Merry Christmas and have a very happy New Year everyone - here's to 2022 being a better year than 2021 as we claw our global way out of the grip of Covid-19.

Jaime

He was tired of the way that Father's men avoided him now. They eyed him as if he was diseased. Oh, if one of them had to speak to him, to pass on a message that Father wanted to talk to him, they did that quickly and curtly, but on the whole they regarded him a cursed man who had brought shame to the Lannister name and to the Westerlands and who would die here on the Wall.

Which was all quite true.

Addam Marbrand, his old friend, was among the men and so far he had successfully avoided him. He had no wish to see Addam turn his glance away from him, to look embarrassed at where the former Golden Lannister of the Kingsguard was now.

So he'd spent time up on the Wall and training Joffrey in some out of the more out of the way places. His son had been sulky and distracted, obviously thinking about his old life and how unfair everything was now that he was no longer Prince Joffrey Baratheon and now merely Joffrey Hill.

He needed to have a quiet word with Father about making sure that Joffrey didn't persuade a Lannister guardsman to 'help' him. No Lannister could abandon their vows, not now. Grandson or not, Father would not stand for it.

And now he was sitting in a corner of the main hall of Castle Black, looking down at some boar sausages in a stew that was actually quite tasty. Fresh crusty bread too. Tollett had told him that the food had improved since the Call. Compared to what he was used to, it was… tolerable.

And then a hand fell on his shoulder and someone sat down next to him as he ate his stew. Startled he looked at the fellow – and froze. Addam.

"Cornered you at last!" Addam said with a scowl. "You can't run off or skulk away around a corner because you saw me." His old friend looked him up and down. "The beard suits you for this location, you're a bit skinny, you look like shit and you're an idiot. There, I've got that off my chest."

He sat there for a moment, almost choking with emotion at the words of his oldest friend. "Addam…"

"Whaff?" Addam said through a mouthful of stew.

"You… I'm not a popular man and-"

Addam's free hand smacked against his chest. "Piss on that. Do you really think that I'm a fair-weather friend? That I'd turn my back on oldest friend, just because you're on the Wall now after doing something truly stupid? Gods Jaime, what did you take me for?"

He wanted to put his hands over his face and cry for a moment, but he pushed it back. "Thank you Addam," he said eventually. "Thank you."

Addam looked about the room carefully and then lowered his voice. "Gods, what a mess. I talked to Tyrion in Winterfell before we left, he sent his best and asked me to give you this." A letter emerged from his jerkin and Jaime took it with a smile. "Before you ask, he's doing well. Very happy with that wife of his. I'm not sure which of the two them reads the more. A good match."

He looked down at the letter, which had his name on it in Tyrion's bold and distinctive hand. "I'm glad he's happy."

His oldest friend smiled at him and then addressed the sausages in his stew again. After a moment of chewing he glanced up again. "I'm surprised you haven't had your jaw dragging on the ground about the other people here."

Jaime felt his brow furrow. "Who do you mean? The King? My Father?"

Addam stopped eating and directed a very odd look at him. "I know that you've been on the Wall a lot and teaching Joffrey not to chop his foot off, but you must have heard that-" He looked around as two people walked into the room and made for the head table. "He was in Castle Black!"

He looked around. The man was older than he was and looked like… "Is that the Blackfish?" He blurted the words with some astonishment. Ser Brynden bloody Tully. Gods. He stared at him and frowned a bit. "He's younger than I thought? And who's he with?"

At first he'd thought that the Blackfish's companion was a young man, but no, despite the leathers of a man, he was a she. Tall, blonde, not pretty, but a lively face and clear blue eyes. "Who is she?"

"Brienne of Tarth, the Evenstar's daughter. And I have no idea what it is between the two of them. They both have green cloaks and the same clasp like a horn and before you ask yes the Blackfish has less grey in his hair than I remember and no they're not a couple. Or perhaps not yet."

He watched as the odd pair sat and then started to eat after helping themselves to food. The Blackfish. The bloody Blackfish.

"Remember when we used to blatter at each other with wooden blades when we were boys?" Addam smiled wryly. "You wanted to be as good a fighter as the Blackfish, a knight as good as he. We lived for the tales of him in the War of the Ninepenny Kings. Him or Ser Duncan the Tall. Gods, the arguments we had over who was better! And now they're both here."

Jaime shook his head slightly. "Both? I don't understand."

Addam eyed him again. "You did hear that The Green Man is here didn't you?"

Oh, that. He shrugged. "I heard that the Call had brought out a few Green Men from their island. Or so someone said. I didn't believe it. They never leave the Isle of Faces."

Addam gaped at him, giving a view of a half-chewed sausage. Then he hurriedly chewed and swallowed. "Oh," he said eventually. "They left alright. The Call released them. Did you hear it? The Call?"

He shook his head. "Not really. There was a dream, I think, and I felt something, but no, I didn't hear it. Did you?"

His old friend went still, his face working for a moment. "Do you remember how we once talked about how old Ashemark is, how there was a castle beneath the castle? It must have been old. Yes, my father and I heard the Call. Father sent help to the Wall as soon as he could. It… it was like nothing I've ever experienced."

There was a moment of silence as Addam seemed to go away somewhere in his own mind. And then he shook himself and returned. "But that's not as important as this. Jaime, The Green Man isn't just any Green Man. He's The Green man, the head of his order, if you can call it that. There's tales of him battling the Faith Militant with the Blackfish and Brienne of Tarth by the shores of the God's Eye. And before he was The Green Man he was Ser Duncan the Tall."

This was ridiculous and Jaime threw his old friend a disbelieving look. "Addam are you drunk? Ser Duncan the Tall died at Summerhall."

"No," said Addam with a shake of his head. "He was injured there. Gods, you should see his arm and the burns on it! But he lived and became The Green Man. Don't ask me how he's lived this long, I couldn't tell you. Something to do with the Isle of Faces and Old Gods. But it's him. Your father says it's him."

Something cold seemed to run up and down his spine for a moment and he wanted to shiver as he looked about. It was insane, this tale, but if Addam said that Father said it was true… Gods… Then he paused. Why had Father not told him about this? Oh, they had talked in a desultory manner after their meeting on the Wall, but it had not been a real talk, not really. Father was not good at small talk.

He shook his head again and then readdressed his stew and the sausages within. "I feel like we're living in a song, a tale… a legend?"

Addam snorted a little. "We'll be fighting legends. Myths I might have said once. But now? After seeing those cages with those heads and hands? We're fighting for everyone South of us. Everyone in Westeros."

"Well said," a deep voice behind them rumbled and they both jumped a little and turned in their seats. There was a tall man standing behind them, dressed in green leathers and with a deeper green cloak that had a hood with what looked like antlers draped on his shoulders. He was old, slightly bent, but there was a look about him that told Jaime that he had seen a lot of fighting and retained a lot of vigour. This was no weak old man.

There was also a weighing, considering, look to his glance as he eyed Jaime that made him feel most uneasy, most uneasy indeed.

"Ser Duncan," Addam said thickly after a moment. "How fare you?"

"Well, Ser Addam," The Green Man said after a moment. "And you are Ser Jaime Lannister." He said as fact, not as a question.

Jaime flushed a little and stood to bow slightly. "Ser Duncan." Now that he could see him closer he could notice that he fitted the description he'd read. Even seen a picture of once. His skin crawled with the madness of it all.

The Green Man observed him for a long moment and then smiled the merest of half-smiles. "Come and see me in two days, Ser Jaime, you and I have a journey North of the Wall to plan out." He nodded to them both and then strode away to the same table as the Blackfish and Brienne of Tarth, leaving the two men gaping at his back.

Jaime eventually closed his mouth and sat down heavily, Addam mirroring his actions. He had yet another feeling that his life was about to change.

Robb

It looked like a stone wall, stone laid on stone with the merest hint or mortar every now and then. There were runes carved in paces on the topmost course of stones and also on the lowest course, but it was otherwise an unremarkable wall in the Crypts, in a passageway that led towards the lower – and older – levels of tombs of long-dead Starks.

And there was no doorway there that he could see. He looked at Bran, who was biting his lip and looking like a boy who was either worried that he wasn't being believed, or needed a piss, or both. Summer on the other hand was sitting next to Bran with a look of utter unconcern.

"Here?" Robb asked. "You're sure, Bran?"

"Here." Bran said firmly. "I'm sure."

"How did you even see them whilst warging?"

Bran looked at him whilst he knotted his fingers together briefly. "I was looking for Vermax's eggs," he admitted eventually. "The King said that they weren't likely to be in here, as it's narrow and Vermax was big, but we thought that perhaps if Vermax really really squeezed up and narrowed out then…" He caught sight of Robb's upraised eyebrow and sighed. "I know. But I wondered if Summer might be able to see something that I couldn't, so I warged into him and looked and looked and looked and didn't see a thing – until I got here. There's a big door here. Or at least it looked big to Summer. He's still small."

Robb looked back at the wall and then glanced at Grey Wind, who was staring at the space that Bran had pointed at. The direwolf had his head quirked to one side as if puzzled by something.

"Warg into Grey Wind and see, Robb!" Bran sounded excited and he repressed a sigh. Warging was still something that he was getting used to, even with regular practice. Bran and Arya and yes even Sansa seemed to be far more adept at it than he was so far, even if the latter had been a little unsure about at first, due to the lingering remains of Septa Mordane's strictures.

Speaking of whom, Septa Mordane had been talking about going South of the Neck to the Isle of Faces. Mother was still trying to puzzle through her reasons, but it was clear that Mordane's feet were on a different path than before.

So he sighed a little, sat down opposite the wall, his back against the other wall and then half-closed his eyes and sent his mind into that other place where he could start to grasp his way through… to…

All of a sudden he was off to one side, feeling smaller but furrier and he made a note to try and remember that all of a sudden he had no arms but four legs. He blinked and then looked at his own body, which was sitting there with white and unblinking eyes. He looked at Bran, who was looking excitedly at him and at the wall, where-

He took a step back. There was a door there. There really was a door. He stared at it. It – no, they, there was a join in the middle – were stone, like the stones around it, with carvings that stretched up and over the top that looked like the trunk and branches of a tree. At the curve at the top he could see an arch of runes and he scowled a little. They were archaic. And then he looked down. There were three sets of… of handprints? They looked like slight depressions, six of them, and the middle ones were smaller than the others and looked a bit different from the others, although he wasn't sure why.

A moment of confused impressions and then he was back in his own body and standing hurriedly and running his hands over what felt like a smooth wall. "Gods," he muttered, before standing back. "I saw it but can't feel it. Magic. It must be magic."

"Did you see it?" Bran asked with excitement running through his voice. "You saw it, didn't you?"

He turned and grinned at his brother, before ruffling his hair, provoking an indignant squawk from him. "I saw it! There's a set of double doors here, with runes over the top and… places for hands. Odd." He looked back at the wall and ran his hand over his chin. "Most odd."

"Do you think that Vermax's eggs are behind it?"

Instead of rolling his eyes Robb instead made himself look patiently at his little brother. "Bran, the runes are in the language of the First Men and there's no reference at all to them in any record. They're old. When Jacaerys Velaryon was here with Vermax, I doubt the doors were open." He looked back at the wall. "No, these are truly old. And we need help on this."

Almost as if in answer to his last words he heard distant footsteps approaching and then Jory appeared, looking as if he had been running. Seeing his face Robb straightened. "Jory, what's the matter?"

"Word from the Iron Islands, Lord Robb," Jory panted. "Balon Greyjoy is dead – and the Lord Hand wrote that there was an attack by the Others on Pyke!"

Shock froze him in place for a long moment – and then he shook himself free of it all. "What? Are you sure? How?"

"Maester Luwin has two ravens with the same message, Lord Robb. All I know is that the attack was a failure, thanks to Lord Jon and Lord Greymist, as well as the Lord Hand. Asha Greyjoy is the new Lord, or perhaps Lady of the Iron Islands."

"Bran, take Summer and go back to the courtyard. I'll talk to Tyrion and Dacey about what we found – the runes will need to be translated." He could see Jory frown in puzzlement and he gestured at him. "Never mind that Jory. Where is Maester Luwin?"

"Lord Stark's solar, Lord Robb. I was one of many sent to find you."

He nodded and then, with Grey Wind at his heels, he ran. Others, on Pyke? How? And how much time did they now have?

Oberyn

He'd never thought that he'd be grateful to see the Wall in his life, but he was glad to see it now, that line of white on the horizon. They'd be there by that afternoon, if this wind held true – and as Seaworth had said that it would, then he saw no reason to doubt that.

If Stannis Baratheon, the tooth-grinding stubborn fool that he was, did not know that Ser Davos Seaworth was a gem of a man, albeit a rough one, then he was an absolute imbecile.

There had been three times when Seaworth had ordered a change in course that had probably saved all of their lives. The first time had been four days after departing King's Landing. He had been quietly talking to Seaworth about their course when the man had stiffened suddenly, literally sniffed the air, looked at the pennant at the mainmast and then recalled where he was, nodded formally to him, begged his pardon and then said that there was a squall coming and that they needed to change course.

Bemused, he had said yes immediately, whereupon Seaworth had started to bark out orders and then oversee the flags needed to communicate those orders, so that the flotilla changed course enough to hug the cost of a particularly unattractive and rocky part of the Southern Vale.

Shortly after a squall had indeed turned the sea to white mist off to the East, where they would have otherwise been sailing. If they had been in that spot they would have been in desperate trouble, or even a puff of green fire.

Afterwards he had simply looked at Seaworth and said that if he ever sensed the same thing he was to shout orders first and ask his permission second, as his dignity, in this case at least, was less important than dying in an instant because of the wildfire exploding due to a rope not being pulled on at the right moment.

And then there had been that one, truly odd, moment. As they had been sailing North at one point he and others in the crew had heard what sounded like a deeply submerged voice moaning a single repeated word: "Beware!"

As a man with ties to Essos he had a feeling that he might know what had been bellowing the word.

As they sailed on he frowned and then scampered up the rigging to the crows nest with his Myrish spyglass, before focussing and then squinting. Only then did he allow himself the luxury of a grin.

"Deck there!" he bellowed. Far below he could see the helmsman and Seaworth next to him, look up. "Eastwatch-by-the-Sea in sight just three degrees off the Port side!"

Waves acknowledged his words and he shimmied down the rigging and joined Seaworth as he bellowed orders and arranged for signal flags to be hoisted. It was all excitingly nautical and he hoped that he'd be able to dock himself with someone who had a nice tight opening as soon as they made landfall.

By the time that they finally beat into the harbour at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea he was thanking the notes that Sarella had sent him about what to wear this far North. Mother Rhoyne's tits, but was it cold up here.

There was a reception committee waiting for them at the docks, led by a short, lean, man with a widows peak and a bit of a beard. As the gangplank went down and Seaworth leant over the railing the man stepped forwards. "Still alive then, Seaworth?"

"Oh, aye, still alive, Pyke." There was a moment of silence and then the two men both grinned as Seaworth strode down the gangplank and embraced the other man. "You old whoreson, how are you?"

"Still alive, despite the dead." Pyke's face sobered. "You've brought a load of Aerys Targaryen's madness then, as was ordered?"

Seaworth nodded, before gesturing at Oberyn. "We have. Cotter Pyke, this is Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne, who has made it safe for now. I trust you have a place for it?"

Pyke nodded shortly. "Aye, as ordered. GrandMaester Pycelle's instructions have been followed to the fucking letter, or so I'm told. We've built a building that should take it all safely."

"Thank you, Pyke," Oberyn said formally. "It should be safe for two days or so, as we have used certain powders on it when we left King's Landing."

The bearded man nodded with a grimace. "Horrible fucking stuff. But that said, it should be useful against those blue bastards and their unliving ranks."

"What's the latest word?" Oberyn asked intently.

"All the Wildlings, or those of them who are still alive are now South of the Wall," said Pyke grimly. "The Giants too. It was a good thing we got to Hardhome with those ships when we did, two ten-days later the place got walloped by a snowstorm that you wouldn't believe. I saw it on the horizon as we sailed away with the last of the Wildlings and I swear it got colder faster than I've ever known as it came close. Not that they had anyone at Hardhome left to raise into a wight. All the Wildlings were gone and their dead were burnt. The ice drake skeletons too."

"Ice drakes?" Oberyn asked, his eyebrows shooting up. "I thought that they were a myth and - ah. Oh. As much a myth as the Others and their wights?"

"I saw those skeletons, Prince Oberyn," the man in black replied sombrely. "I don't know if there are any alive now, but there were once. Explains a lot about Hardhome and how it might have died."

"But no news otherwise?" Seaworth asked shrewdly. "No assault on the Wall?"

"Nothing," said Pyke with sounded like relief. "Which is good - men - aye and women! - and supplies come in every day on ships from all over Westeros, but we're still repairing the castles West of us here and the Gift and New Gift will take time to start producing food again, even with all them Wildlings."

There was a way that he almost spat that last word that spoke volumes about the way that he really felt about them. That said, the man was obviously trying to repress those thoughts. He thought about twisting his tail a but, but then decided that such a thing would be a bit petty.

"Which reminds me - there's a letter for you, Prince Oberyn. From a Maester called Alleras, or something like that." He pulled out a rectangle of waxed leather with its edges stitched together that had his full name written on it and he took it with a mutter of thanks.

"Ser Davos, I'll read this whilst you get the ships organised with Commander Pyke here." The black brother looked a bit confused at the title, but then Seaworth started to talk and lead him away and as they left Oberyn pulled out his smallest knife and attacked the stitching.

Inside was indeed a letter and he pulled it out with fingers that were just a little clumsy due to the gloves he was wearing. Yes, it was from Sarella and he frowned at the news she had listed. She seemed to have written it in instalments as news came in and then sent it, quite recently, from Castle Black.

So, Jaime Lannister had indeed taken the Black, as had been reported and was on the Wall? That whoreson Tywin Lannister must have choked on that, as well as the fact that the dwarf was now his heir. He bore no ill-will towards the man, not with the memories he had of Cersei making him cry as a baby because she was a creature of hate and bile, and he would make a far better Lord of the Westerlands than his brother could ever dream of being.

He wondered what Doran was thinking now that Robert Baratheon was single again and obviously looking for a wife. Did he have a plan for Arianne? Well, if so he had reservations about sending another Martell anywhere near King's Landing.

And what was this bit about runes and making them glow by carving them onto bronze bits of armour with bronze tools whilst praying to the Old Gods? He chewed a lip briefly. Interesting. He'd have to try that.

But then the hurried scrawl at the end of the pages rose off the paper and hit him between the eyes. The Mountain was dead. The monster who had haunted his dreams for so long, the man he had imagined killing in oh so many endlessly inventive ways was dead. He wanted to exult that Elia was finally avenged and then scream with frustration that he had not killed him with his own bare hands.

There had long been a vial of manticore poison that he had wanted to test on 'Ser' Gregor fucking Clegane.

But now the man was dead at the hands of Robb Stark and Sandor Clegane. And in such circumstances! Possessed by foul magic, probably Valyrian at that, was the verdict in Winterfell and he had to say that he couldn't disagree. He searched his mind for any mentions of such magic in his time in Essos. Ah - there had been a mention, briefly, in Volantis about the 'great deeds' of Valyria.

He'd been at a gathering where it had been the fashionable thing to talk about the Valyrians and the things that they could do, things that on reflection were enough to make anyone with any sense shudder. Yes, just because something could be done did not mean that it should be done.

He'd heard things about Gogossos that had given him nightmares.

So, someone had possessed The Mountain. Who? And why? Which Stark had been marked for death and again why?

He slid the letter into a pocket and then strode off to rejoin the others. He had a lot to do and a lot to now think about. As soon as the wildfire was properly secured he'd head for Castle Black.

For one thing he didn't like the way that his daughter wrote about this Allarion Lannister. he might be Ser Gerion Lannister's son, who liked to stick two fingers in the general direction of his brother, but he was still a Lannister.