I am about to start the last two weeks of my present job before starting my new job, so my time in purgatory is almost at an end! And it seems that my wife's eye surgery at the start of March has been a success. Onwards and upwards, people.

Willas

One of the first things that he had done after Father had died was to have the message network redirected to the Hightower. There had long been a system of messaging from the coast of the Reach to Highgarden, the Hightower and the Arbor against Ironborn raiding. Now it was informing of the progress of just one ship.

"Lord Stark will be here in a few days," he muttered and dropped the message onto the table by the window. There was a breeze coming through the window that made it quiver a little and he placed a paperweight over it to prevent it from flying through the air and out of the doorway.

"Good," said Grandfather, and he looked at him worriedly. There was something slightly off about him these past few days, as if he was coming to terms with something. Perhaps they all were. The blight was still out there, still spreading out from Oldtown like a slow pestilence, and the weight of worry on him was ever-present.

Aunt Malora also worried him. She had always been highstrung, flighty even, fascinated by books of magic, or so he had been led to understand. Now she was a hollow-eyed wraith at the table, looking downcast and depressed as she leafed through a book about the Hightower. He had heard that she had had a tremendous argument with Grandfather, with repeated shrieks of 'Why?" – but no-one knew what that argument had been about.

"I've doubled the guards," Grandfather said eventually. "Ned Stark must get here safely. Oldtown is abuzz with rumours about all kinds of things and I've had to stop people from suggesting the maddest of ways of dealing with the Gate. Gods, our bloody ancestors."

Willas raised an eyebrow at that and Lord Hightower made a noise deep in his throat that was almost a snarl. "Guard the Gate, we were told. And we have. But so much has been lost, so much forgotten! We forgot what was behind it. Past Hightowers built the Hightower stage by stage and we even used Bran the Builder to build it higher, but at some point we forgot, or allowed Andal-like thinking to influence us!"

"Andal-like thinking?" Willas looked at Grandfather, confused.

Grandfather sighed and passed a hand over his lower forehead, as if wiping his anger away. "The First Men knew that the threat of the Others had never gone away, not truly. And they knew that the Drowned God's prison, or what amounted to it, had to be guarded. They were familiar with magic, magic in root and stone, which waxes and wanes like the moon. They thought… differently, I think. They did not forget things.

"And then the Andals came, with their Gods and their fears of other gods and their gods-damned religious fervour that meant that things they did not understand had to be destroyed! They burned the weirwoods, slaughtered the Children of the Forest, killed those who dared to disagree. And the Hightowers of the time did not do enough to stop them! The Children helped to create the Gate and where are the Children now, now that we need them in our hour of need? DEAD! GONE!" Grandfather was roaring now, red-faced and furious. "How much could we have remembered if they had still been out there, waiting in their Godswoods? Ready to give advice? Able to warn us!"

Grandfather gestured at Otherbane. "The First Men made that with the help of the Children of the Forest. You are still finding out what it can do. We know-"

"Father." Malora said the word in a dead flat voice, almost a voice of warning.

It was a word that finally made the blood drain from Grandfather's face. He clenched his fists for a long moment and then leant against the window with a sigh. "Baelor will do what he can to quiet the city. Gods, I wish we still had Vigilance. Willas – we have found a… a treatise on Otherbane. It is in the language of the First Men and it is obscure even then. You must study it. After all, you were born to wield it."

He looked at Grandfather and unease rippled through his skin for a moment. "Where is it?"

"Here." Aunt Malora held a slim book out and he shuddered slightly at the look in her eyes. There was a combination of emotions there that puzzled him. Was it outrage? Anger? Some form of grief? Or was it pure and simple madness?

He took it and opened it, frowning down at the runes. Yes, this was obscure indeed. He would have to study this carefully.

"There is something else," Grandfather said in a voice that made him look at him at once with alarm. "You should tell me at once if your dreams… darken. There might be a reason for that."

He frowned at that. "The tale from Winterfell about the Mountain? About his possession? You think that I am in danger of that?"

Oddly enough Grandfather looked at Malora rather than him, a long glance filled with twitches of the eyebrow on both of their parts before Grandfather sighed a little. "Not… quite. It's hard to explain. I fear that something dark is coming, something that is racing Ned Stark. What it is… is uncertain. There are many interpretations… Gods, it's hard to even explain it."

"Triple the guards." Aunt Malora said the words in that same dead flat voice. Almost in resignation. "We must be sure on this."

"Sure on what?" Willas asked the question with narrowed eyes. They were not telling him something. But what?

"The avalanche is on us, the stones can no longer vote," Grandfather said, sounding as if he was quoting someone. And then he looked up. "The moment that Ned Stark gets here, we escort him to the Gate. Do you understand?"

After a long moment he nodded. "I do."

Grandfather's eyes seemed to search his face for a long moment. "Good," he said eventually. "I'm proud of you, my boy. So proud of you."

Renly

The best way to deal with the Gods-awful stench in the alcove of the passageway was to breath through the mouth and not through the nose, and concentrate on something, anything, that was not related to the smell, like the rope that was hanging from the trestle over the opening, the way that the shadows inside the shaft that went downwards moved as the lantern was used to inspect the grisly bottom of said shaft and the hatch that normally kept the alcove safe and the stench down, because it looked old but very well made.

After a while the light started to come up as the man in the shaft climbed out of it one-handed, using his feet as well on the knotted rope. As he reached the top he placed the lantern by the side and levered himself up and out, before wiping his forehead.

"Gods," said Pate Waters in a tired and horrified voice. "It's worse than we thought, my Lord." The short servant had been acting as his permanent man in the Red Keep for some years, being very quiet and very observant.

Renly wordlessly handed over a skin of watered wine and allowed Pate the time to take a large swallow of it and then visibly compose himself.

"Worse?"

"There must be 20 to 30 of them down there my Lord. From the clothing they were servants and a few guards. Lannister guards I might add, based on the cloaks and the armour. The oldest ones are… well, there's a lot of muck and filth and bones."

"And the newest?"

"There were two I recognised, my Lord, barely. One was a serving girl, Ella by name. Sweet young thing, very bad at knocking on doors before opening them. I fear that's why she's down there with her throat cut I think. There's a guard next to her. Timmon. She vanished ten days before his Grace took the Royal Family North to Winterfell and he disappeared two days after that." He shook his head. "Timmon… I remember him being smug about something before he vanished. Smug for a month or two I think."

"She used him to kill and he must have thought he'd be rewarded," Renly surmised. "How did he die?"

"Head's bashed in and there's a bloodstain on the wall of the shaft. I think he was hit, fell, killed in the fall when he hit stone going down, my Lord."

"Renly!"

The call was from far away down the passageway and Renly turned his head. "Down here!" Then he stood and helped Pate to stand. "Alright, get that rope up and move that trestle. We need to get that hatch closed before the stink spreads further."

"Aye, my Lord."

As pate got to it Renly stepped out into the passageway, taking a gulp of watered wine himself and then peered to see who was approaching. After a moment he blinked in surprise at the approaching shape of a tall, old man with silver hair. "Uncle Eldon?"

Lord Eldon Estermont had seen close to 70 years come and go but he was still quite hale and hearty – right up until the moment he smelled the stench and stopped dead in his tracks, one hand going over his nose. "Gods, Renly, what is that stink?"

"My unbeloved former Goodsister's work," Renly said bitterly as he gestured into the alcove, where Pate was now closing the hatch with some relief. His uncle joined him to watch. "It's a former privy – blocked off now and unused since the Dance of Dragons if I have it right."

"I don't understand."

"The Kingslayer's full confession finally came in from Winterfell. He mentioned that Cersei would have those servants who walked in on their… cavorting, 'dealt with'. I found myself wondering how they were dealt with." He pointed down to the end side of the passageway. "There's a set of stairs there that go up to a good thick door that comes out near her old quarters. Unused since before Summerhall I think. Until Cersei discovered it. There's footprints in the dust. Drag marks too."

"By all the Gods… how many?"

"Pate?"

The servant bobbed his head at Uncle Eldon. "At least 20 my Lord. Perhaps 30. Hard to tell as it's pretty bad at the bottom."

Uncle Eldon pulled a face. "The murderous whore."

"She always thought herself more important than anyone else," Renly replied, looking at the hatch. "Well now. Pate?"

"My Lord?"

"Hire ten men in the city. Warn them ahead that this is a horrible messy job, but tell them that it's worth a dragon each if they complete the job of emptying the shaft of bodies – they can work in shifts of two to spread the load. Get them to at least try and identify the bodies. Alert the Silent Sisters too – I want the bodies treated with respect. How ever they died they didn't deserve this. Tell the men that we'll replace any clothing that get ruined by what's at the bottom of that shaft and that we'll provide washing facilities and food. I want it done and I want it done right. Understand?"

Pate nodded and bowed, before striding off.

"How did no-one smell this place?" Uncle Eldon said in horrified amazement.

"The hatch is a snug fit and this section is unused," Renly replied tiredly. "And what's one more stench in a city of them? Now, Uncle Eldon – you don't often leave Greenstone. What's amiss?"

The old man directed a long and very level look at him, making his heart sink a little. "Renly, we need to talk somewhere private. Where I cannot be overheard."

He took Uncle Eldon to one of the rooms that he'd identified as not being filled with odd alcoves or strange holes in the ceiling where someone could eavesdrop on whoever was inside. Even then, he still looked about carefully. Varys was still Varys. Uncle Eldon watched him with a little bemusement that ebbed after he quietly told him why he was checking.

After Renly was finished checking the room he raised an eyebrow at his uncle, who sighed and ran a hand over his forehead for a moment, before looking his nephew in the eye. "Renly, you need to marry and marry quickly."

He didn't groan as this was something that he had been expecting. "I know," Uncle," he said after a moment. "Jon Arryn has also talked to me and I know that I must marry. I have been talking to prospective matches for the past few months."

"Months? Are you close to a choice?"

No, he was not, although he had been hawking with Lord Kellington and his daughter Bethany and he found her pleasant to talk to and remarkably proficient with the bow for a woman. But he had not taken things any further as he thought he had to search more. He had to admit, now, that he had been procrastinating. "Not yet," he admitted. "Perhaps soon."

Uncle Eldon scowled. "Choose quickly, wed her, bed her, get a child in her."

He stared at his uncle. "Why the rush Uncle Eldon?"

"Boy, you should have a wife already at your age!" A gnarled fist hit the table next to him. And then he sighed. "Renly, your Stormlords are… I will not say restless. I will simply say that they are talking."

"Talking of what?"

"Many things. Legends. The Long Night. Robert finding the Durrandon tombs and Stormbreaker – they talk a lot about that. I know, you were there for that as well, but they talk of Robert, not you. There is talk of things waking up, old things, old traditions. The Call is not questioned in the Stormlands, not with those cages going around with bits of wights in them. Your Stormlords know that we are about to fight a terrible war on the Wall. They know that after so many years of Summer an equally long Winter is to come."

Uncle Eldon sighed. "My sons are getting Greenstone ready and Estermont as a whole. And there is a lot of talk in the Stormlands about… succession. Most houses are being sensible and settling disputes. A few are being idiots – I heard about Piglott trying to get one over Kellington and failing. But most are trying to settle their differences. And there are marriage alliances being forged all over the place. There is talk of heirs and spares. And you have no heir. There is no child in Storm's End – and there needs to be. You need a canny wife to run Storm's End and a child at her breast. People are talking."

He nodded tiredly. "I will make a decision soon uncle."

But Uncle Eldon did not seem satisfied. "Renly, I must be blunt. People are talking about many things. Some say that they wish that Robert was still at Storm's End, as he has done so much. Others that they wish that Stannis was there, as he held it against all odds. I know, this is unfair, you have not had a chance yet to be tested in war. But you are very much in Robert's shadow in this – Stormbreaker has gotten so many people talking."

That stung more than a bit, but he was man enough to realise that was not the fault of his brothers. "I understand." Then he saw the look on the face of his uncle. "What else?"

"There is talk – whispers in the wind for the most part, but as I am your uncle there are times when people see me approach and change the subject abruptly, which makes me wonder – of a loyal petition to the King to have one of his legitimised bastards, namely Edric, made your heir until you can produce one of your own."

Bewilderment turned rapidly to rage and he bounded to his feet in a trice. "What? NO! How dare they? That would be without precedent! That is an insult! Who says that, Uncle Eldon? Who?" His face was flushed and he could feel the famous Baratheon rage starting to overwhelm him. How dare they indeed?

"I will not tell you, as I would not condemn a man for a rumour of a whisper!" Uncle Eldon snapped back at him coldly. "Sit down boy and think!"

Trembling with rage Renly sat down after a long moment, still ready to flip the table over and break a chair against the nearest wall.

"They dare, Renly, because some doubt if you can produce an heir at all. There is talk of you and Loras Tyrell. You might have thought you were being discreet when you were… with him. You were not. People are talking. Just rumours at the moment, but those rumours are spreading. And… I must be blunt here. You are my nephew and I love you dearly, but you are also my Lord Paramount and I must provide you with the best counsel that I can give. People are wondering if, in this time, with a war against the Others coming on the Wall, with a second Long Night coming, if a sword-swallowing pillowbiter can lead the Stormlands."

The rage vanished in the blink of an eye as the shock overtook him. Who knew? When had someone seen them? Heard them? What should he do? What could he do now?

"Your silence says volumes," Uncle Eldon said eventually in a tired voice. "So it is true then."

He struggled to speak for a long moment. "Uncle… I-"

"Save your words. You must act now. With every day that passes without you acting that loyal petition idea will gain strength. Put aside your position here and go home. Marry quickly. She must be a Stormlander and the marriage must be at Storm's End. There must be a Bedding and after it you must stay in her bed enough to father the first of many children." Uncle Eldon looked at him with understanding and sympathy in his eyes. "If you can father a bastard or two here and there even better. Yes, boy, it's a mummer's farce. But it will secure the loyalty of the Stormlands in the greatest storm that it has faced in thousands of years. You must be a leader now. The leader that the Stormlands needs. Put your needs aside and listen to the voice of duty. You cannot be selfish anymore. You are a Baratheon of Storm's End and you need an heir born from your balls. And Loras Tyrell must never be seen with you again."

Afterwards he could not say when it was that Uncle Eldon left the room. Was it a moment, or an hour? All he knew was that he sat there, in that room, staring at the wall opposite him. Thinking about so many things.

And then, after that undefined period, he stood and strode out of the room and back to his own quarters. Once he was there he closed the door and sat at his desk for a long moment, before looking at the nearby fireplace. It had the materials for a fire next to it and he knelt by it and recalled his lessons before starting to lay the kindling at the bottom and then the larger pieces of wood and then a few others. A splash of lamp oil and a stub of lighted candle got the fire started.

Only then did he sit down at his desk and pull out a pair of intricate keys. The first unlocked a secret compartment of his desk, which slid out to reveal a slim box. The second unlocked the box, which opened to reveal the letters inside.

They were letters that he could not bring himself to destroy. Letters that Loras had sent him, through various confidential ways. Letters of… intimacy, of treasured words, of love. Love. He fingered them in silence, unable to open any of them and re-read the words on the pages.

After a while he willed his hands to stop their shaking and picked the letters up, before standing and taking them to the fire, where he paused for a long moment – and then he thrust them into the flames. As the paper caught and crackled and burned he wiped the tears from his cheeks and then closed his eyes for a long and anguished moment. When he opened them again he could see the ashes dancing at the grate, almost mocking him.

And then, finally, he undid the chain at the back of his neck and let the signet ring with the worn crest tumble into his hand. It had been Father's ring. His last – one of his very few – memory of his father had been him handing his old signet ring to him 'for protection' before he and Mother had left for their fruitless mission to Essos to find a bride for Rhaegar. He had another one, of course, the one that Robert had had made after their parents had died in Shipbreaker Bay, because Father's had not fit his huge fingers, but that had never really fit Renly's fingers.

The old one did, now.

He looked at it for a long moment. And then he went back to his desk. He needed to meet Bethany Kellington again. He did not know what was there between them. But he would make it work. The Stormlands needed an heir.