Ok, folks, it's been far too long since I updated this and I'd like to apologise. By the end of last year I was utterly exhausted in every way, mentally especially. Fortunately I was able to go with my wife on a glorious 2-week cruise in the Caribbean in January that restored me a great deal. Plus, I was given a job offer that I couldn't say no to.

Then the bad news rolled in. I have to work out my full notice period at my old job, all three months of it, which has been a royal pain in the posterior. And on Tuesday my wife had an operation on her eye which was vitally important but which we have been dreading for months. So far all seems to be going well, but we are both short on sleep and I have to administer four sets of eyedrops at varying times of the day, and said day is governed by the fact that she has to be face-down for 50 minutes of each hour and cannot sleep on her back.

Life, in short, has been... complicated.

So... enjoy!

Domeric

Luckily Sansa had been with him when the message had arrived that Robb wanted to see him at once, that there had been some sort of an attack by the Others on the Iron Islands. His beloved could be trusted to make sure that his lute wasn't dropped or unstrung or mistreated in any way. There were times when he could see Arya looking at it in a considering way, as if she was pondering mischief with it.

He hurried down the corridor towards Lord Stark's solar, nodded at Jory Cassel who was outside it panting slightly, and then went in. Robb was inside, staring at the map of Westeros on the wall, with a pale Lady Stark to one side and a scowling Tyrion Lannister on the other, whilst Dacey Lannister was off to one side consulting a large book.

"Robb, you sent for me?"

The heir to Winterfell nodded and handed over a raven message, which Domeric unscrolled. As he read the words he could feel the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. "The Others attacked Pyke? How is that possible?"

Robb gestured at the raven message and he kept reading. "They used icebergs, with the Others and their wights embedded within them? How is that even possible?"

"They're not human," Tyrion Lannister said as he continued to stare at the map. "We need to stop thinking of them as human adversaries. They have resources and magics that we do not understand, or have forgotten about. Too much time has passed since we last knew them. They became legends and stories and we dismissed them as such. However – Dacey? Anything in that?"

His wife looked up from the book. "Nothing. There has never been an attack by the Others that bypassed the Wall in such a way, or none that was ever recorded."

"Humph." Tyrion smiled his thanks at his wife, who smiled back, and then returned his gaze to the map. Domeric swapped a glance with Robb and joined him there. "Why Pyke?" Tyrion almost snapped. "Why there? No other reports of attacks, or at least so far, so why there?"

Robb tilted his head to one side as his eyes swept the map. "Any number of reasons," he said eventually. "A reconnaissance in force. A trial, to see if it could be done. An attempt to create a lodging on a place that would have been utterly unprepared for them, if it hadn't been for Jon, Theon and Ygritte, as well as the Lord Hand. Or… it might have been something to do with the madman, Euron Greyjoy."

Domeric shivered slightly as he looked at the message again. Euron Greyjoy had killed one brother and fatally wounded another. Kinslayer. Cursed by every god. He squinted at the small writing at the bottom of the message. "Your brother writes that Euron Greyjoy… vanished after the attack? How is that possible? And what's this about wanting to replace the Drowned God?"

Robb shook his head in bafflement. "I know not. But I don't like the fact that he said that he had allied himself with the Others. As to the Drowned God, well, I-"

There was a thump at the door, which opened to reveal a panting Maester Luwin. "My… my Lords, my… my Lady. Another… message from Lord Jon." He held out twin scrolls and Robb snatched one out of his hand and unrolled it in front of him, whilst Luwin gave the other to Lady Stark and Dacey.

The writing was tiny and there was much of it as the scroll could take, but as he read it Domeric could feel his eyebrows arch upwards. "Madness," he breathed eventually. "Sorcerous… madness!"

"A cursed ship and a creature made of blood and bones, or what Jon thought was such a thing…" Robb shook his head in horror. "Why? Was it Euron Greyjoy's crew? Who else would make such a thing?"

Tyrion Lannister raised a finger, his eyes tightly closed and everyone stared at him as he face showed the deepest of calculations. "Luwin!" The word burst from his mouth and made everyone jump. "The book of Valyrian practices! It mentioned the work of fleshsmiths did it not, the terrible spells that my Uncle Gerion might have seen the evidence of – the kind of horrors that Gogossos might have held – did it not?"

Luwin nodded with a look of revulsion, but Tyrion kept on wagging his finger. "And that story of what Ned and Jon faced at Barrowtown – the things in the fog, made from bone… We know that Euron Greyjoy has been voyaging all over the world, perhaps even to the Smoking Sea – what if he picked up knowledge from Valyria and then combined it with something he learnt from the Others?"

He found that the sensation of blood draining from one's face was a singular one that was not very nice. As he looked at the others in the room he realised that they too were feeling the same sensation.

"Euron Greyjoy possessed The Mountain." Dacey said the words in horror. "But which Stark was he aiming for? If not Robb then who? And why?"

"Ned." Lady Stark was ashen. "He's gone South to deal with the Gate at the Hightower. Where the Drowned God is. It must be he that Euron Greyjoy is targeting. We must warn him!" She staggered, close to being overwrought, and was deftly caught by Dacey and Luwin, who escorted her to a chair, the Maester then scurrying over to the table to give her a little wine in a cup.

"Euron Greyjoy intends to replace the Drowned God, or steal enough of his powers to become a god," Tyrion breathed. "Luwin, is Lady Stark alright?"

The Maester inspected her face for a moment and then nodded slightly. "I think a sleeping draught after this though."

"Can someone else send your fastest raven to the Hightower?"

Luwin nodded. "Aye, Lord Tyrion."

The heir to Casterley Rock caught the eyes of the heir to Winterfell and the heir to the Dreadfort. "Then we have a vitally important message to write. Now." He paused. "And we'll use the second and third fastest to the Hightower as well. Ned must be warned in time!"

Gendry

He stood at the door to the forge and looked out at Castle Black as it started to come awake that morning. There were certain things that had to be done of a morning and one of those things was to light the forge. Or rather the first forge. There were three of the buggers now and he thanked the gods for Lord Stark, who had arranged a steady supply of coal to Castle Black and the other castles as they were restored.

He was… well, he didn't know how he felt right now. Too many names. He was just about starting to get used to being called Gendry Baratheon, but that wasn't all that he was being called. He was called Gendry Strongarm by some, Gendry Runesmith by others, 'That Bastard Boy' by yet others… gods. He was tired of it all.

He was certainly tired of avoiding Joffrey bloody Hill. The brat obviously still seemed to be pissed off at his very existence, let alone his new name and the fact that Father praised him so widely because of his rune carving abilities, which was a bit daft because Mya had discovered them as well.

Well, at least he wasn't trying not to be noticed by anyone in Lannister red anymore. Yes many of then tended to look down their noses at him, but it seemed that the Old Lion had made it clear that any more 'unfortunate events' – like the attack on Robb Stark by the little ponce back at Winterfell – would not be tolerated.

The Old Lion was one scary fucker.

What was also scary was the weight that was on him right now, a weight that he worried about. He'd talked about to Lord Royce two nights previous, about how much he admitted that he didn't know about making runes, about how he was afraid of making an error. What were the rules about rules? What did they mean exactly? How did they combine. Could they even be combined?

He knew a lot about being a blacksmith. He could make any manner of hand weapon, be it axe, sword, flail, mace or spear tip. He knew how important weight was and heft and thinness of blade. He knew how to judge a metal by its colour when heated, to tell when was too cold to beat it and when was too hot to quench. He knew all manner of quenches, which oils to use, which blends, the moment to quench. He knew all about making handles for all kinds of things, again with the width and length so dependent on the man or woman wielding it.

But now he was carving runes and making them glow and he was both proud of the fact that he could do so and terrified of fucking it up by making some mistake that one of the First Men Runesmiths in the depths of time would never have made even as children.

The words had tumbled out of his mouth and he ended up slightly breathless as the bearded old Lord of Runestone just sat there and looked at him with those measuring eyes. And after a long moment the Lord had just smiled at him and clapped him on the shoulder.

"By the Old Gods, you've got a head on those shoulders of yours, Gendry. Good lad. Those are the right things to worry about, the right questions. Lad, you're not alone on this. I've sent ravens to Runestone, the Thenn are already working on things and Lord Redfort and I have men here as well. And you." He'd reached out to one side, snagged a book from the table and held it out him. "Here you go. It's yours."

He'd taken it with a frown. Oh. It was a book about runes? "So… this could-"

"That will teach you a lot about runes. It's a copy of an old book from Runestone. Don't lose it lad, it's valuable."

"It's mine though?" He'd said the words a bit faintly.

"It's yours. Study hard lad. There's a lot riding on those runes."

He looked down at his hand and the book it held. And then he turned back into the forge, put the book carefully down to one side, shrugged his jerkin off, put a leather apron on, looked at the sheets of bronze to one side and then reached out and opened the book.

He had a lot to bloody learn. But learn it he would. And he was Gendry bloody Baratheon and he'd thump the skull of any snooty twit who said otherwise.

Ned

The further South they sailed the warmer he got and he liked it not. It reminded him too much of Dorne and his search along the border of Dorne and the Stormlands, until he and his companions finally found the so-called Tower of Joy.

He knew that he'd have nightmares about that bloody place until his dying day. Friends lost, his sister lost, a burden placed upon him and a sword he had to give back to its rightful owner and the woman that, in a more sane time, should have been his wife.

They'd made good time in their voyage South, but he would still find his fingers drumming on the wood of the railing where he'd stand after his daily walk about the ship whenever they were at sea. He wanted to be there already, he didn't want to spend more time than he had to on this, there was too much to do in the North.

They'd docked a few times for supplies and his brief time at Lannisport had left him with the peculiar feeling that the Lannisters were taking things very seriously indeed, judging by the way that the port was starting to react to the messages from Tywin Lannister in support of the Call.

Of course there had also been the way that so many of them had reacted to his presence in the Westerlands, staring at him and then muttering about the Call and cheering him – and their astonished reaction to Frostfyre, who had taken the opportunity to go hunting along the shore and then vanished for an hour or so in the woods to the West of where they had moored. From the feeling of happy contentment he felt from her direction, as well as the blood around her muzzle when she came back, she had found a good enough meal to take her through her next long nap, almost hibernation, which seemed to be her way of getting through the voyage.

After all, a direwolf couldn't exactly squat at the heads on the ship.

And the more he thought about the fact that he was feeling what Frostfyre felt, the more he… wasn't worried? He was coming to terms with it. He was, at some level at least, a warg. Father would have been proud of him, he knew it. Astonished first, but then proud.

The winds were kind to the ship, not too strong, not too soft, and as they headed south he ticked the headlands and landmarks off in his mind, as he consulted the maps.

He had to admit that the southern lands made him a more than a little envious. Green fields, villages all over the place, towns in areas that made best use of the coast or the land. And as they approached the borders of the Reach he became even more envious. Rich, rich, lands. Rolling fields of wheat or barley, orchards almost groaning under the weight of their fruit, windmills working industriously away…

And then the thought of all of that withering under whatever this mysterious thing was that he'd been called upon to help young Willas Tyrell with made him pause and almost shake his head in horror. The Reach needed his help. This trip was worth it. He had to be here, even though Starks did not prosper south of the Neck.

Well, at least he was dealing with Willas Tyrell and not old Mace. That said, he had long wondered if the man had been a complete fool. The siege of Storm's End had been long and curiously clumsy. Had be done that on purpose or had he merely been an idiot fixated on something that he lacked the wit to achieve? Would anyone ever know, now that he was dead?

It was just to the west of the Shield Islands that the first cry came from the crow's nest that there were ships ahead, coming towards them. Captain Morgwn, a blunt man from Torrhen's Square who knew these waters like the back of his hand, sprinted up the rigging with his Myrish spyglass, took a sighting and then descended via a rope.

"A squadron of Reacher ships, Lord Stark," he said, looking puzzled. "And unless I am very much mistaken one of them is the Arbor Queen."

That was a name that made him think back to the Greyjoy Rebellion and he frowned slightly. "Lord Redwyne's flagship?"

"Aye, my Lord. We're almost at the Shield islands, but not yet near the Arbor, so I'm puzzled."

As the ships drew closer a great flurry of signals burst out from them, which Morgwyn ordered be answered with signals of their own. And then the squadron shook into a clear shape and approached, signalling again.

"Lord Stark, Lord Redwyne wishes to come aboard at once," Morgwyn said. "Urgent dispatches, they're signalling."

Ned nodded, a frisson of dread running through him. Dispatches? Here? The squadron of ships came abreast of them and then turned southwards to join them in unison and Morgwyn muttered that they seemed to be almost decently handled. And then they all collectively slowed as a boat was lowered from the Arbor Queen.

Paxter Redwyne was a little older and a little balder than Ned remembered him from the Greyjoy Rebellion, but what remaining hair he had was still red and he still had that look of half amusement and half bellicosity that his sons had obviously inherited. As he hauled his way with practiced ease up the rope ladder that had been let down for him and came level with the deck he looked about – and then saw Ned and nodded firmly.

"Lord Redwyne," Ned said, bowing to the man as he stood on the deck and took a deep breath. "We meet again."

"Lord Stark." Paxter Redwyne bowed deeply and then looked at him. "The Call was heard at the Arbor. House Redwyne answers it."

He smiled at the man. "And House Stark is grateful for what House Redwyne has already done. Your sons were both at the Wall and beyond. As they shall tell you." He looked to one side at where a group of other men had gathered – and where there were two red-headed young men who looked as if they were barely restraining themselves from dashing over and flinging their arms around their father. "And they have very much to tell you."

"Horas and Hobber!" Paxter Redwyne beamed at his sons – but then sobered. "I must greet them in a moment. First, Lord Tyrell sent me to get you to Oldtown came with unsettling news from Winterfell."

He looked at the older man's face and ice seemed to run up and down along his back for a heartbeat. "What has happened, Paxter?"

The Lord of the Arbor held out a message. "There was an unsuccessful attack against your oldest son, Ned. It's a mad tale, one that made me shake my head, but after getting the earlier letters from my sons about what they saw and witnessed… well, you need to read this."

He read it and found his forehead creasing from shock and bafflement. The Mountain had killed two men, almost assaulted Val, and then had come within a hair's breadth of killing Robb, before he and Sandor Clegane had killed him. And what was this about black eyes, in the most literal sense and the words about Robb being the wrong Stark?

"This is madness," he breathed as he absorbed the implications. "Sorcery? And Valyrian sorcery at that?"

"Apparently Tyrion Lannister's daggers, being the work of the First Men, reacted to the body of the Mountain," Paxter Redwyne pointed out. "I heard that you bear the Fist of Winter. Perhaps that will also warn of Valyrian black magic?"

A shiver ran up and down his spine. "I don't know, Paxter, I don't know. Hopefully it will."

"I hope it does," Paxter Redwyne said seriously. "Because if you are the right Stark that means that you need to be protected and defended. I know what worries Willas Tyrell and that terrifies me. We need you in Oldtown, at the Hightower and every man under my command knows that. So we'll get you there, Lord Stark. We'll bloody well get you there."

And only then did he bow formally and then go over and greet his sons, leaving Ned staring down at the message in his hand. Someone might be trying to kill him. Well now. Let them bloody well try it.