Tyrion

They had made so many abortive attempts to go to Surestone that right up until the moment that they had trotted their horses out of the great gate of Winterfell and onto the road, along with their escort, he had been convinced that something would have happened to cause them to postpone it yet again – some crisis somewhere, some message from King's Landing or Castle Black, or anywhere.

But – no. They were on the road again, the first time that he had been travelling since Ned Stark's Great Ride, of which he had been a small and bruised part of.

There was little chance of such a fast and brutally hard ride. Not now, not with Dacey with child. If he could have wrapped her up in a ball of the finest, softest, linen he would have, despite her furious disapproval.

No, as they rode South he had but one thing in his mind – would their child cost him his wife? It was something that gnawed at his brain. His own mother had died after giving birth to him. Could it… could it happen again?

He did his best to hide it, but he knew that his wife knew that he was worried about it, even though he had quietly gone to Luwin and awkwardly expressed his concerns. The old Maester had nodded slowly and then pointed out that Dacey had also had a word with him and that as she had 'child-bearing hips', Luwin was not worried about her dying in childbirth – although he did add the caveat that first births tended to be a little harder than second births.

Tyrion didn't even want to think about that just yet. One birth was enough for him right now.

They travelled quickly but not too quickly. The guards that they had with them were a combination of House Lannister and House Stark, a combination that he had worked very hard at to make work.

And as they travelled South he found himself remembering that first ride North, that awkward ride with the then Dacey Surestone, who had still been grieving for her father and who was still uncertain in how to treat the son of Tywin Lannister. He found himself looking at the crags that he had noticed before with an almost fond smile at times – before realising that his wife was looking at him with a fond smile of her own, a tilt of the head, a nod of recognition at what she too was thinking.

Gods, he loved her so much.

When they reached the inn where they had first met, they both paused and blinked and looked at each other in surprise. The inn was larger than before, with an extended stable and a new extension. It also had a new name. "Lionfang and his Lady." There was even a sign hanging over the main entrance, with an excellent image of Dacey and a rather flattering one of himself on it.

He looked at it, astonished, before dismounting and then walking with Dacey into the inn, where they were greeted with great deference and almost affection.

"Lord Tyrion, be welcome to our humble establishment," the Landlady said – and he recognised her as the wife of the merchant who had taken the place over after the unlamented death of the piece of shit who had previously owned it. "I hope that you do not mind the new name of the inn? We remembered your previous visit – and we heard word of your exploits at the Wall."

Tyrion looked at her, glanced at Dacey – who seemed to be vastly amused by the entire thing – and then smiled broadly. "We don't mind at all. I don't think that I recall an inn ever being named after any other Lannister at all. In fact I heartily approve of it!"

Gods, he wanted to laugh himself, and he did after they were shown to the best guest room in the inn. The place had indeed changed hugely since their last visit – and all for the better.

They spent a very restful night there – with just the one bout of making love – and the next day they were off again, after leaving a small pouch of gold Dragons with the inn owners, as a blessing for the future and also an investment for the next time they visited.

And then they were off along the road to the West, not as well-maintained as the Kingsroad, but good enough for their party. It was rough country, hilly in places, with woods pressing to each side at times, but as they went on he could feel Dacey's spirits shift. 'Home,' she mouthed at times, with a look of both happiness and sadness. And he knew that she was thinking of the last time she had travelled the road, mourning her father and with companions that would soon die.

They stayed at another inn – a rougher one – and then at a small holdfast owned by a very minor house, before eventually they crested a rise and saw a rambling castle in front of them – a larger keep than he had thought, inside curtain walls that looked well-maintained.

"Surestone Keep," Dacey said in a rough, low voice that trembled more than a bit. "Home."

"Home," Tyrion said with a smile, and then they were off, riding towards the open gates.

The guards at the gates nodded respectfully as they rode in, and in the space before the main entrance to the keep there were others drawn up. Not many, but all in what Tyrion now knew to be the Surestone livery of a red tabard with a book embroidered in black over a white double-headed axe. They were headed by a man dressed entirely in black and a Maester who looked horribly young.

As they dismounted grooms ran to take their horses away, giving Dacey a moment to compose herself. And then he stepped up to her side, took her hand and approached the entourage at the entrance.

"Maester Grantle," Dacey said solemnly. "Steward Morgan. My husband and I have returned."

The two bowed. "My Lady – and my Lord," Morgan said, "Surestone is yours. Welcome home."

The Maester's face twisted in misery. "My Lady, welcome home. May I present my apologies and my resignation. I let you and your father down and for that I am heartily sorry. In fact I failed you. I should have-"

Dacey raised a hand and cut him off. "Maester Grantle, had you ever seen anyone poisoned with Tears Forlorn before?"

The young Maester pulled a face. "Well, no, My Lady, but-"

"But nothing, Maester. Bootle murdered Father, not you."

"My Lady – I should have suspected something, I should have-"

"Maester Grantle – enough. No more. Now, this is my husband, Lord Tyrion Lannister, I am with child, the Long Night is coming and we have far more important things to think of."

Gods, he adored her.

Grantle gaped for a moment, looking stunned, whilst Morgan smiled smugly. "Welcome home My Lady. All is well, Surestone is preparing for the Long Night," the Steward said crisply.

"And the Library is still intact?" Dacey asked the question worriedly.

"It is, My Lady," the Maester and the Steward chorused, the latter passing her a lantern and some rush reeds.

Dacey sighed with relief and then looked at Tyrion. "Ready to see what Father assembled?"

Delight kindled within him – they were seeing this at once! "Oh, more than ready!"

Dacey took him by the hand and led him into the keep, a place that he noted was well-designed and well-protected. Well-maintained as well – the flagstones were smooth and the walls inside the keep plastered. They went up two sets of stairs and then along a corridor to a set of sturdy double doors. As they approached Dacey pulled out a large and ornate key.

"I kept this well out of sight of that whoreson Bootle," she snapped, before inserting the key into the lock and twisting it. "Luckily he did not understand what was within." And then she pulled the doors open.

Tyrion blinked as he looked inside. There were a lot of bookshelves inside. As Dacey walked in she darted to one side to light candles and lanterns in sconces on the walls with the reeds from the lantern she was carrying.

Gods. There were books in here. Books and books and books and manuscripts and papers and… surely this was paradise?

"We have much to do," Tyrion muttered. And by all the gods – he was in heaven.

Doniphos Paenymion

He hated being on foot – so to speak - , but a palanquin on the back of an elephant was slow and large and very visible. Yes, elephants could run but the motion always made him sea-sick, and a running elephant in the streets of Volantis was a bad idea.

So, when the word had come from that toothless idiot Malaquo Maegyr for an urgent and very, very secret meeting he had been forced to use the tunnels that existed under the city, and now he was being carried by slaves on a litter through one of those tunnels. They were wide and tall and just the thing to use when transporting troops from one side of the Black Walls to the other in case of a siege.

As he was carried along, escorted by 20 of his personal guards, he gnawed at a fingernail and speculated on just what in the name of the Gods of Valyria could have sparked this call for such a secret meeting of the Triarchs of Volantis. If he had to guess it was something to do with Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons. Had they been found? If so, who had found them? Had it been one of the many Volantene search parties, or one of the other Free Cities, in which case which one?

As one of the two Elephants on the Triarchy, he was committed to trade and not war – but he knew that war was coming, a war that Volantis would have to win. Valyria's First Daughter had to have the only dragons that were on the board of the Game of Cities. Had to. It was only right that they did.

Especially if Braavos was hunting for the girl and the dragons as well. If the Braavosi had the dragons… well, they would use them. Use them with great abandon, probably laughing at the irony.

The litter slowed and he heard guards talking ahead. After a moment he heard the sound of a large door being unlocked and the slaves carried the litter on again. He frowned a little, looked out of the side through the curtain and then prepared himself. Sure enough after a few minutes the litter slowed again.

"Triarch, we are here." The words came from the captain of his guards, who looked as worried as a stone-faced veteran of many wars could ever look. "Sir, I don't like this."

He pushed the curtain to one side, swung himself out of the litter and looked at the door in front of him. "I know. I'll send word when I am ready." And then he stepped forwards, pulled a key out of a pocket, unlocked the door and stepped through it, locking the door behind him. There was a spiral staircase ahead of him and he wearily plodded up it. Why here? Why this place? Yes, the meeting room was isolated and safe and secret. Was the news really that bad? What was going on?

When he reached the top of the stairs – a hundred steps! His legs were burning! – he squinted at the passageway ahead of him. There was a solitary guard there at the end, by the closed door. He plodded along the passageway, making sure that his signet ring was very visible on the first finger of his right hand and then waved it in front of the guard, who nodded and then opened the door. The man seemed to move rather stiffly and he wondered why for a moment, before dismissing the matter from his mind.

Inside he could see three large chairs, well padded and opulent, two of which were already occupied and he straightened himself and then stalked forwards to sit in the free chair, before resting his elbows on the arms of the chair and steepling his fingers in a reflective pose.

"I have come in answer to your rather rude message, Triarch Maegyr," he said haughtily. "Why are we here? What has happened?"

He looked at the others – and then he paused. Malaquo Maegyr and Nyessos Vhassar were sitting stiff and upright in their own chairs, unmoving – except for their eyes, which were wide and terrified, flitting about the room almost wildly. What was wrong? Alarmed he tried to turn his own head – but then something seemed to clamp down on his body, like an iron grip. He couldn't move a muscle, other than his own eyes, which looked around the limits of his vision as best he could. What was this? Magic? What was happening?

"So good of you to join us, Triarch." The words came from behind him and he realised that someone else was in the room with them. Who? After a moment a figure walked into the centre of the room, before them all. The voice was deep enough to be a man, but he was so cloaked and hooded that nothing could be seen of him. "I have need of you all."

The figure seemed to find his own words amusing for a long moment, given the almost gurgling giggling. "Yes," he said eventually. "Need indeed." And then he pulled back his hood and Doniphos Paenymion found himself wanting to piss himself in terror and then run. The man in front of him was a nightmare of skinless horror – black and red muscle moving over bone, eyes that stood out from their sockets, no eyelids, no hair, no lips, nothing but that terrible visage. Why was his flesh black in places?

"I need a few things from you," the horrible thing said, before licking its own teeth with what looked like a dark purple tongue that seemed to be too large to be human. "Hair, skin, fat. I like to walk the streets of cities and not have people want to scream – for now, anyway. And… now I have you I also have the keys to Volantis. I can – briefly at least – command the city. A religious ceremony, perhaps, at the biggest temple within the Black Walls of Volantis? Because, you see, the guard outside and a few others, and what remains of you after I have taken what I need have… a job to do. There's power to be harvested here."

He stared at the horrible thing and desperately tried to break free. But he could not move a muscle other than his eyes.

The skinless thing shed his robes and then flexed his fingers. "Shall we begin?"

And then he knew nothing but pain and agony like he could not stand, before the darkness fell.

Robb

It was quiet in the Godswood. He didn't know where Quicksilver was exactly, but Grey Wolf seemed to be unworried and was sitting next to him as he prayed at the Heart Tree and then looked up at the face carved on the trunk.

He was going to get married. The thought of it all made his head swim at times and he wondered what had gone though Jon'd head when he had married Ygritte. Jon's letter from the Iron Islands had been detailed about many things, including his dark tale of Euron Greyjoy's many crimes and… well, monstrous behaviour – what had he done to his own crew?

His words about Ygritte had been simple and to the point. He loved her. She loved him. They were wed. Simple.

He wished that his own wedding could be as simple. That he could simply march into the Godswood with Val, exchange their vows and then vanish off into his bedchamber to ravage each other into exhaustion. However, he was the heir to Winterfell and there had to be a ceremony of some significance.

However, there was also the other end of the scale. They were about to be at war with their ancient enemy, the Others. He had briefly discussed it with the King that morning, in one of the now daily noon meetings to address matters. Robert Baratheon had looked gravely at him from one side of the chair in the Nightfort and said: "You don't need my fucking presence, or your father's blessing or anything. We are at war, young Robb, a war that started thousands of years ago. You love her, she loves you, nod to your ancestors, tell your father's bannermen that it is what it is and bloody well do it. Wed her, bed her, love her." The King's eyes had focussed on something just out of sight. "Don't wait. When it's before you, you grab on to it and don't ever, ever, let it go. Marry your Val. That's a command from your King, you hear?"

He and others had heard. So, preparations were now well afoot, Winterfell was abuzz with all of the activity. There were already present members of the great houses of the North – Domeric Bolton, Ned Umber (and of course Mors Umber, who had told him several times to treat his granddaughter right, or else he'd have something to say to him), Alys Karstark and others. Jorah Mormont and his new wife, the Essosi woman, were there as well, back from the smallhold that Father had granted them not too far away.

Mother was visibly pregnant now, her stomach swelling, and he wondered if it would be a brother or a sister for him. He knew that she was praying for a son – and that she was also praying for a short war on the Wall.

He didn't know what to say about that. They didn't know how long the war would be. Couldn't even hope to guess. But they could not make assumptions.

Word had come via raven that Uncle Edmure was to wed Roslin Frey, something that had made him raise both eyebrows. Some things were… oddly similar between his past and the present, if he could say that. Mother had pondered if perhaps there could be a joint wedding at Moat Cailin, to bind everyone together.

No. Time was too short, he could sense it almost in the air. Summer was not ending, not yet, but he could feel something in the air, something intangible, something almost beyond the words that he had at his command.

Mother and the others were sewing the cloak for Val at the ceremony that would take place tomorrow. He would be wed. And they would both be able to act on the fire that kindled in each other's eyes whenever they saw each other.

He made a mental note to make sure that the bed in his room was, well, strong enough. He had a feeling that she would be… fierce.

Ned

The Roseroad was in excellent shape, as it had to be for the road that went from Oldtown to Highgarden and – eventually – to King's landing. They had ridden quite hard for several days up it, as he had noted the amount of trade passing up and down it, something that had prompted a quiet talk with Willas Tyrell.

"Ned, I will confess that were times when I wondered if my father was… a blusterer. A blowhard. But he was always a good father to us all, and I knew that he could be something other than a blowhard. He died trying to save others and in doing so warned me of a great threat – so great that I had to ask for your help. But there was something else. He always told me that a lord who neglected the roads of his realm was a fool. A good road swiftens trade – and men at arms if need be."

It was a good point and something that he more than agreed with. In the North the roads were vital, especially in winter. And winter was coming, as they all knew.

They rode north initially at some speed but then slowed to spare the horses, staying at inns where they were welcomed with some reverence and where Frostfyre was eyed with some caution. But not fear – word had spread of her. Eventually they had finally reached the fork in the road, with the Roseroad heading up to Highgarden, but the road that he and his party needing going east, not as good as the Roseroad but still in better shape than many roads elsewhere.

Willas had shaken his hand and embraced him, thanking him for saving the Reach and telling him that he would always be welcome there, all Starks in fact, as the men around them had cheered him. It had been a strange moment, given that they had been enemies in the Rebellion – but it was good to know that they could put such enmities aside for the common good.

And now he and his men were riding east, towards the Dornish Marches, and as they rode he wished that he was headed back home to Winterfell. There were a number of places that he wished he would never see again. The Throne Room of the Red Keep was one, the place where his father and brother had died such horrible, agonising, deaths and where he had later confronted Robert after he had laughed over the bodies of Elia Martell and her children. Yes, Robert had explained about that and apologised, but the memory was still a bitter one.

Another place that he never wanted to ever see again was the courtyard of Starfall, where he had had to tell Ashara Dayne that her brother was dead, before handing over his bones and his sword. Something in her eyes had died that day and he wondered sometimes what might have been in the Rebellion had not happened. But that was foolishness.

And then there was the place that they were riding to, the location of the 'Tower of Joy.' He wanted to hawk and spit at the very thought of the name and the crimes that Rhaegar fucking Targaryen had committed there against his sister. And for what? Some of his best friends from the campaign had died there, fighting those honourless bastards.

They rode on. The men were hand-picked, all Northerners, all good fighters and men who would keep their mouths shut, not that there was much to keep secret here. They were going to retrieve the bones of the dead and that was it. The Northern bones would accompany them home – how he yearned for home now! – whilst Hightower's would go back to Oldtown and Whent to Harrenhall.

There was something else though, something that nagged at the back of his mind. He had killed a god, with the aid of the Old Gods. The scar on his face was still there. Had it changed him in any way? He had no idea, but there did seem to be a… change in him. He just could not put it into words. Whatever it was, Frostfyre did not seem to share his unease, she just loped along next to his horse, occasionally vanishing off into the woods to one side to get some food.

He looked ahead as they rode – and then he saw the first glimpse of red on the horizon. The Red Mountains. Dorne laid ahead. And by the Old Gods he didn't want to go there.

But go there he must. He was a Stark and he knew his duty.

Tyrion

The way that the Fist of Winter had killed Bootle had been terribly impressive but regrettably quick, he thought blackly as he looked at the wonderful library of books and papers and even artefacts. Lord Torgen Surestone had been a man after his own heart in terms of being a scholar of the most extraordinary talent. The Citadel would have hung a chain around his neck for this place – and then probably snaffled half of it for themselves.

Surestone had been meticulous in his keeping of notes and also his maintenance of the books. The oldest of them had been lovingly maintained and preserved, with multiple copies made in case something happened to the original ones.

But he was dead, murdered by Bootle. And Tyrion could never now meet him. Which angered him beyond words. The man had not deserved to die like that, looking as if he had perished from a stroke.

Bootle… the man had deserved a darker death. A slower one. He pulled his mind away from that. He was a better man than Bootle.

He carefully pulled down another book from the pile next to him, looked at the title and sighed. "'A History of the Red Kings, with Certain Notes on their Abhorrent Practices' – I've heard of this, the Citadel only has one copy. Your father had – oh – two. Two copies. Gods, Dacey. What else is here?"

His wife did not reply and he glanced at her. Dacey had frozen in place at the other side of the desk and was staring at a journal of some kind, in which Torgen Surestone's small but very neat script could be seen. "Dacey?"

"He knew." His wife said the words in a trembling voice.

"Knew what?"

"That the Second Long Night was coming – Father knew. Or at the very least strongly suspected."

Startled he got down off his chair, hurried over and then climbed onto a chair next to her. The page of the journal that she had opened it to had a number of small drawings in it and he squinted at it. Then he paused. "The Crook. The star signs you mentioned." He looked at the other sketches and notations. "Is that… the Hearthstone? And the Fist of Winter?"

His wife nodded, trembling, and he took her free hand and held it as she leant back and the tears flowed. "There's a note here to talk to Ned. About what his Father should have told him. He feared that Brandon had been told… but not Ned. He wrote about his regrets… oh Tyrion! He knew!"

He pulled her in for a one-armed hug, as he looked at the journal. "Damn Bootle. Damn Bootle to whatever hell exists for such a man." And then he set his jaw. "But now we are here to speak for him. And so we will. Let's keep searching got knowledge here. We need to know what more your father could have told Ned."

There was a long pause – and then she nodded and joined him in their search for knowledge.

Jaime

Exploring the cave system under the trees that sheltered them was one way to pass the time. It was hard to tell night from day in here, especially with the others too busy training to talk to him. The Green Man and Bloodraven were teaching the Blackfish and Brienne of Tarth – no, Brienne Tully – all that they knew, quite often in that dreamworld that could be accessed via the roots.

He shivered a little every time he thought about what he had seen thanks to those roots. The mockery and scorn in the eyes of Bloodraven, the judgement in those eyes… he knew that the former Hand of the King and now near-corpse on his weirwood throne doubted that Jaime would – could – ever amount to much.

Well, damn him. He'd show him. He'd show them all.

The caves with the great and small skeletons were ones that he had only passed through once or twice, the feeling that the grinning white skulls were somehow watching him was not a pleasant one. It was strange to think that sentient beings would not want to be buried, but instead laid down to rot, but they were not men they were… what? They had once had tongues and they could speak when they were alive, so that what did that make them? He did not like to think of the old wars between the Children of the Forest and Giants and the First Men. Based on what he knew now, how badly had those wars weakened them all before the arrival of the Others?

The Others… that dream he had had, on the way to the Wall, still haunted him. It had been a dream of something from another time, from a future now closed to them, and that was something he was mightily glad of, but… the implications of that… He was not a dreamer of Green Dreams like Uncle Gerion and young Allarion, he was not a thinker like Tyrion, he was… he was what? A former member of the Kingsguard who had killed one king for the right reasons and betrayed another so that he could stick his cock in his own sister. He was a wise fool or a foolish wise man, or something that he couldn't describe. A man of the Night's Watch now, defending humanity at the edge of the world from things out of darkest legend. Things that he once would have denied, laughed at the thought of them, mocked those who talked of them.

And then there was the other thing that haunted him. The look on the face of young Brandon Stark, as that other him, from the time that had never happened, pushed him out of the window of the room that he and Cersei had been in. The wide, surprised – and then terrified – eyes of the boy he was trying to kill. 'You're the kind of man who'd push little boys out of windows' had been the words of Robb Stark and for all his desperate efforts to persuade himself that he could never do such a thing he had to admit that when he had been in the grip of his madness with Cersei – yes. He could have done that. He could have pushed ten boys out of windows to hide his 'love' for his sister. Lust rather. Shame perhaps. Madness – of a certainty.

What had she done to him? Well… here he was, beyond the Wall thanks to her. He had to put her out of his mind. She was gone, lost to him, to all of them now, an exile.

The cave filled with mammoth bones fascinated him and he wondered how many had been there once. And then there were the caves with the goats with pale eyes that watched him when he approached and bleated at him. Leaf was often in there, milking the goats, feeding them and once leading one away to be killed and butchered.

Leaf fascinated him at times, the one Children of the Forest left from what must have been so many more. He'd asked her where the others were now, the ones that she had mentioned and she had smiled an odd, secretive, little smile. "The Ways are open to us now, thanks to Rickon Stark. We… have ways of using the trees. You might call it magic, we call it the Ways. The others of my kind who were here, helping me to tend to and protect the Greenseer – they have passed South now, to places that are protected again. We… have a chance again. Before, we were doomed. Now we are not. And when the Greenseer passes, I will move on to join my kin in safety. And these caves will go dark and silent – for a time. If we win, they will have light again, one day."

He had nodded, unable to put into words what had heard in her voice. "And… the goats?"

"Will go with me." Another secretive smile. "You know nothing, Jaime Lannister. Perhaps I will teach you a little."

He kept exploring, the search of the caves was the only thing that meant that he was not bored. He even crossed the natural bridge that crossed the underground river that rushed somewhere, deep and dark and cold, a place that quietly terrified him. He sat there, on a rock, for a while, staring into the darkness and then nodding slightly as he started to feel drowsy – until a clawed hand landed on his back and pulled him back from the abyss underneath his suddenly wide eyes.

"Do not do that again," Leaf scolded him. "Not here. The river flows down to a sunless sea, where you would die quickly."

"I… I didn't mean to…" He scrambled back from the rock he had been teetering on. "My apologies."

She looked at him, something strange about the expression on her face. "You stand between two fates," she said eventually. "And you must choose soon. Life or death. Hope or despair. You seem to either see things simply or complicate them. You are a strange man, Jaime Lannister."

He looked away from her. "I have done much in my life that was foolish. And what would you know about us men?"

She laughed for a moment. "I know far more than you would ever care to know about us. You hunted us once. Fought us. Some loved us. Our blood runs through the veins of some of those who loved us. The… Plain Ones, where Winter Once Fell-" Leaf made a complicated gesture with her hands on her face, "They share our blood and I can feel it waking, shouting, living again." She shivered a little. "Times change. People change. I had a human lover once, a man in a black cloak, a 'Brother' of yours. Our son went south, long ago, and I know that he is dead now. And I know now that one day I will have another child." She looked over her shoulder. "We must return to the others. The Greenseer weakens. Come, now."