We buried Mum's ashes in the grounds of the church that she loved, next to Grandma's ashes (she died in 2003 and we never had the chance to bury her ashes until the same time, as it was in Mum's will). Maisie's ashes are under the rosemary bush that she loved to hide in.

So... it's been a tough month. And I have been stress-writing. Enjoy.

Jaime

As they walked the horses deeper into the cleft he could see that it was becoming a tunnel, and a wide one at least at the start. There was a place where they could unsaddle the horses and leave them, munching on what looked like oats, although where the oats had come from baffled Jaime. The short creature, the Child of the Forest called Leaf, had pulled out a bag of them and tossed them to him. "For your steeds."

And then they descended further down into the tunnel, which narrowed sharply here and there. The roots of Weirwood trees ran everywhere and several times he almost caught his foot in one and stumbled. Their way was lit by the occasional sconce with a flickering candle, and then strange things that glowed, like mushrooms of a kind he had never seen and did not want to touch.

Every now and then they passed an opening to a cave where white bone gleamed in the limited light, sometimes of huge skulls – that of Giants? – and sometimes smaller ones. He shivered a little at the sight, so many graves, or close to that of so many creatures. Leaf scurried ahead of them, showing them the way and he'd turn sometimes to see how they were doing in the narrow parts. The Blackfish and Brienne were navigating everything with just the occasional stumble, but the Green Man… he seemed to never put a foot wrong, ducking under every hanging root.

He swallowed a little. There was a Child of the Forest, something that Father would once have dismissed as a grumpkin or a snark, in front of him. He raised his eyebrows for a moment, thinking that Tyrion would be scribbling notes and barking questions right now. Instead it was him, stumbling about against roots and wondering what the musty smell was.

Eventually Leaf slowed and then gestured them into another cave – and his breath caught in his throat. The cave was a large one, with what looked like a great dark abyss next to it and he could hear water flowing somewhere far below them. And by a natural bridge over the abyss was… well, it looked like a throne of white Weirwood roots. And on it was a corpse, dressed in rotted black robes. The skin was white, the hair was… silver? And the roots of the throne seemed to be wrapped about the corpse and even seemed to be growing inside it. If this was Brynden Rivers, Bloodraven then he was dead and had been for a while.

Leaf for some reason led them right to the corpse and he was about to turn and jape that, what, they were there to talk to a dead man, when all of a sudden the 'corpse' opened one red eye and looked at him in a way that make his guts almost curdle. He was alive? How could the man be alive, there was a root going through his other eye?

"Duncan."

The man in the Weirwood throne said the single word in a voice as dry and dusty as an ancient tomb.

The Green Man walked forwards and looked at the figure on the throne with what looked almost for a moment like pity in his eyes. "Brynden."

"How," Jaime asked in a voice that wavered far too much for his own liking, "Can he still be alive, like that?"

That seemed to amuse the person that had once been Brynden Rivers. "Determination," it rasped slowly. "The Isles of Faces… was… denied to me."

The Green Man shook his head a little. "It was never denied to you. Not truly. But you never chose the right time, or asked the right questions. So here we are. And we must talk."

Renly

He looked about his solar in Storm's End and then sat and sighed in the great chair behind the desk. The trip from King's Landing had been a fast one and a safe one – no storms had threatened their passage, the trio of ships that had taken his company south to his family seat.

And there he had had to face reality, the reality that was the Stormlands that he ruled. The reality that Uncle Eldon had made him face.

It was not as bad as he had thought. No. It was worse. He had been home for two days and during those two days he had realised that he had been a fool indeed.

The Stormlands… doubted him, that was the best that he could say, based on the initial soundings that he had taken. But it was more what had not been said that had alarmed him. It was the looks that slid around him, uneasily, the flicks of the eyes away from him, the glances of men over their shoulders when they heard him approaching and the sense that they were talking about him – and would now pretend to be discussing something else. Little things, but they added up into something that gave him a growing sense of unease and alarm.

The day after he had gotten back to Storm's End he had discussed the organisation of the muster that would take place once Robert gave the word. Such a mobilisation would not be easy – the Stormlands had not gone to war on such a scale since the Rebellion, since the Greyjoy idiocy had been mostly a naval war – and a great deal would have to be organised ahead of time. And his initial decisions had been… well, eyebrows had been raised.

With Penrose in Winterfell, still mentoring Edric, the deputy castellan of Storm's End was Ser Brynden Staedmon, the brother of Lord Staedmon, and he was not a man to mince his words. He had pointed out that the war that was coming on the Wall would not – could not be a war of cavalry, or indeed of chivalry. It would be instead a war of survival. And so, when Renly had talked about moving Stormlords to the North and talking of cavalry formations, Staedmon's eyebrows had drawn down as he pointed out facts and figures and reality.

He could tell that Staedmon and others thought that he was greener than grass. And then there was the other word that hung in the air.

Robert.

He was being compared to his brother, again and again. And he had a feeling that he was… falling short. Robert had Stormbreaker. Robert was on the Wall, being King. Robert was… virile. Had children.

And he, Renly, had… what? What legacy did he have, what legacy could he leave? House Baratheon had three heads at the moment. And Robert had legitimised three of his bastards and who knew what he had in mind for them. Stannis had Shireen and his wife was pregnant again. And what did he have? Nothing. Not yet. He needed to show the world something. He needed to show his Stormlords something. He needed an heir.

He felt his fingers as they drummed on the table – and then there was a knock on the door. He stood. "Enter!"

Lord Jon Kellington walked in, bowed his head formally and then closed the door behind him. "Lord Baratheon, you requested to see me?"

He smiled, nodded and then poured them both a goblet of wine from the decanter that he had set out earlier to breath. "You are, I believe, a lover of wine. Let us see what you make of this." He handed over the goblet.

Kellington took the goblet, peered into it, sniffed it and then sipped it. "A most noble red wine… but I cannot place it."

"'Tis from the southern Stormlands, laid down by my father almost 30 years ago. I was told that it has now ripened almost fully."

Kellington sipped again and then smiled. "You honour me. Your father knew and loved his wine. If he laid it down to ripen over so long, he must have had great confidence in it. My thanks – you do me much honour."

As they both sat Renly smiled slightly. "You knew my father well."

"I did. I squired for him, many years ago now. The day that news came of his death, it was like a physical blow. He was a good man. If he had lived… ach, perhaps the Rebellion might not have happened. Perhaps it was inevitable. But if he had lived then he would have been King instead of Robert." He paused, smiling. "He would have been a good King, too. A reluctant one."

He frowned slightly. "I don't understand."

Lord Kellington smiled, his eyes far away, lost in memories for a heartbeat. "Some men who dream of or expect power like that of a king should never be allowed anywhere near it. And others who avoid it make better use of it when granted it."

Renly thought of Aegon the Unexpected for a moment and then nodded thoughtfully. And then he cleared his throat. "Lord Kellington, there is something I need to ask you."

The older man stilled in an instant and put his goblet down. "I did suspect that. And I think I know what. You wish to ask for the hand of my Bethany?"

He blinked and nodded. "I do. I have come to deeply appreciate her wit, her beauty and her intelligence. I wish her to be my wife. But – you expected me to ask this?"

"I did. Bethany told me that she suspected that you would ask me for her hand." And then Kellington stared at him, his blue eyes hard and intent. "Lord Baratheon, there are certain… matters of which I must speak with you."

He supressed a sigh. And here it came. "Such as?"

The older man sighed openly and gustily - and his eyes flickered about the room in a way that was all too familiar to Renly before returning to him. "We will speak of this but once and that time is here and now. There are rumours, Lord Baratheon, and more than rumours. There are tales of things that people have heard of and seen. Of things that have not been… discreet."

He felt his blood almost freeze in his veins for a moment and then he flickered an eyebrow at Kellington. "I think I know of what you speak. There is, at the very least, talk of a petition?"

Kellington's brows lowered. "Aye. One at least, from certain lords, asking His Grace to make Edric Baratheon your heir until you can provide one of your own. Hence, I think, your need to marry my Bethany."

He repressed the rage he still felt at that mention of such a petition and merely nodded choppily. "Yes." He said the word hoarsely.

"I have heard other rumours, my Lord." Kellington said the words remorselessly. "Rumours that make me… wary of giving my permission. Yes, Bethany would make a wonderful Lady Baratheon of Storm's End. She's clever and wise. But I would have her happy, content, with children – and not doubtful of who her husband really loves. My Bethany is… more than clever. I have three sons and one daughter and that daughter is more intelligent and more observant than many people that I have ever known. She would know falsehood in a moment if it is spoken to her. Lord Baratheon, we are both Stormlords. Stormlords are not like the flowery cunts in the Reach. We are blunt and we tell the truth. I would have the truth from you. What does Loras Tyrell mean to you?"

He swallowed for a long moment. "He is someone," he said eventually, "That I will not see again. Someone that I… I thought that-" He pulled his attention together. "He means nothing to me now. And if you wish me to swear so, then I shall." He meant it, he had to let go of the past, he had to let go of… Loras. Gods, it hurt, but there was no choice.

Kellington stared at him – and then looked away for a moment. "I understand. And you must understand that If I agree to this marriage then Bethany will have to help you rebuild your position in other ways. The rumours… well, people talk of Robert and not of you. Of Stormbreaker. And of him becoming the Storm King of legend, however that might happen. They do not talk of you in… that way."

Renly sighed a little. He had a feeling that there was more coming.

He was right. The older man shook his head a little as if in astonishment of the oddness of it all. And then he looked back. "I have heard of another loyal petition, one that Lord Estermont might not mention to you because he has not heard of it yet... There is talk of appealing to His Grace to take the Stormlands under his personal control again as his personal demesne."

Rage took him for a moment and he forced himself to stop the deathgrip on the arms of his chair. "That would… that would not be…"

"That would be something that His Grace would see as a direct insult to you and therefore to House Baratheon. And he'd crush the head of anyone who would mention it." Kellington tilted his head. "Only two fools have mentioned this folly to me. I told them that they were idiots. Hopefully others will do the same to those who propose this… folly. But the more time passes without you acting on this matter of marrying and getting an heir, the more people will think – and talk – about it. And someone, at some point, will do something stupid."

"You talked of rebuilding my position," Renly said, hoarsely, fighting to get his temper back under control.

There was a long moment of silence in the room. "Lord Baratheon, I must again be blunt. there is doubt in the minds of many of your Stormlords that in this great war that is to come on the Wall, this war where we will fight creatures from some of the oldest legends in Westeros, this war that we must win, or we will be nothing more than walking dead corpses covered in ice and snow if we lose, that the Stormlands can even play their part if we are led by a sword-swallowing pillow-biter. IF you marry my daughter you must prove that you are not those four words and that you are committed to your wife – my Bethany – and her alone. That is my one demand. I would have her happy. Making her so before the eyes of the Stormlords would cause the rumours to be doubted. And that is where I stand. Do you agree?" The words hung in the air, like iron chains around him.

The blood was thundering in his veins and he wanted to rip the chair he was sitting in apart, as he fought to keep the famous Baratheon temper under control. Things were even worse than he could thought in his worst nightmares… but Bethany Kellington gave him a chance now. A chance to keep Storm's End under his control. And the Stormlands.

Swallowing his temper he stood up. And then held out his hand. "I agree."

Kellington stood as well. "You agree?"

"I do. I would swear it, if need be in the chamber where the Durrandons lie, where Stormbreaker was found."

Kellington's gaze searched his face. And then he took his hand. "Then we have a wedding to plan. And right fast. Winter is coming."

Ned

They left two hours before the dawn, a quiet cavalcade of horsemen who met at the docks of Oldtown and then trotted North up the road to the gate there. There was no point in hiding who he was, a cloak and a hood would not have helped – the huge direwolf loping along by his side meant that the few people around at that hour knew who he was in an instant.

Which was why he was leaving the city so early. He had no intention of causing any trouble by calling attention to himself. He knew full well that the Starry Sept was still in a ferment, that certain Septons were trying to deny the truth, whilst others acknowledged what he had done at the Hightower. It was politics and religion, all mashed into one horrible mess and he had no intention of making anything worse for the new Lord Hightower as he stepped into his late father's place and did his best to cope with what was coming.

Willas Tyrell rode by on one side, with Ser Garth Hightower on the other, followed by his own men. As they rode along the road he could hear the first calls of "Stark! Stark! Long live Lord Stark!" start to rise up as the fisherfolk and early dawn merchants started to cry his name.

Others started to take up the call and he winced a little. It was too early for word to reach the Starry Sept and those power-hungry buggers. That said, as they rode the call was heard by a growing number and he raised a hand in acknowledgement as people started to open their windows and peer out at the noise.

He glanced at Lord Tyrell, who nodded, and the trot became a slow canter. The cheers were starting to wake more and more people and he really wanted to be gone. The problem was that Oldtown was a big city and even at a canter their progress was not as fast as he might as hoped.

"Uncle Baelor has my full support, Ned," Willas said as he looked to one side at the shape of the Starry Sept in the distance. There were lights being kindled in there. "If more fools arrive to 'cleanse' the Gate he'll tell them to bugger off. You're right though – best to leave before more ferment in the city."

He nodded – and then sighed in relief as he saw the North Gate ahead of them. The gates were already open and there were guards there. The tumult was still building, but much of it was behind them, as the city started to wake. He was warier of ambushes than he had been before, after that battle against Euron Greyjoy at the base of the Hightower.

"Stark! Stark! Stark!"

The cries were all around him and he winced again, before sending a quick look at Willas, who grinned at him. "We all owe you much, Ned."

"I'm more worried about the aftermath and the Starry bloody Sept."

"Fools will ever be fools, Ned."

He laughed – and then they were through the gates and the road was open before them, with just a few waggons leaving the city with their cargoes of goods. North, it was, for a while. And then east. To what had once been the Tower of Joy, that place of cursed memory.

Because he had to do his duty. Like a Stark.

Jaime

The cavern was warmer than he first thought and like the others he took off his cloak as they settled around the weirwood throne with the man who should have long been dead by the look of him. The Green Man had shot the near-corpse a look of almost pity as he took down his hood and then removed his cloak.

"Ser." Jaime jerked his head to one side the Green Man walked over to him as the Blackfish and his wife settled themselves on the ground at the base of the throne and looked at them with similar quizzical glances. "Why are we here? What answers can he possibly tell us?"

The Green Man directed a level look at him. "More than you think, Ser Jaime. Now-" he looked to one side and Jaime flinched slightly as he realised that Leafe had approached on noiseless feet and was standing next to them, holding a carved wooden bowl with something in it. "Eat this, sit down and grasp a root."

He peered at what was in the bowl. "Is that… paste?"

"Very good, Ser Jaime. Weirwood seeds. You will need them to see the way." The Green Man smiled briefly, padded up his cloak and sat down at the base of the throne.

"I will need them? Not you and the oth-" His breath caught in his throat as he realised that the Blackfish and Brienne of Tarth were both motionless, their eyes complete white.

"We've danced this dance before. You haven't, not really. Eat the paste, sit down and grasp a root. NOW."

He ate the paste quickly, shivering a little at the note of command in the old man's voice and then sat down. The ground was rough and he shifted a little, before grabbing a white root. "Now wh-"

Darkness surrounded him and he fell into it. He didn't know how long he fell or for how long, but suddenly, with a jerk like the parting of drapes, light returned, blinding light and he held a hand in front of his eyes and blinked. He was in the Throne Room of the Red Keep, before the hulking thing that was the Iron Thone… but it was not the room that had seen recently. No, it was the room as he had first seen it, with monstrous dragon skulls on the walls and the banners of the Targaryens hanging between them.

"How is this… possible?" He looked about the great room, which was empty of anyone else and silent.

"Because this place exists in both our heads, Lannister."

He turned swiftly at the voice. It came from the Iron Throne, in which a white-haired man dressed in red and black was sitting, a sword across his lap. He blinked. The man was younger and had both his eyes, but it seemed to be the near-corpse on the weirwood throne. "You're…"

Brynden Rivers – Bloodraven was the name, he remembered the tales now – stood easily and strode down the steps of the Iron Throne with what looked like practised grace, sheathing the sword in a scabbard that hung by his side as he did. "I don't look the same?" He gestured at one of the windows and Jaime could see for a moment the silent figure of the near-corpse on the white throne. He grinned. "You're only as old as you think at times."

Jaime took a step back. This was… he had no words for this. "Why am I here?"

This seemed to cause the albino man a moment of deep thought. "Why indeed are you here? Looking at you, knowing what you've done… gods, is this what House Lannister is reduced to? Your ancestors much be raging, boy! To have dragged the name of House Lannister through so much mud and still have a head on your shoulders…" He shook his head. "If I had been Hand of the King when your crimes were revealed, then you would have died. Simple as that."

Crimes… he opened his mouth – but then another voice interrupted.

"Leave the boy alone Brynden." The Green Man strode forwards, as he had been in the cavern, and Jaime looked at the both, confused by the difference. "We're not here to judge him."

"Then why is he here?"

"He has potential."

Bloodraven scoffed. "Potential! The boy can't see beyond the end of his nose and is too impulsive!"

Anger stirred within him. He was not a boy.

"He has changed," the Green Man said as he strode up to them. "He can change more."

Bloodraven looked at Jaime with what looked like disgust. "You always were the optimist, Duncan. Too fond of broken things. The boy is a fool. How many times has he failed people?"

"I am not a boy! And I am standing right here!" The words boiled out of him, bitter and angry.

They both looked at him and he felt himself shrivel in fear. For a moment they both seemed to be huge and gigantic, with eyes that burned with red and green fire, whilst he was but a child. And then the moment was gone.

"Given our ages," the Green Man said quietly, "You are indeed merely a boy." Then he looked at Bloodraven again. "I think that he can learn."

"Can he?" The albino looked at Jaime and then placed both hands on the pommel of his sword and stared at him. "Ser Jaime Lannister. Who veers from doing the right thing – killing that mad lunatic Aerys Targaryen – to doing the wrong thing, like not telling anyone why. Who left the wildfire under King's Landing. And who betrayed his next king by committing treason again him."

"He can learn. He's come a long way." The Green Man looked at him levelly.

Bloodraven sighed. "I have known many people in my life," he said eventually. "And I have long known that what truly defines people is how they deal with the shadows that lie within them." The Throne Room seemed to darken for a long moment, as if a great cloud was passing in front of the Sun.

"Some call those shadows - demons," Bloodraven was looking at him now, his red eyes hard and judgemental. "Whatever you want to call them, they're always there. Baser desires. Impulses. The… darkness that so many of us have. Some of us fight those shadows. Some deny that they exist. And some not just embrace them, but clothe them and feed them, like my father did. So – how have you dealt with your shadows, Jaime Lannister? What have you done to fight your baser desires?"

He swallowed, feeling genuinely speechless as Bloodraven's words struck at the core of his being. He had no words – and he could tell by the mocking smile at the albino knew.

Bloodraven gestured at the nearest window again and he looked up to see himself in the cell at Winterfell again, facing Robb Stark and his direwolf again.

"Robb Stark called you the kind of man who would throw little boys out of windows. Are you not that man?" Bloodraven's voice was harsh and pitiless.

He finally found his voice. "No." He swallowed. "I've never done that!"

"But you have. In a way. In this time, how many servants stumbled onto you and suspected something? But your sister told you that she would 'take care of them'. What did you think – that they were sent away to a farm somewhere, like an old dog?"

The window changed again, becoming an image of a guard in Lannister red heaving a body down a shaft and then being rewarded with a kiss by… Cersei? And then the same guard peering down the shaft and then being hit on the back of the head by his sister with a large and battered candlestick. The guard fell, his head hitting the wall of the shaft and then vanishing.

"I… I…" but he had no words. Then he rallied. "I never threw any boy out of any window!"

The Throne Room blurred for a moment and was then replaced by a much smaller room. He blinked as he saw the figures within it. Cersei was there, wrapped in a sheet, Brandon Stark was there in the window – and then there was… himself? He was dressed in a shirt only, looked tousled and tired. And then the words "The things I do for love," were spoken. Bran Stark was pushed out of the window, his face astonished as he disappeared downwards.

He almost screamed in horror and darted towards the window – and then they were back in the Throne Room. He reeled. "That never happened! I did not do that!"

"In this time no, you were not given the chance to do so. But can you deny that if that was the only way to hide your treason with your sister, you would not have done that? Really?" Bloodraven's words were implacable, merciless. "Is that not what you are? All your life, you've been… impulsive. Reckless. Unable to see the implications of what you do. We have been diverted from a future that is closed to us now, after the Old Gods brought Rob Stark back from the moment of his death. Let us see what would have awaited you in that time, shall we?"

Everything blurred and suddenly he was watching himself again, slightly bearded and ragged, taunting and mocking a man who looked like an Essosi sellsword – who then bade his men grab him and hold out his right arm, so that his hand could be severed. He almost screamed at the sight, watching the other him bellow with anguish.

More blurring, then himself again, one bandaged stump against his chest as he rode, bearded and despairing down a road, escorted by a battered Brienne of Tarth.

Again, blurring – and then he was standing at the man gate to Riverrun, facing a stone-faced Blackfish, his right hand a golden mockery of a live one.

"I give you my word of honour that-"

"Your honour? You have no honour, boy, don't you realise that? Kingslayer, Oathbreaker, Sisterfucker – which one is it? What should we call you? If we surrender to you, we're as good as dead. The Freys will murder us all, once you are gone, back to the warm embrace of your sister's thighs. Don't lie to me. Your word is worthless, all of Westeros knows that. What next? Threaten Edmure with the murder of his wife and son? That confirms your lack of honour. You're not a man, Lannister. You're vermin. A slug. Now fuck off and go away, you worthless cunt. Sieges are dull and I've taken your measure. And I'm disappointed."

Everything shook again – and they were back in the Throne Room. After a long moment he cleaved his tongue off the top of his mouth as he realised that he was on his knees. He struggled upright to stand on trembling legs. "What… what was that?"

"A truthful series of moments from different times at different moments." Bloodraven smiled at him cynically. "So – are you better than that? Or not? You know what you could be. Can you be better?"

He sank to his knees again, overwhelmed and weeping, before he rallied and scrubbed at his face for a long moment as the images flashed through his mind. "How can I be?"

"Fight your shadows. Battle them. Spit in their faces. And perhaps you might achieve your potential." Bloodraven looked at the Green Man. "Enough?"

The Green Man looked at him. "Perhaps."

He clenched his fists. "I will fight this. I will fight my shadows. I swear it."

"You swear this oath?" he could not tell who asked it.

"I swear it."

"Break it and you die."

"I swear it."

And then red fire was all around him and he cried out before falling into darkness again.