Theon

As he knelt before the Heart Tree he squinted at it. It was not his imagination – it had grown a little overnight. The Stonebrows and the Green Man had been tending to it, the tree that had reconnected with such ancient roots literally beneath his feet.

As he prayed to the Old Gods he thought, once again, what his idiot father would have said if he had seen him doing this. What his brothers Rodrik and Maron would have said. And how much he didn't give a damn what they would have thought. This was the right thing to do. No obeisance to a mad creature on the isle of bones he had seen in his dreams, or the insane god that he knew was clinging to the gate at the base of the Hightower. Just him before a Heart Tree, praying to the Old Gods, hoping that he would see Ros again soon and ask her to be his wife.

He'd seen too much death and madness over the past days. Far too much. He had a keep to build, a Northern house to found, a family to make. And an enemy to kill. The Others had to be beaten. Had to be.

He heard footsteps to one side and then looked over to see Jon and Ygritte approaching. They were hand in hand and he smiled slightly. They were obviously devoted to each other and he'd be unsurprised if she wasn't on the way to being pregnant already. Noisy pair.

"Before you ask – yes, I think it's grown again. Just a bit. But it grows every day. The roots, I think."

They looked at him and then at the tree and then nodded at the words, before kneeling to pray. He bowed his head – and then blinked in shock as he felt the weirwood pendant quiver on his chest, gently at first and then more violently.

"What in the name of-" He was interrupted by the sensation of something somewhere shaking the ground, or a sensation that felt like that, because not a leaf moved on the Heart Tree, or anything else around. And then the pendant floated in their air, moving up from his chest, glowing with a faint red light.

Jon and Ygritte were both staring at him, or rather at the pendant, in shock – and then the Heart Tree seemed to glow as well, red light with a hint of green.

Someone, somewhere was screaming in the far distance and Theon had a sudden feeling that something was under attack far away, as for a moment he seemed to feel a great weight on his mind. For a moment there was a foul smell under his nose, as if he was near something that had died.

He reeled for a moment, remembering that island of bones from his dream and that mad thing that had chased him – and then he realised that Jon and Ygritte were at his side holding him up.

"Theon," Jon said urgently, "What's wrong? Your pendent and the tree? What's happening?"

"And who's that mad screaming bastard?" Ygritte asked.

The pendent jerked wildly at the end of its tether for a moment – and then Theon suddenly felt a shock that battered against him for an instant, as if something had flailed against his mind for an instant, but been repelled by something. And then he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that the Drowned God was dead – utterly dead in fact, gone from this world.

"The Drowned God has been defeated," he gasped out after a long moment. "He's dead. I felt it. Gods, why? Why should I feel it?"

"We're Greyjoys," said a shaking voice to one side and he looked over to see Asha standing there, white-faced, barely upright and next to a worried Uncle Rodrik. "We're… tied to him, I think. We rule the Ironborn. It's… belief? I felt it too, Theon. The Drowned God is dead. I… I don't know what Father would have felt, if he was still alive. Damphair too."

"Lady Greyjoy!" The call came from a Stonebrow, who was running towards them. "The screaming…" He shook his head, panting. "It's from a Drowned Man. He says he can't hear him anymore. The Drowned God, I mean. And he's mad. The Drowned Man that is. Keeps screaming about how empty his head is now."

Theon exchanged a baffled glance with them all. "Gods… what will this do to the Iron Islands?"

"Every Drowned Man will go mad?" It was Ygritte who said the words, looking horrified. "If they are the ones who heard that mad thing… won't they all go mad?"

Asha went somehow even paler. "We have to get back to Pyke!"

But it was Jon who said something far more important. "Oh gods – Father! Is he alright?"

Jaime

The land beyond the Wall was like nothing that he had ever known. Or had ever suspected could exist. The cold that he had known at the Wall seemed to increase a fraction with every mile that they rode North from the Wall.

And there was something else that increased as well. Unease. The further they rode North the more he felt as if there was something terrible ahead, that there was danger before them.

He was used to chatter, or at least some measure of banter, around him as he rode. Not on this trip. They rode in silence, apart from the occasional muttered words from the Green Man, or the Blackfish, or Brienne of Tarth.

There was something about the last two that puzzled him greatly. They were not bedding each other – there was no privacy for that and not really the warmth. They had somehow found a deeply wooded dell for their first night, at the middle of which had been a depression where they had built a good fire.

And the Green Man had done something, he knew it, the old man had gone to sleep without a care in the world, leaving the Blackfish to take the first watch. Jaime had taken the second, rousing quickly when the older man had shaken his shoulder and then noting how the horses were all asleep as well. It was almost warm in that dell that night, not the bone-chilling cold that he was now getting used to – and yet the snow to one side was still there.

For so much of his life he'd wondered what had happened to Ser Duncan the Tall, the man whose life had been a legend from beginning to what he had thought was its end. And now here he was, alive and even more mysterious because of his ties to the Old Gods, who had extended his life.

The second day his unease had deepened further when they had sighted an abandoned wildling encampment. There had been a barrier of trees all around it – and he could see through the snow the char marks from where they had ignited it to fend off the Others and their wights. Some of the latter were still visible, like hummocks in the snow, with the odd charred limb jutting out.

He wasn't sure, but perhaps some of those hummocks were quivering slightly, something that made him want to shiver until his bones snapped.

"There." It was the first word he'd heard in an hour or so as they rode North and he looked to see the Green Man pointing at a small rise and an outcrop of rocks. "We'll shelter there."

He frowned, puzzled. "Shelter from what, Ser, erm, Green Man?"

The old man shook his head as if he was amused or exasperated. "There is a storm coming, lad. Can you not smell it in the air?"

He sniffed the air and then realised that the Blackfish and Brienne were eyeing each other as if both amused and… something else, something he could not put words to.

And then, suddenly, the other three pulled on the reins of their horses and halted them as their eyes widened. Jaime followed suit, a hand going to the hilt of his sword as he looked about. "What's wrong? Danger?"

The Green Man turned and looked South for a long moment, before shaking his head. "Gods," he said after a long moment. "Something has happened to the South of us."

"A… a stink rose from the air?" Brienne of Tarth sounded as if she was struggling for words. "There was foulness – and then it was gone. What was that?"

The Green Man took a deep breath of air into his lungs. "The Drowned God is dead," he said eventually. "A God has died. Even though a mad one, the Old Gods will mourn him. Ned Stark has succeeded. I hope he survived the battle." He eyed the horizon and for the first time Jaime could see the black line of clouds coming from the North. "Ride for the ridge! Now! There's a cave there to shelter in!"

And so they rode.

Catelyn

She sat at her desk and stared down at the parchment in front of her. The empty parchment. The empty parchment that was supposed to be the letter to Father. She sighed yet again and ran her hand over her bulging midriff. The baby wasn't helping – he or she was active today.

"Cat?"

She looked up to see Dacey standing there in the doorway, looking a bit worried.

"Are you alright Cat?"

She smiled slightly. "Dacey, I'm trying to write a letter to my father about Robb's wedding."

Her cousin by marriage frowned slightly and then closed the door behind her and strode over to the nearest chair to the desk, where she seated herself. "Ah."

"Ah, indeed."

"Val's parentage, or part of that at least?"

"Yes." She paused and then took a deep breath. "My father is… well, he's always been concerned, shall we say, about the importance of marriage and family. House Tully is not as, well, well-established as other houses like House Stark. That's why Father insisted on my marriage to Ned after Brandon's death. Although we Tullys go back further than the Conquest and the burning of Harrenhall, Father has always been… keen to foster marriage alliances and deepen our control over the Riverlands."

Dacey nodded. "And now Robb is marrying Val. Who is half of House Umber but also half of…" She paused, visibly searching for the right words.

"Half Wildling, or Free Folk as they call themselves," Cat pointed out. "Hardly illustrious, at least in the eyes of Father. So, I must write to him and stress the importance of the marriage – and House Umber."

Another nod greeted this. "On the matter of Robb's wedding, will Lord Tully be, ah, attending?"

Cat sighed. "Robb and Val wish for a quick wedding, but with Ned still in the South, we will have to wait for him I think." She felt her voice wobble for a moment. There was still no word from Ned or anyone at Oldtown and whilst she knew that her Ned was brave and strong and had the Fist of Winter, she also knew that when Ned had gone South in Robb's memories he had been betrayed – and had died. Starks do not prosper South of the Neck, was the saying, and whilst she did not want to believe that it was true, she feared that it was.

Dacey looked at her and then sighed herself. "Tyrion and I can put off our trip to Surestone for as long as you like, Cat. We-"

She cut her good-cousin off with a strained smile. "Dacey, no. You need to go home and set matters right there. Yes, Bootle's loot has been returned to Surestone, but you need to make sure that all is well there. Surestone is your home, Dacey, you need to return there and set everything in order. Your father's books alone would make it worth the visit."

"Thank you, Cat," Dacey said, looking strained. "But with no news yet of Ned and his battle with the Drowned God… and this talk of someone trying to kill a Stark, perhaps Ned…"

She closed her eyes for a long and strained moment – and then she heard the sound of hesitant knuckles on the door, which then creaked open to reveal a worried-looking Bran. "Mother?"

"What is it, Bran?" she asked with a warm smile that was a bit forced.

Her son seemed to sense that she was worried, but stepped into the room – and then turned to reveal Quicksilver, who was dressed in a black garment and looked very solemn. After a moment the Child of the Forest bowed formally and then took a measured step forward. "Lady Stark, I bring word from Oldtown."

She stood abruptly, her hands going instinctively to her swollen stomach. "You have word of Ned? How?"

Quicksilver smiled thinly. "The Old Gods speak freely to our people." The smile vanished. "The Drowned God is dead. The Stark – Ned Stark as you know him – killed him."

She felt light-headed for an instant and then girded herself. "Is… Ned… I mean, did he-"

"The Stark lives, fear not." Quicksilver smiled again.

Cat suppressed the need to burst into tears with relief, and instead inspected the bottom of her skirt as some inconvenient tears fell from her eyes. "Ned is alright?" She eventually choked the words out.

Quicksilver's eyes flickered a little. "He has killed a god. The Old Gods helped him, but… he has been marked. He will bear a scar. And what that scar will mean I cannot say because I do not know. But I will say this: he bears the favour of the Old Gods. And he will return to Winterfell."

And then Cat wept.

Ned

When he woke up he lay there for a long moment, staring at the ceiling in some puzzlement. This was not a familiar ceiling. And then the memories crashed home, almost like bludgeons. The fights before the Gate. Him… dying? Had he really been dead in that first battle, seeing things from the eyes of Frostfyre, before Leyton Hightower had sacrificed his life for that his?

And then the fight against the Drowned God. Who he had almost felt sorry for at times.

Which was a peculiar thing. The creature had been trying to kill him. Whence had the sorrow come from? Had the Old Gods influenced him? Had it been their sorrowful but determined support that had helped him to survive that fight? He'd felt… something around him and in him as he and Frostfyre had battled the huge but pitiable creature. And they'd won.

He closed his eyes for a long moment as he luxuriated in the feeling of being in clean sheets. He had dreamt hard when he had been asleep, he knew that, but remembering the dreams was like trying to hold smoke in his hands. He remembered one dream – being in the arms of his mother, whilst Father held them both. But their eyes… their eyes had been filled with red fire tinged with green. He remembered feeling utterly safe as he was held. What had that been? Just a dream… or something else?

Feeling the touch of the sheets on his body he lifted them. Ah. He was naked. He had a vague memory of quaffing a few mugs of ale whilst a Maester examined himself and Willas Tyrell, remembered devouring a honeycake and then dunking himself in a bath and then… nothing. Just sleep.

He swung himself mostly out of bed and then groaned as a large number of aches and pains made their presence known. Gods, but he ached in places he'd barely suspected even existed. Not since the ride after the Battle of the Ruby Ford had he felt this way.

He sensed something to one side and turned to see Frostfyre sitting there, watching him. There was something in her eyes that made him pause, an understanding and a knowledge.

They had both killed a god. A mad god, a desperate thing of impulses and desires, a starving creature of darkness and night. But still a god. He looked at the huge direwolf and she looked back at him. And then they both nodded at each other.

"Life is for the living," he said quietly, before standing with a groan.

There was a mirror on one wall, quite a fine one, by a table that had a bowl of water on it. He plunged his face into the water for a long moment, before straightening up and running his wet fingers through his hair and then looking at his reflection, before wincing slightly. There was a pale line, a scar, on his face, that ran from his right forehead, across the bridge of his nose and over his upper left cheek. That was from the blood of the Drowned God. He was marked by the blood of a god.

And then there was the pale line on the side of his torso that had been left by the blade borne by Euron Greyjoy. That should have been a fatal blow – until Lord Hightower had sacrificed himself for him.

He took a deep breath – and then he looked about for a shirt and breeches. They were off to one side, Southern-style but finely made. As he dressed himself he cleared his throat and looked at the door. "Attendants? Guards?"

There was a confused noise outside the door and then there was a brief knock on it, before it opened cautiously and a hesitant head poked through. It was one of his guards, Will by name. "My Lord? Are you well?"

"We are well," Ned nodded at Frostfyre, who was watching them both. "A leg of lamb for Frostfyre please, not too well done. And I need to break my fast." He stamped into a pair of boots – and his stomach took that moment to rumble loudly.

"Aye, as I heard my Lord," Will grinned. He turned to the door. "Arry! Lord Stark is awake! A leg o' lamb for the Lady Frostfyre!" He turned back. "Lords Tyrell an' Hightower sent word that when you did awake, to meet them in the old lord's solar. I can send food there, my Lord. And the leg o' lamb."

He repressed a sigh. "Very well. Send word that I'm on my way." He paused as his stomach complained again. "And can someone get me a honeycake to eat on the way?"

There were indeed three honeycakes that he ate on the way, Frostfyre padding behind him with his guards and as they passed along the halls of the Hightower he was aware of the way that those servants and others in the colours of House Hightower bowed as he passed.

"Will?" he asked quietly as they strode up the stairs to what had been Leyton Hightower's solar.

"Aye, my Lord?"

"What word have you heard?"

The guard tilted his head to one side and then licked his lips. "Word is spreading of what you did, my Lord. Killed a god, I mean. Erm, well… Godslayer, some are calling you now. In the city… well, they call you the saviour of Oldtown."

Godslayer. It made his bloody skin crawl. "I did what had to be done, Will. Nothing more. I did my duty."

Frostfyre made a huffing noise to one side and Will looked at him oddly. "As you say, my Lord. As you say."

When they made it to the closed door of the solar he could see by the way that the two guards in the tabards of House Hightower's eyes widened almost comically that they were surprised by his arrival. Then he paused. "Will?"

"My Lord?"

"How long was I asleep for?"

"Almost two days my Lord."

Gods. No wonder he was hungry. He looked at the guards at the door. "Lords Hightower and Tyrell bade me come."

The taller one to the right nodded hurriedly. "Aye, my Lord." He knocked on the door and then opened it. "Lord Stark, my Lords!"

"Thank you Will, stay here," Ned muttered, before pausing slightly. "And get that food, I beg of you, before my stomach meets my spine?"

"I will my Lord!"

He stepped through into the bright and airy room that had been Leyton Hightower's solar. In it sat Baelor Hightower, now Lord Hightower, Willas Tyrell, who looked weary, and Samwell Tarly around a table, all looking up at him. And by the window stood Malora Hightower, her face drawn with sorrow.

He blinked at that and then nodded sombrely. "Let me first say that I owe the late Lord Hightower a great debt. He saved my life. And I-"

"Ned, if I may call you Ned, let me stop you there," Willas interjected with an upraised hand. He took a deep breath. "Yes, Grandfather gave his life to save you. But then you defeated Euron Greyjoy and saved my own life, which repaid any debt. And then… and then your battle with and defeat of the Drowned God left us deeply in your debt, Ned."

There was a moment of silence. It was broken by Malora Hightower. "He knew."

"What?" Baelor Hightower asked, looking confused.

"I said that he knew." She passed a shaking hand over her forehead. "There was… there was a prophecy, if it can be called that."

Ned felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. "What prophecy?"

"An inscription," Malora replied, picking up a piece of parchment and handing it over to Samwell Tarly, who looked at it and then tilted his head in puzzlement for a moment, before blinking hard and handing it over to him.

He looked down at it. It was written in an archaic version of the language of the First Men. A very archaic version. "When the gate to the dark opens," he read out loud, "And the plain-talking one comes to fight the dying one, watch for the greedy one who desires to drink from the pool."

There was another moment of silence. "Plain-talking means Stark," he said eventually. "And the greedy one was Euron Greyjoy. He wanted to kill the Drowned God, but… pool?"

"Who knows what could be left behind by a dead god?" Malora said in a quiet and bitter voice. "Greyjoy must have thought, from what Willas has told us, that he could become a god himself by… feeding on the corpse of the Drowned God?"

"The man was mad," Willas spat, his nostrils flared. "Mad and raving. And dangerous. He broke though ancient wards made by our ancestors as if they were kindling."

"Getting out hurt him though," Sam Tarly muttered. Then he pulled a face. "He left his skin behind when he fled."

"Then he's dead," Baelor Hightower insisted roughly, his fist beating on the table. "No man can survive that!"

Ned sat down at the table and then looked at them all bleakly. "Was he a man though? The way that he looked, the loose skin on his face, the things we know that he did to his crew… what is he now? Is he still a man? He said he'd been to Valyria – what happened to him there? Almost everyone that goes there dies or, in the rarest of cases like Aerea Targaryen, comes back infected with something – or somethings. And there were the tales of those that marched in and never came back. Demons were mentioned by some. Who knows what's there?"

Yet another silence fell, one that was punctuated with uneasy glances. Willas Tyrell broke it: "The word of the death of the Drowned God is only slowly spreading, but we already have a few messages from those areas afflicted by the blight – it is lifting, Ned. We await more news from the places that were afflicted, but the first word is good, of dried grapes that are refilling and grain that stands tall again."

He let out a long sigh of part relief. "Confirmation would be welcome of that. Welcome tidings at least."

There was a knock at the door, which opened to reveal a number of servants in the livery of House Hightower all bearing food on platters that made his mouth water and his stomach rumble.

"I see that lunch has arrived, Ned," Willas said with a smile. "It sounds like you are hungry."

He was indeed, but he made sure that the leg of lamb went to Frostfyre first. Then he took a massive bite of the chicken leg on the platter before him, before pausing and swallowing. "Samwell Tarly."

The young man looked at him. "Lord Stark?"

"You saved my life and that of Lord Tyrell. You stood between the Gate and Euron Greyjoy."

The heir to Horn Hill looked intensely conflicted. "I… I did my Lord. I was… I was terrified at the time, so I don't-"

"Only fools or madmen are never afraid when they go into battle. Kneel."

Sam Tarly stood, his eyes very wide – and then he knelt.

"The North does not have knights the way that the South does. But I, as Lord Stark, do declare you as a knight now. Rise, Ser Samwell. You have done well."