordinary piece of work that if he had been a Maester would have earned a great deal of acclaim. As it is, I have been asked by the other Archmaesters of the Citadel to give Lord Samwell this." And with that he handed Sam a bronze ring, one that might have been a part of a Maester's chain.

He flushed a little and then looked at the two Lords, who were still staring at him. "My Lords, the runes were very plain. The Drowned God is trying to get through the Gate."

Lord Hightower turned as white as a sheet, whilst Lord Tyrell sighed heavily and leant back in his chair. "Then my father's last words were the truth. Do the runes on the gate say why he's there?"

Sam leant forward a little, after seeing the tired nod from the Archmaester. "Some of the terms used by the Children are… archaic, so the meaning is unclear in places, but the gist of it that the Drowned God was one of the Old Gods who was sent mad by the war against the power that made the Others. Which is itself worrying, as if something made the Others then that's another thing beyond the Wall that the Call needs us to deal with." Catching the meaning of the harrumph from the Archmaester and correctly translating it as meaning 'get on with it', he continued.

"Apparently the Old Gods worked through the Children of the Forest to create the Gate as a portal into death, or something like that anyway, and somehow got the Drowned God to manifest himself so that he could be thrust through it. But it seems that somehow he… well, the best analogy I have for it is that he's stuck just on the doorstep on the other side of the Gate, unwilling to pass on but not strong enough to pass back. And he's been there for thousands of years. So if he was even just a bit mad before, he's stark raving bonkers by now. Oh, and the runes say one last thing. Apparently he had worshippers in the First Men, those that he spoke to personally. They lost track of where he was, but realised that he's sort-of still there. Apparently…" And then he lost the ability to say the next words.

Fortunately the Archmaester spotted this and continued on his behalf. "Apparently what the runes described as the 'dark magic priests' of the Drowned God, which might refer to necromancers, a particularly dark form of blood magic, realised that their god was weakening and have been trying to strengthen him by the means of certain rituals that involve blood and violence." He looked bleakly at them all. "I believe that that was the earliest reference to the Old Way and the Iron Price. The believers of the Drowned God seem to have relocated themselves to the sea and became what we now know today as the Ironborn."

A long silence settled over the room, crushing many of Sam's hopes for a quiet life any time soon. It was finally broken by Lord Tyrell, who looked at his grandfather. "Well, that might explain the Ironborn obsession with Oldtown, eh Grandfather?"

Lord Hightower nodded slowly. "It might. They don't know where their mad creature of a god was effectively imprisoned, but something keeps dragging them here." He looked back at Sam. "Did the Children hand the Gate over to the First Men then?"

"They did," he said with a nod. "And it seems that Bran the Builder, well, built on their work. But that's all that the runes say, apart from a strange reference that might refer to the Starks. It said that 'the One Who Speaks Straight' and who 'bears the hammer from the sky' will be the one to call upon should the Drowned God ever try and get back into this world."

Lord Tyrell looked at him and then ran his hand over his face. "Lord Stark is on his way now. Which is a good thing. Lord Samwell, Archmaester, what I have to say now does not go beyond this room. Do you both understand me?"

A bit bewildered he nodded. After also receiving Archmaester Ebrose's nod the Lord of the Reach stood and walked to the nearest window, his hands clasped behind his back. After a long moment he turned to them. "My father's last words were also that the thing behind the Gate – the Drowned God as we now know – also brought something else apart from fear. Blight. And… blight has been reported. In certain orchards near Oldtown the fruit has started to shrivel on the branches. Grapes too. And wheat and barley. It is not widespread, it's just a few places so far… but it's out there."

He fell silent. It was Lord Hightower who said the next words, the words that sent his heart into his boots: "And it's slowly spreading."

Tyrion

The Sun was shining, he was freshly bathed in the excellent hot water bath that their rooms had, breakfast was a happy memory, certain bits of him ached after some very pleasurable activities and he walking about a rather beautiful bit of Winterfell, next to the Godswood.

He had some very mixed feelings at the moment. One he one hand he was happier than he had ever been in his life, from a purely selfish standpoint. He was married to a beautiful women who was clever and kind and funny and above all extremely inquisitive about the kind of pleasure that could be had once naked and intertwined with him. Dacey had read a lot of very interesting books about the art of lovemaking and she had a very open mind, not to mention an active imagination. They were both desperate to make the other happy.

There were times when he felt as if his head was going to burst from pleasure.

Oh and he was also the heir to Casterly Rock and Father was treating him as if he wasn't made from pond scum but possibly actually worthy of a little respect. In addition Jaime was alive, having been virtually rescued from execution, and Cersei was in disgrace.

On the other hand he was also getting paranoid. The last time he'd been this happy had been… well, Tysha. And that shining moment of happiness had been shattered by his father.

Yes, Father approved of this marriage of his. But… well, what could the but be? What could possibly happen. He paused in his leisurely meander. A guard in Lannister red was approaching, before coming to a halt and bowing his head. "Lord Tyrion, your Lord Father requests your presence in his study." He could almost hear the capital letters in the words, and it was not 'his study', it was a room that Ned Stark had let him have. But he suppressed a sigh and walked off behind the guard.

He found his father writing at the desk he was using, the map of Westeros in front of him. As he entered Father looked at him and then nodded at the guard. "Leave us." The red-cloaked man bowed his head and left.

Father leant back in his chair and looked at him. "I leave for the Wall tomorrow, due to various delays. And there are things we must discuss that I have put off. Sit."

He sat at once, eyeing Father carefully. There was a certain something in his voice. "I have sent off various messages to various places, on various topics. Casterley Rock will soon now that you are my heir, acknowledged as such by the King himself." He nodded at Father's words and then wondered what Aunt Genna would say. Her whoop of pride would probably made the Rock shake. "Kevan will ride with me, so that we can send the latest instructions to the Westerlands and then he and Gerion, along with their sons, will ride to the Shadow Tower and then take ship for Lannisport. Apparently Gerion wants his son to see the family home."

And then Father huffed a little. "Then there is the issue of her." He said that last word in tones of the blackest fury and contempt, which was quite impressive given that it had just three letters. Ah. Cersei. "I have written to Jon Arryn about a suitable location for her exile. We cannot send her to any island off the coast of the Westerlands – for the one thing she knows too many people there and then there is the danger posed by the Ironborn. Whilst her being taken off to be a saltwife might have a measure of… irony, given her sluttish whims, she is still a Lannister."

Tyrion nodded carefully, blinking slightly at the black and terrible look that had crossed his father's face during that slight pause in his words. Father was still Father. Crossing him was… inadvisable.

"Instead we must look to the East coast of Westeros. Which is why I wrote to Jon Arryn. There are certain islands off the coast of the Vale that might suffice. When a message arrives to say that she can be sent there, agree to it at once. I want her exiled, isolated and out of my life. Out of my misery I might say. It will be up to you to tell her of her exile. I dare not visit her. The last time I talked with her I battled against the desire to slit her throat. Now that I have fully thought about the implications of her actions…" And with those last words Father looked… well, old for an instant, before he looked up. "You will have to make sure that she is kept locked away after I am dead. And as I am going to see what the war at the Wall will be like, we must take every precaution as to the line of succession. I might not come back from the Wall. You need to be ready."

It was a sobering moment. "I will do my best, Father. I know what the Wall is like and what the threat there is also like. Father – be careful on the Wall. The Night's Watch are… an eclectic group and fell very far over the past century, but the volunteers that have flocked there since the Call went out have raised them back up again – and they know what is out there."

Father's hard emerald green eyes assessed him for an instant and then he received the briefest of acknowledging nods. And then the eyes softened just a tad. "I saw your wife this morning. She seemed… happy."

He tried to control his face, but a bit of a happy grin played about his expression for an instant. "I hope so."

"Good. Keep her happy, otherwise many of the Lords of the North will be very unhappy with you, especially Ned Stark. And Lord Bolton. Get with child in other words." Father sighed a little and then leant back. "Is there any word yet from Surestone?"

He nodded. "Yes. The Maester there has reopened everything and the things that Bootle had stolen have been returned there safely. Surestone is being restored to what it was. We will visit it in a month or so."

Father nodded. "And the Library there?"

He blinked. "Intact, from what the Maester wrote."

"Good." Father stood and then looked at him gravely. "Torgen Surestone put a great deal into his book about the First Men. I do wonder though what he left out because it was secret. Do your best to finds out, for all our sakes." And then Father nodded at the door in dismissal.

Well now, he thought as he left the room, talking to Cersei about her exile might require armour.

Sarella

She looked down at the little scroll in her hand and thanked the Gods for small mercies. But then she pulled a face. Well, so she was headed to Castle Black again. At least this time she was travelling North knowing what were the right things to wear. She had almost died the last time. Now she knew better.

Her fingernails clattered softly on the tabletop – and then she nodded and stood. Well, it wouldn't take her long to get her things together. But first she had to tell a few people.

She found Lady Stark talking quietly to the Maester in one of the courtyards, not too far from the forge, which was huffing and puffing in a way that meant that someone was in there. As she waited for the Lady of Winterfell to finish talking to the old man she observed them carefully. Storing the information in her mind the way that Father had taught her.

Lady Stark was an interesting one. Clever but with limitations. Inflexible, but apparently learning to bend a little. She had oh so many internal walls, some with holes in them, others thicker than the walls of Winterfell. Oh and she had her fair share of prejudices.

As the Maester bowed and hurried off Lady Stark nodded at her and she walked up. She knew that Lady Stark was having trouble classifying her. She was a bastard, which many people outside Dorne found a threat, but she was also the daughter of one of the Great Lords of Westeros. Who just happened to be the Red Viper of Dorne. Oh and she had fought side by side with her beloved eldest son against rogue Wildlings and wights and Others. Yes, no wonder she was having trouble working out what Sarella was.

"Lady Stark, I have received a raven from King's Landing, from my Father, Prince Oberyn Martell. He is sailing from there with the first consignments of wildfire, bound for Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. I am therefore riding with the King's party tomorrow for Castle Black and after that along the Wall for my Father's destination. I thought that I should inform you of my imminent departure."

"Thank you Sarella," Lady Stark said with a small smile. "I shall inform the steward who will ride with His Grace." The smile vanished. "Your Father sails on a ship with wildfire in it?"

She nodded, letting the unease that she was feeling cross her face. "He wrote that it is a calculated risk and that measures have been taken to weaken the substance. But yes, it is still a risk. He also says that the King has been informed." She could only imagine what Robert Baratheon's language might have been like. Probably something on the lines of: 'The balls on that man!'

Lady Stark shivered a little – and she understood why. The wildfire would make anyone shiver. But Father knew that. Knew the risks. She trusted Father to know the risks. After all, he wasn't crazy. Well… impulsive, yes. Crazy, no.

"I would like to thank you, Lady Stark, for your hospitality. I have greatly enjoyed my time in Winterfell." Which was true and she had much to report to Father. She also felt that she understood the North far better now. Yes, parts of it were a frozen hellhole, but the people of the North were… interesting. She bowed to Lady Stark, muttered further pleasantries and moved away at her acknowledgement.

Her path took her past the forge, where she saw the newly legitimised Gendry Baratheon stripped to the waist and pounding on what looked like the makings of a halberd. He did not look in a good mood. So, she leant on the doorpost, enjoyed the view of the half-naked man and noted the fact that Allarion Lannister was off to one side, at the far end of the courtyard. He looked as if he had just arrived and was watching her cautiously.

"How does it feel? Not being a bastard anymore, I mean."

Gendry eyed her as if he did not quite know what to make of her. After a moment he shrugged. "Doesn't feel a bit different. There's still things to forge. There's never a lack of things to make. Having a different last name doesn't change that, does it?"

She tilted her head. "You are the newly legitimised son of the King. You don't have to be here."

He eyed her as if she was raving mad. "Where else would I be?"

"Anywhere you like."

He looked confused for a moment and then he shook his head. "This is what I know."

She looked at him, amused. "You'll need to know more."

"Why?"

"You might be King once day."

Gendry stared at her and then laughed. "Me? King? Give over. Edric will be King before me. He's noble-born."

"And you're older than him."

"So?"

"Your Father is going to war. Wars are nasty unpredictable things. You need to widen your horizons, Gendry Baratheon."

The lad scoffed a bit. "I need my horizons widened enough to work out how to make those fucking things work." He gestured at a pair of bracers, one with glowing runes and one with runes that didn't glow at all. "I can't make runes that glow."

She walked over to the bracers and picked them both up. "Then you need to think differently. Widen your damn horizons! You are thinking like a modern blacksmith."

He eyed her as if she was mad again. "Aye, I am. So?"

"So think like a blacksmith of the First Men." She put the bracers back and strode out of the forge. As she did she noted that Allarion Lannister was approaching.

"I hear you are riding with us," the son of Gerion Lannister muttered. "As far as Castle Black at least."

She nodded, uneasy with the feelings that were coursing though her. They would be riding together again. "I will then ride to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, to meet my Father."

He nodded, forehead apparently creased in thought. "Tell him to be careful with the wildfire. Oh, and that he shouldn't make fun of Umbers. Or those who might be part Giant."

She stared at him as the infuriating bloody man smiled enigmatically at her and then walked off. Well, boy. Man-boy. Lad. Why did he always leave her in such a state of bafflement?