It's been quite a month. My old magazine is dead - and I start my new job in the New Year! It's very similar to my old job and I am very happy with how things have gone. 2020 has been one hell of a year and I think I speak for all of us when I say that I hope that we never see a year like this one ever again. There will probably be one more update this year, maybe two.

Stay safe everyone.

Jaime

No-one knew what to do with him. The irony was a bitter one, he mused as he stood on top of the Wall and stared North with almost unseeing eyes. Oh, they knew what probably should be done with him, but no firm decision had yet been made about him.

The Night's Watch was divided into three orders: Builders, Stewards and Rangers. The thought of him as a Builder, maintaining the Wall with a hammer in his hand, bashing in nails (or whatever they did), was ludicrous. Then there were the Stewards. They were the ones who maintained the Wall and the Night's Watch. They cooked what they grew or hunted, sewed things to other things, mucked out the horses and generally just took care of things. He was no cook and he could not sew.

That just left being a Ranger, a fighting man on the Wall and beyond it. He had been born to wield a sword and he was far better than anyone else on the Wall, even with the men who were flocking to the Wall to answer the Call.

The Call…

He blinked and looked North again. It was cold here on the top of the Wall and he had to admit that he was beginning to understand that the First Men would not have built it, nor the men who followed them maintained it, without fearing something to the North very much.

And based on the attitude of the men and women around him on the Wall, they feared that something still. It reminded him of the last days before the Sack of King's Landing during the Rebellion. Everyone had known that the Rebels were coming and that a fight would happen, they just didn't know exactly when. He had the same feeling.

A shiver rippled through him as he looked at the forest beyond the Wall. There was a still a trickle of Wildlings filtering through it towards the gate below and from all accounts they were from the furthest North of the lands beyond the Wall. They had had the most… experience of fighting the Others.

The Others. He had scorned such tales. Legends. Stories. Mutterings of snarks and grumpkins. But based on what Tyrion had said, and others, they were… real. The arriving Wildlings had certainly shown so much relief on getting through the Wall.

There had been one incident that he remembered that morning. A tall man had limped through the gate, supporting himself on a crutch as one leg had obviously been broken and then reset. He had caught Jaime's eye because he had been thin and looked about the yard of Castle Black with such desperation.

And then there had been a shocked cry from a tall woman that he had seen working with others, a woman who had a baby in a sling around her neck and a small boy in constant attendance. She had run at once to the man with the crutch, sobbing hysterically, the boy following her and based on their embrace he knew that she had thought that he was dead.

It had made him think of Cersei for a long moment. And then he dismissed that thought with a shake of the head. Enough. Enough. She was lost to him.

A horn blew, the sound high and wailing, ahead of him and he peered carefully over the Wall. A small knot of horsemen had appeared from the trees to the North and one of his new 'Brothers' with one of the growing number of Myrish spyglasses looked down. "It's the First Ranger," he grunted, before looking at Jaime. "Go on, lad, get down and tell them."

It smarted more than a bit to be called 'lad', but he obeyed orders. He had to. The mechanism for getting down, the lift or whatever the name for it was, took him down at a steady rate and as he descended he bellowed out that the First Ranger was approaching, something that got the attention of even that sour-faced human persimmon Ser Alliser bloody Thorne.

The man who rode through the gate at the head of the group of horsemen was undoubtedly a Stark, based on his appearance. The nose was a dead giveaway, as was that look of thundering rectitude. He looked tired and strained, as did the others in his party, at least one of whom looked like a Thenn. Stark dismounted, clasped hands with Thorne and then the old Maester, who had hurried up as fast as he could. Stark was talking and gesturing at the gate, but he had little idea what they were talking about. Thorne and the Maester eventually nodded thoughtfully – and then Thorne looked straight at him and jerked his thumb at him whilst muttering something to Stark. A grey-eyed look was sent his way and then Stark walked back to his dismounted party, shook hands, or in some cases forearms, all around and then walked his horse to the stables before vanishing off somewhere.

It wasn't until later, after Jaime had returned to his solitary room and stared at the opposite wall for a bit, that he was summoned to the chamber of the First Ranger. Benjen Stark's hair was damp and he looked freshly scrubbed, but his eyes were far too like those of Ned Stark as he assessed him and then waved him into the chair in front of his desk.

"Ser Jaime."

The words were reasonably courteous and he wondered how to respond. 'Stark' might be a bit too blunt, so he went with: "First Ranger."

Stark looked at him shrewdly. "Given who you are, the final determination of what to do with you is up to the Lord Commander, not me, but I will be one of those who make recommendations. And I have to say that that there is every chance that you will be assigned to the Rangers. Unless you wish otherwise that will be the best use of your skills."

He nodded, dully. Good.

Stark looked at him with those same damn eyes as his brother – no, both his brothers – and then sniffed slightly. "Ser Alliser says that you have some skill with the sword."

The words came out without him even hesitating: "Well, I was a member of the Kingsguard."

Stark narrowed his eyes at this and then leant back in his chair a little. "And that means nothing here," he said cuttingly. "For three reasons. First, we all know why you were appointed to that post the first time: the Mad King appointed you there to spite your father. Second, after your sister became Queen she insisted on you staying close to her. And third you are skilled at killing live men. Not at fighting the Others and their undead minions. Your brother knows much about that. You? You do not."

He could feel the blood flushing into his face as those words struck home. But as he opened his mouth to angrily refute much of that… he could not actually say it. There were too many truths in those words.

After a moment Stark seemed to take pity on him. "You are not the only fighting man who has joined and then realised that he needs retraining. You and they are used to fighting the living, not the dead and most certainly not the Others. If you fought a wight then you would soon realise that wounds that would kill a man would not even slow down a wight. You need to hamstring them, decapitate, dismember, cut through bones. Even the finest of swords wielded by the most skilful of men can have a problem with that. And as for fighting Others… well, your brother has Rocktooth and the Warnings and you do not, nor do you have a sword made from Valyrian steel. If you fight an Other with a sword made from ordinary steel then your sword will shatter into a thousand fragments when it meets their iceswords."

For a moment he was back in that courtyard in Winterfell, watching as Stormbreaker turned his swords into nothing but fragments as it found him wanting. And then he was back in the room with Stark. "So how do you kill these 'Others' then?"

Stark just looked at him, seeming to be amused by the way that Jaime had pronounced the word, before looking to one side and sliding a dagger over. The pommel was metal wrapped in leather but the blade was… stone? "Dragonglass," the First Ranger said in a voice like iron. "Not much use when it comes to fighting men, but that will save your life if you meet an Other – and if you can drive it into their flesh. Can you use a bow?"

Faintly bewildered he shook his head.

"A shame," Stark sighed. "You might look into it. A dragonglass-tipped arrow can kill a wight, so it should also be able to kill an Other." He frowned a little for a moment. "Anyway, a final determination as to your status in the Night's Watch will rest with the Lord Commander. That said, I have little doubt that you will be a Ranger. I must also say that there is no chance that you will ever be a Wandering Crow, going South to recruit for us."

Of course not. Not that he expected it. Too many might think that he would use such a role to break his oath and run away. "So what must I do now? Wait?"

"Wait and train." A faint smile crossed Stark's face. "The Lord Commander travels fast and will be with us in a day or so."

And with that he was dismissed, walking back out into the chilly courtyard outside where so many of his new brothers were training. As he looked about he realised that many of them, including Thorne, had daggers at their hips at all times, daggers with blades made from stone. They believed in those blades, even though they looked crude and unbalanced. He had always had a dagger in his boot, or at his waist, but the thought of using something so… primitive was strange to him. He almost wanted to laugh – but he could not.

He slept badly that night. Too many unsettled thoughts, too much uneasiness and then, when he did fall asleep, too many bad dreams. The day that the Starks had died so horribly in the Throne Room of the Red Keep had featured in his dreams. So had the day that Robert Baratheon had beaten him in that courtyard. No. Not beaten him – humiliated him. Stormbreaker had judged him and found him utterly wanting.

So, when it came time to break his fast, he found himself nudging the porridge around his wooden bowl with his spoon listlessly. As porridge went it wasn't bad. There was even a bit of jam in with it. But he had no appetite, unlike the others around him.

One of them, a man with a long nose and a dolorous aspect, peered at him from one side. "You should eat that," he said. "Never turn down good food. Time might come when you don't have any."

What a cheerful fellow he was. He sighed and spooned some into his mouth. He almost commented that he it wasn't the food that he was used to – but then he hadn't had any of that since the day that he and Cersei had been discovered. "You have a point," he said instead as he looked at the man and searched his mind for a name. "Tollett isn't it?"

"Aye, Eddison Tollett." The man finished his own porridge with every sign of satisfaction. Catching sight of Jaime's look of askance he sighed. "When you've been stuck ranging North of the Wall, with little food and nothing to hunt, you realise the value of a bit of porridge. Could have done with some at the Overlook."

He frowned a little. "The Overlook? Where's that?"

"By the Fist of the First Men," Tollet said, before his face stilled a little. "First time I ever saw them."

This was confusing. "Saw who?"

Tollett seemed to come back from wherever he had briefly gone to. "Others. I saw the Others for the first time there."

Jaime eyed him for a moment. "The first time?"

Tollet nodded. "Second time was by Craster's Keep." He fell silent, obviously wrestling with something.

It was a man to one side who elbowed Tollett gently in the ribs. "Give over. Hoy, Lannister – yes, we all know who you are – this is Otherbane Ed, formerly Dolorous Ed, the first Black Brother in a thousand years or more to kill an Other."

He stared at the man. "You killed an Other?"

"I did," Tollett replied faintly. "I'll never forget that moment. It shattered like glass."

Unable to really grasp any of that he nodded, finished his porridge and then returned to his room to fully dress before exiting into the courtyard. Someone had set up straw dummies there that had arms and legs and heads that could be detached with a strong swipe at the head and he spent some time there, practicing his swings. It took precision and after a while he had built up such a sweat that he removed his cloak and jerkin.

Hearing a horn blown to the South he looked away from the target he had been hitting. The Sun was high in the sky and a group of Builders and Stewards were leaving in wagons for the Nightfort, to work on the place. As they left a group of horsemen entered – and he groaned quietly. The man leading them was the Old Bear himself, the Lord Commander, Jeor Mormont. And trailing at the rear was a golden-haired young man – who was drooping in the saddle and who looked extremely uncomfortable. Ah. Joffrey.

As the horsemen dismounted Jaime frowned a little. Everyone walking downwind of his nephew – no, it was time to admit certain things, his son – was pulling a face.

Thorne strode up to the Lord Commander, followed by Stark and then more slowly by Maester Aemon. They all clasped forearms, and then Mormont jerked a thumb at the miserable form of Joffrey. "This is Joffrey Hill. Someone get him to the bloody bathhouse please? He needs to be scrubbed down and his clothes washed. He shat himself at the sight of his first giant in the Gift a few hours ago."

He sighed. Life at the Wall was not going to be easy, was it?

Kevan

They had paused for the night. The evening was still gathering come as the sun slipped down to the horizon and the men scurried around them as they made camp near an old ruined holdfast. It was like being on campaign again.

But he was troubled. He could not help it. Tywin was not quite himself. He was accustomed to his brother being taciturn, but Tywin was curt, troubled in his language and also his demeanour for those like him who knew what to look for.

He sighed. And then looked around. After a moment he realised that Gerion was walking towards him. His brother smiled slightly and then looked around cautiously before sitting down with a sigh. "Are you as…" Gerion seemed to search for the right word before continuing in that same low voice, "Troubled as I am about Tywin?"

He paused, looked about at the men as they finished erecting the larger tents and then started pulling on the ropes that allowed the smaller ones to start to rise, before raising both eyebrows and nodding shortly. "I am. He's as quiet as I've ever known him to be. There is much on his mind. And I cannot say that I blame him. Our House… is not where it was just months ago. There is a lot to do to recover our reputation."

Gerion rubbed his chin for a moment and then pulled a slight face. "I think that Tywin is mulling over all the things that he has misjudged over the years. Even… gotten wrong."

He looked about again, as careful as he was able to and still make look natural. This was dangerous ground. "Wrong in what way?"

"Castamere was the first." Gerion caught the look on his face and snorted. "Oh come now brother – you know as well as I do that he was right to confront the Reynes and the Tarbecks, but wrong to wipe them all out! He should have left a few of them alive as an example. And Castamere itself is lost to us. The gold and silver mines are flooded and you and I, as Lannisters who know everything about mining, both know that once a tunnel is flooded then it is all but lost. The pit props of Castamere have long since rotted in that water and the tunnels have collapsed. From that point alone it was a mistake, ignoring the fact that they were our cousins and were wiped out."

He winced, sighed, ran a hand over his face – and then slowly nodded. Gerion had the right of it. "And the second?"

Gerion took a deep breath. "His children. He was wrong to see so little in Tyrion and so much in Cersei and Jaime. From an early age I knew that Tyrion had a brilliant mind, that he was a true Lannister. But as for the other two… I always felt that there was something wrong with Cersei, something twisted, whilst as for Jaime – he was almost Father come again. Too much smile and not enough substance. Granted, he killed Aerys for the right reasons – but why did he not tell anyone those reasons?" He shook his head. "Tyrion will be the true heir to Tywin that Jaime could never be. I think that Tywin knows that now. The problem is that if he knows all of that – what else could he have been wrong about? And that, I think, is what gnaws at the mind of our brother."

He sat there for a long moment as he thought about everything that the man he had thought to be the most frivolous of his brothers had said… and then he nodded sombrely. "Gerion – how did you become so wise?"

His brother ran a finger over his eyepatch. "This gave me a new perspective on life. This and being a father to a group of very rambunctious children. I hope that you meet them all one day. You have nephews and nieces that you've never met, as well as a Goodsister."

A smile stole over his face. Gerion as a harassed father was an amusing thought. He thought of his own children and looked over to where Lancel was talking to Allarion. By the look on the latter's face, his oldest son was being his usual self. That boy needed fostering somewhere that would teach him some of the harder truths in life.

Gerion had followed his gaze. "Your son needs a little seasoning. He's a good lad, but he's a touch full of himself."

He nodded slowly. Gerion was right. Lancel could be too set in his ways, too sure of himself, too… arrogant. True, recent events had knocked some of that arrogance more than a bit, but he still worried about the boy. That said, they were all going to the Wall to view where they would fight in the War that lay ahead of them. If that didn't knock some sense into him, nothing would. Perhaps he should foster him in the North as well? He'd heard that Maege Mormont was a truly unique woman.

"Your Allarion is a credit to you, Gerion."

His brother smiled almost wistfully. "There's a lot of his mother in him. She's taught him a lot of sense. He has my brains though. Not sure if that's a good thing."

Amused, he chuckled for a moment. And then a man dressed in Baratheon colours ran up to him and bowed hurriedly. "Good Sers, His Grace the King requests your presence, and the presence of Lord Lannister, at once."

He eyed the panting man and frowned a little. "What's amiss?"

"All I know, Ser Kevan, is that there was a message from Winterfell. His Grace says to please come at once. Ser Gerion most especially."

Gerion and he exchanged troubled gazes and then nodded and stood, Gerion calling to Lancel to summon Tywin to the King at once. His son looked confused but obeyed the command at once and once a stony faced Tywin had emerged from his large tent the three Lannister brothers strode over to the even larger tent that the King slept in.

Inside they found the King and Ser Barristan Selmy staring at a number of raven messages on the table in front of them, with Lords Tarly and Westerling sitting on camp chairs to one side with odd looks on their faces.

"Your Grace," Tywin said as the trio bowed, "You summoned us."

"Aye," said the King with a frown, before handing the messages over to Tywin. "Word from Winterfell – The Mountain is dead."

There was a pause as they absorbed that information. And then Kevan said what surely they were all thinking: "What? How?"

"He attacked Robb Stark and that Wilding girl," the King replied as he sank into a camp chair. "And he was not himself."

"He went mad? I thought he had guards watching him?" Gerion asked – before a pale Tywin handed over the messages.

"He killed the guards with his bare hands," Tywin muttered. "Young Stark was lucky that Clegane was not armed. He barely fought him off before the Hound arrived. From what Tyrion writes, it was a close thing."

He peered over Gerion's shoulder as they both read the tale of madness that lay in the messages. They were indeed in Tyrion's handwriting, close-set and tiny as he had obviously tried to get as much information as possible on the small scroll. Three had been needed for the full tale. And then there were the parts that made his eyes bulge.

When he looked up he could see that the Green Man had arrived, along with the Blackfish and Brienne of Tarth, both of whom still confused him due to their oddly close relationship. He looked at the King. "Clegane had… black eyes? Eyes that were totally black? And Tyrion writes of a Valyrian spell of possession? How can this be?"

The King raised his own eyebrows – and then shook his head. "I don't know, Ser Kevan. It's baffling to me. However, whilst my first thought was to associate 'Valyrian' with 'Targaryen', my second thought was to realise that it can't be the girl. If the Targaryens had access to such magics then I, or Jon Arryn or Ned Stark would have seen a black-eyed assassin in the Rebellion. We did not."

This was a good point, shrewd enough that he looked at the King for a moment and then nodded. Yes, the man had truly changed. He would never be a great thinker, but when his mind was unclouded by wine and food and whores he could see clearly enough. Damn Cersei yet again.

"Lord Lannister," the King said. "You were close to the Mad King before he went truly mad. Would I be right in my thinking that he never had access to such magic?"

There was a pause as the Lord of the Westerlands narrowed his eyes in thought before nodding. "I think that you are right Your Grace. Aerys Targaryen often complained about how much his family had lost in the long years since the fall of Valyria. And it must also be remembered that the Targaryens were not numbered amongst the most powerful of the Dragonlords. I cannot recall of any similar incident in all my years at Court or elsewhere. And if Aerys had been able to cast such magic he would have. He would have used it to escape from Duskendale at the very least – and he would have used it against you, Your Grace. The fact that no-one did is significant."

"Such magic was unknown to King Aegon, Your Grace," the Green Man said in a voice laden suddenly with the years. "He would never have used it. And, like the Mad King, he complained about what his family had lost. But he never had access to it."

The King nodded sombrely, before looking at Gerion. "Ser Gerion, you, out of all of us, have had the most experience of Valyrian dark magics. What say you?"

There was a pause as his brother seemed to collect himself. "Your Grace, I have often thought of the mad Dragonlord who held my men and I prisoners – and who did such horrible things to some of us. Given what he did – to meld human and animal together – he must have been a Fleshsmith at the very least and a powerful sorcerer to keep death at bay for both himself and the man who I believe to have been King Tommen. And… the spell he cast on that last day, it was a spell to suborn a bloody dragon. Aye, that sounds like this. I don't know if that dragon that was being driven by the spell to the crag had black eyes, but I would not bet money against it."

Another, longer, pause followed, a silence made by pale people contemplating horrors that that they had heard about but did not want to imagine. It was broken by the King. "You almost made it to Valyria. Could others have done so? Did you see other crags with ruins that might have been intact, which might have contained the knowledge of Old Valyria?"

Gerion stilled for a long moment. "Perhaps, Your Grace. When I glimpsed the broken towers of Valyria, with the fires beyond, there might been a few closer ruins. But I do not know for sure. What I do know though is that Valyria is a giant tomb that contains great riches. And that there are always those who want to loot such tombs. I went there for Brightroar. Others go there for other things. Graverobbers. Most die – and I regret that retrieving Brightroar cost me so many of my crew. But if I could get so far into the Smoking Sea by being cautious and careful, what is to say that someone else could do so as well? And discover other things? Other knowledge?" He shook his head. "I just hope that they do not pay the same eventual price as Aerea Targaryen. Valyria is… a place that none should ever approach. I was a fool to go there."

He eyed his brother and then nodded.

The King did too. "So," he rumbled eventually, "We must be mindful of this. My Lords, care to your men. Have your lieutenants go about them, where you can. According to the messages from Winterfell The Mountain complained of dark thoughts and dark dreams before he was possessed. Ask if any of your men feel the same."

The assembled men nodded and muttered agreement, before Ser Barristan Selmy cleared his throat. "Your Grace, Lord Tyrion writes that the Warnings glowed red near the body of Gregor Clegane before it was burnt. The Warning are the work of the First Men. So is Stormbreaker. It might be that it, too, glows in the presence of such foul magics."

"A very good point, Ser Barristan," the King agreed. "Very well – I shall ride up and down the column tomorrow as we ride North. If any man is showing signs of possession then hopefully the sword will show it. My Lords – we have a foe that is using fell magics against us. Word has been sent out to warn every Stark. Be mindful."

They stood at this dismissal, bowed and left. And by the look of intent thought on the face of Tywin Lannister he knew that he was thinking hard about just who that unknown foe might be.

Robb

The most peaceful place that he knew of in Winterfell was the Godswood. He sat there, looking at the carved face on the white-trunked tree and wondered, yet again, who might have carved it. Had it been a First Man, perhaps one of his ancestors? Or one of the Children of the Forest? That last possibility was one that made him shiver a little. There was a folktale that one of his ancestors had married one of the little folk, or been closely involved with one.

If only his ancestors had left better records! Perhaps they had, but they just hadn't found them yet and he stirred uneasily at that. The Green Man had told him to search for hidden things here in Winterfell and so far he had not. There had been too much to do, too much to organise… to many distractions, like The Mountain trying to kill him and above all Val.

He clenched his fists – and then released them and rubbed his hands over his face. There were times when his memories of that other time, of that horrible world when Father had been murdered and Bran was crippled and when his victories on the field of battle had turned to nothing because he had been a fool, made him almost cringe.

"You seem to be anguished, Robb."

He looked up at that and then sighed a little as he saw Mother standing there to one side. She looked sympathetic, as if she could guess what was on his mind. "I've been thinking a lot," he said eventually. "About… matters."

His mother nodded and then she glided into the glade and sat down next to him. "Oddly enough, so have I."

"About what?"

Mother looked about carefully, obviously to make sure that no-one was near them. "That… other time. In your memories. So many mistakes, not just by you but by me as well. That has caused me much pause for reflection. There were so many things that I did that must have seemed to be sensible at the time – but which were not." She paused, her face working as she tried to articulate something that she was having a hard time admitting.

Robb waited for a long moment, until Mother finally seemed to come to a decision: "I was wrong about many things. So many things. I was wrong to dislike Jon for so long. I did not know the truth about his mother, but I should not have thought what I did about him and I regret that now. I was prejudiced. I did not know your father as well at first as I do now, but as I grew to love him… well, that's water under the bridge. So – I have decided that I will think more and react less in the future."

There was a pause as he thought about this – and then he nodded. "Thank you Mother. You said I looked anguished?"

"You do." She looked at him shrewdly. "You are thinking about Val and how the heart wants what the head denies?"

He laughed softly for a moment before admitting: "Yes."

Mother eyed him carefully. "I have a possible solution, but 'tis only a theory."

Confused, he looked at her. "A theory?"

"Have you ever asked Val about her parentage?"

He blinked. "I can't say that I have. Why?"

"I have and you should. She said that her mother's name was Rowan and that she came from a 'great hearth' just South of the Wall. She and her sister are well-spoken, they are well-educated and they are unlike any other Wildling that anyone has met. They sound almost like Northern nobility. Now, what 'great hearth' exists just South of the Wall, Robb?"

He looked at his mother, genuinely stunned. "The Last Hearth?" And then something dawned on him. "Wait – Rowan? Rowan Umber? The daughter of Mors 'Crowfood' Umber, the GreatJon's uncle?"

"Perhaps," Mother said intently. "Perhaps. This Rowan is on her way to Winterfell – I have had a word with a few people. And Ned Umber is coming as well, escorted by his Great-Uncle, because I think that the Umbers think that young Ned is a match for Arya."

The thought of anyone being a match for the force of nature that was Arya made him pause for thought and then pull a slight face. 'The poor lad' seemed too weak a thing to say. He made do with: "Well, that should be interesting." Then he paused. "When will the Umbers arrive? And Rowan?"

"This Rowan should be here in a few days. The same with the Umbers." And then Mother just looked at him. "Don't get your hopes up too much. It's just a theory. And if it's wrong then there are times when even the heart must listen to the head."

"Aye," he muttered. "But if it's right, then Val is half-Umber. And that might be the advantage that the heart needs."

Mother tilted her head at that – and then she kissed him on the cheek and departed, leaving him alone in the Godswood, staring at the Heart Tree again. He never knew afterwards how long he sat there, staring at the face carved on the tree, but all of a sudden the moment was broken by an abrupt feeling that someone was watching him, some undefinable feeling of… not unease, but certainty that someone was out there. Something creaked in one of the branches above him and as he looked up just for a moment he thought he could see something with green eyes watching him through a branch or three before that thing vanished upwards.

When he left the Godswood he had the oddest feeling of… rightness. As if something was suddenly very right with the world. And that he needed to start to search Winterfell. Starting with the crypts.