This took a while to write, for reasons that I am sure that you are all aware of. I was supposed to be away on business in New York this week, before going on holiday for a cruise next week, but sadly the coronavirus killed both trips. It's been hard, these past weeks and I'd like to ask you all to be stay safe, be kind to each other and remember that this whole thing will one day pass.

Ned

With every mile that they rode South the nagging feeling that something was very wrong somewhere got stronger, like an itch that he could not scratch. He put it down to irritation at first at being made to do this journey, but as they passed further down the road and the itch got worse he had to admit that this was something more.

It was also leading to some very mixed feelings. He was proud of what he was seeing as they rode South. The North was responding magnificently to the Call. He'd never seen so many fields under the plough or being sown, or being reaped or just standing there, filled with wind-stroked barley or wheat. There were windmills, both old and new, their sails rotating in the wind, the millstones within grinding out flour.

The windmills seemed to fascinate young Ygritte, who used to turn and watch them as they passed them. Sometimes she'd watch so hard that she'd almost ride into trees, before her horse swerved, startling her. He had Jon keep an eye on her, aware that things between those two were… peculiar might be the word to use. They were dancing a very pretty gavotte around each other and he had a feeling that the dance might end up at a fascinating place, given their respective origins.

He'd long agonised over Jon's future. He had to keep him safe, that was the most important thing. He had made a promise to Lyanna to keep him safe, and also sworn to Robert that he'd keep Jon somewhere in the North. And in terms of marriage… well, now that Jon was a Stark there were offers from various Houses, with more probably coming. Would marriage to one of them make him happier than he might be with Ygritte? A Wildling? The red-headed girl was a set of contradictions - impulsive, amusing, perceptive and utterly ignorant about a lot of things South of the Wall. She was also learning by leaps and bounds, absorbing information about everything around her. Oh and she had a mouth like a fishwife when provoked.

So – he would let the gavotte proceed. Robert had had a quiet word with him as well about it, as the girl amused him, and as he had also pointed out, the thought of Aerys Targaryen's grandson marrying a Wildling was something that really amused him and would also make the Mad King's shade scream in pure rage.

It was something to think about as they kept riding South. Something to keep his mind off the roiling sense of unease that was starting to grip him as they rode across the Barrowlands. The road was being worked on in various places, as it was seeing a great deal of traffic, mostly heading North-East for the Kingsroad.

Most knew who he was by the banners flown by the outriders, and there were the occasional cheers from men and women, but for the most part he was struck by the intensity he saw. People were worried and working hard, either in the fields or on the roads. Which made him wonder something. Was the Call affecting some people even now, or was this down to what was happening at Barrowtown.

A day away from Barrowtown they encountered another half-ruined castle, one that was being repaired by a minor Barrowland House. And it was there that they found Brandon Dustin and his sons, all waiting for him with grim faces as the sun started to set.

As the rest of the party dismounted and started to prepare a meal the former member of the Company of the Rose looked at Ned and Stannis and then gestured at a door to one side in part of a repaired section. "Lord Stark, Lord Baratheon, a word if you please?"

They passed through the door and into a small storeroom that seemed to contain building supplies where they turned to look at Lord Brandon Dustin, whose face was still grim. "Lady Dustin barely spoke ten words to me, my Lords," he said quietly. "She wouldn't even look at me after a while. I didn't know what to do or say, but she somehow found me at fault, Lord Stark, my Lord Hand. I started to ask questions about the fog and Barrowtown and above all the books that Lord Willam Dustin, my cousin, had, but after a while she claimed that I had come to steal Barrowtown from her and told me to leave." He made a frustrated gesture with his hands. "I did not want to go, but… she did not give me a chance to explain that I do not want Barrowtown, that I was there to help with the fog, but… she looked like a woman at her wits end, my Lords. She made no sense."

Ned sighed and ran a hand over his chin. Damn it. He'd had a nagging feeling that something like this might happen. "And the fog?"

Brandon Dustin paused, sighed and then ran a hand through his hair. "It's not natural, Lord Stark. Not natural at all. It was confined to the Barrows itself, by Barrowtown. But… well, it's spreading. And people are talking about it. There's a lot of very nervous people in Barrowtown at the moment my Lords and some of them are even talking about leaving the area if the fog spreads any further."

This was bad. Very bad. Ned swapped a troubled look with Stannis. "How far has it spread already?"

"Beyond the Barrows, my Lords. Not into the fields nearby or the town itself, but I was told that it's creeping closer. And it's… odd. As odd as they said it was. Wind won't touch it. And…" he fell silent, with words left unsaid.

"And, my Lord?"

Brandon stood straight and thrust his chin out a little. "My Lords, when I stood not far from it I… I heard voices. Men and women speaking in the language of the First Men. I thought I was imagining it at first, so faint was it, but I heard it, I know that I did. My sons heard it too, but fainter."

Ned stiffened a little. "Could you hear what the voices were saying?"

He was answered with a reluctant tilt of the head. "Sometimes. I heard commands to muster. I think I heard the words 'Stark' and 'The Fist'. And I think I heard 'Oathstone', if I have the word right in the Old Tongue."

"'Oathstone'?" Ned muttered. "What do you know of that?"

The former member of the Company of the Rose looked slightly uncomfortable. "I do not know exactly what it is, but every when every Dustin comes of age they are told that they have to protect and maintain the Oathstone. It's said to be by the barrow of the First King of the First Men, but I don't know anything more than that my Lords. There should be more information in Barrowtown, but…" he spread his hands. "Lady Dustin commanded us to leave. She did not forbid me from returning, but the words were close to being said."

Barbrey bloody Dustin. Was she born to plague him? He had no wish to strip her lands from her, he had given his word at Castle Black, but if she continued to act like a fool then he might have no choice than to at the very least name Brandon Dustin or his sons as her heir – as she had no heir herself of Dustin blood. And that was important. Domeric could not inherit the title of Lord Dustin, even though he was her nephew. Ah – and that was probably it.

"Well now," Ned said grimly, "We will ride into Barrowtown tomorrow and have words with Lady Dustin. I have to tell you both now that Lord Willam Dustin died fighting at my side during the rebellion and Lady Dustin still blames me for that. It cannot be helped. However, this matter of the fog must be divined correctly and dealt with – no matter what Lady Dustin might want. And you Lord Brandon will ride with us. Your sons too."

The other two men nodded shortly. "And now my Lords, let us eat and go to respective beds."

They did just as he said. Dinner that night was venison that had been hanging at the castle – he ordered that it be replaced with a haunch that they had brought with them – and there was some good cheer as they ate and drank. But his thoughts kept turning to Barrowtown and the fog and he could tell that the others were also thinking the same thing. Nevertheless he watched with a smile as Ygritte and Jon sparred over what was better, venison from North of the Wall or South of it, and he had to say that Jon just about won it, barely.

He did not sleep well that night. He woke several times with a feeling of oppression, almost terror, as if someone had walked over his grave. The dreams he could recall were half-remembered fragments, jagged memories of moments of pain and regret and yet somehow determination and hope as well.

As he joined the others in the morning to break their fasts he smiled a little as he looked at the freshly baked bread rolls that that someone had been able to bake. They were still warm and the butter that he spread on them melted a little. It was delicious, along with the smoked ham that was shared out and he left the castle with a full belly and a lighter purse after gifting the people there with a dragon or two.

South they rode again and as they rode through the Barrowlands he could see that word of their ride was going on ahead of them again, judging by the looks – and the cheers – that they were getting. And he saw something else on more and more faces – worry mixed with hope that the sight of him.

When he finally caught sight of Barrowtown, with Barrow Hall in the middle of it, he clenched the reins so hard that he heard his leather riding gloves creak more than a bit. Beyond the hill that Barrowtown was nestled on was a flat area – and it was covered with a fog that to his eyes looked wrong. But then he forced himself to relax his grip and concentrated on looking as the Lord of the North should look – focussed and intent and above all in charge.

The cheering started as they approached the gates of Barrowtown and the standards of House Stark and to a lesser extent House Baratheon were sighted by the crowds of people on the streets. As a way was cleared for them by men in Dustin livery he wondered what Barbrey Dustin thought about her people cheering so hard for House Stark.

As they finally arrived in front of Barrow Hall he got his answer. Barbrey Dustin was in the main courtyard, her father standing at her side and the household of Barrow Hall behind them. Lady Dustin was as white as a sheet, black shadows under her eyes and a look of badly hidden worry and strain. Lord Ryswell did not look quite as bad, but he was obviously worried, especially as he caught sight of Stannis Baratheon – he actually flinched a little.

But that was as nothing as to the reaction of Barbrey Dustin when she caught sight of Brandon Dustin. She flushed with some undefinable emotion, before wrenching her gaze away from him and back to Ned's direction.

As Ned dismounted he pulled the Fist of Winter out of the leather case it had been resting on his saddle as he rode and back to its proper place at his waist. At the same time Frostfyre padded up next to him and then sat down and stared at the Lady of Barrowtown, something that Barbrey Dustin seemed to find very disturbing.

"Lady Dustin," Ned said as he and Stannis strode up to the pair of them. "Lord Ryswell."

"Lord Stark," Barbrey Dustin said tightly, "My Lord Hand." There was a pause and then, possibly prompted by a nudge from her father: "Bread and salt, my Lords."

They partook from the plates handed over by a servant, before Ned looked back at Lady Dustin. "We must talk at once."

Barbrey Dustin flinched a little, but then nodded choppily as she turned towards the doors to the main hall and he followed her, along with Ryswell, Stannis and, after a gesture from him, Brandon Dustin. And, of course, Frostfyre

After a moment Barbrey Dustin seemed to realise exactly who was following her, because she turned. "Not him!"

Ned looked at a faltering Brandon Dustin. "He comes," he said in a voice that booked no argument. "You have no say in this matter."

Barbrey looked at him in protest, but then Stannis added his own voice: "Lord Stark is right on this."

She pulled a face and then led them on to a room to one side of the great hall of the castle that had a desk and some chairs. Ned closed the door firmly behind them all and then glared at Barbrey Dustin.

"Lady Dustin, I am not pleased to be here and am still less pleased that you expelled my personal envoy Lord Brandon Dustin. This matter of the fog is still unresolved and Lord Brandon was sent here as my advance guard."

Barbrey Dustin came very close to wringing her hands in what was either worry or despair. "I have tried to resolve it, Lord Stark! But there is nothing in the books here about it, nothing in the local legends! And Lord Brandon… he is a Dustin of Essosi, of the Company of the Rose, he knows nothing about this matter." She raised her jaw. "I… could not allow him to meddle in this matter."

Ned's own chin came up at this and he took a long stride towards her, whilst to one side Frostfyre visibly bristled. He had her measure at once. "Lady Dustin, I told you at Castle Black that Barrowtown was yours and that I would not supplant you with Lord Brandon. Lord Brandon knows this! He is trying to help. And yet you refused his counsel and bade him and his sons leave. You are placing me in a delicate position, Lady Dustin. The fog grows worse, not better, and your actions make no sense."

She looked at almost everything in the room but him and her late husband's cousin. "He knows nothing and-"

"Do not make me take back the words I said at Castle Black!" Ned half-roared the words and Barbrey Dustin and her father both flinched at the look of black fury on his face. He forced himself to be calm again. "We must work together on this."

And then something happened that made him blink with surprise. Barbrey Dustin stared at the floor and then walked up to him. "Please send him away," she all but whispered. "I will explain later, in private."

"I cannot," he said more gently. "This matter of the fog is too important. People are close to leaving Barrowtown because of this, did you know that? But yes, we will meet in private for you to explain."

She looked at him, that look combining anger and worry and frustration and for some reason shame, and then she slowly nodded choppily.

Ned looked at her closely and then sighed. "So – the books here at Barrow Hall are of no use?"

"None." She said the word with flat despair.

"What does the Maester say?" Stannis asked.

"There is none," Brandon Dustin said with a sigh. "Lady Dustin… apparently distrusts them."

"They are naught but grey rats," Barbrey said with a flash of her old fire. And then she looked at him and the fire died. "I dismissed the last one. He was meddling in Willam's solar."

There was a short silence as various looks were traded and then, reluctantly, Brandon Dustin said: "Was there nothing even in the Grey Book?"

The words were met with a blank look from Barbrey. "Grey Book?"

Brandon Dustin stood straighter. "The Grey Book of the Dustins." He looked uncomfortable. "It is a secret thing, something not normally talked of in front of strangers, but my father told me of it. It tells of the history of the Barrowlands and the ceremonies that Dustins must do."

Ned wanted to close his eyes and then cover them with his hand. More bloody ancient family secrets. Would he never be rid of them?

But Barbrey Dustin still stared blankly. "What Grey Book?"

"It would be in Lord Willam Dustin's Solar. From what my father told me of it, 'tis a large book, bound in grey leather, about this size," and Brandon Dustin held his hands out to illustrate. "It would have been amidst Lord Dustin's most prized possessions. It's written entirely in the language of the First Men."

"There was no book like that in the Solar when I took it over."

She did not look directly at Brandon Dustin, but the man looked horrified. "What? Are you sure?"

Once again she would not look at him, just nodding instead.

"Take us to your Solar. At once." Stannis made it a command and not a request and despite a brief bout of blustering Barbrey Dustin obeyed that order.

The Solar was neat and tidy, with books placed neatly on shelves along one wall and various maps and other papers rolled up just as neatly on the large desk. But there was no grey book. Ned drummed his fingers on the table for a moment and then looked about. "Search the room."

They searched. Ned hoped that there would be something similar to his Solar at Winterfell, a room hidden behind a tapestry or some hidden partition somewhere – but there was nothing. They tapped on the walls, they looked behind the books and even all through the books, but there was no grey book written in the language of the First Men.

Ned looked around the Solar as they completed their search, before looking at a white-faced Barbrey Dustin. He was angry, one hand on the Fist and Frostfyre's hackles were up to one side. "Search Barrow Hall. Every part of it. Find that book."

Barbrey Dustin took one look at his face and flinched violently, stepping back with a look of almost fright. After a long moment she nodded and then came close to running to the door to summon servants and bark out orders.

Over the next few hours Barrow Hall was all but turned upside and shaken. Servants and guardsmen searched everywhere, aided by those who had rode South with Ned. Based on a hunch from Ned they searched the room of the former Maester, which was now a storeroom – but there was nothing there, no grey book, nothing. As for Maester himself – he was long dead according to one of the servants.

As the chaos erupted around them Ned finally pulled Barbrey Dustin to one side in a room. "We have time now. Explain."

She did not look at him, but at everywhere else in the room for a long moment. Finally she said: "Lord Brandon… I did not mean to dismiss him." A look of deep distress crossed her face. "Lord Stark… I honour the memory of Willam. I do. I remember his face. Lord Brandon… he has Willam's eyes. And his smile. And he looks…" And then she looked genuinely anguished as she seemed to search for words.

Ned's eyes widened as realisation struck. He opened his mouth for a long moment, reconsidered what he was about to say and then closed it. Finally he said, very carefully: "You consider Brandon Dustin… comely?"

The word made Barbrey Dustin close her eyes as if in pain. "I… don't… I mean, I can't… Lord Stark… I have for so many years grieved over Willam. And resented you, hated you for not bringing his bones back." There was a pause as she wrestled with a large number of emotions. "It's all I have. Grief and hate. It's hollowed me out. I have no room for anything else." She said the last words in a defeated tone of voice.

Pity kindled in his heart. "Barbrey," he said quietly, "We all know what's coming. At the Wall. And we all know what drives it. The Others are coming and they bring death. We have to fight death with life. And to be alive is to be many things. I've long felt regret for not bringing Willam's bones back. As I am bound for the Reach after here, I vow to you now that I will visit where Willam fell and retrieve his bones, so that he can be buried with his ancestors. And as for you – live. You can honour Willam's memory and do your best to be happy at the same time. Don't stay trapped in grief and hate. Willam wouldn't have wanted that."

Barbrey looked at him – and there were tears in her eyes. "You make it sound so… easy."

"It's really not. But you have to try at least."

She wiped her eyes and then nodded a little.

As they left the room they heard raised voices ahead and after a moment one of Barrow Hall's servants scurried into view. "My Lord, my Lady, we've found something! In the Library!"

They had indeed found something, a shrouded shape that apparently had been hidden in an alcove behind a shelf with a large number of books on it. Books left by the old Maester apparently.

Ned looked at it, once they all reconvened in the Solar. It was in the shape of a small chest, but it was covered in oilskin that had been stitched tight, so he pulled out his knife and cut it carefully open. Underneath was a similar tight layer of coarse linen and under that was a layer of finer linen, before they finally saw wood.

"Who was this Maester again?" Ned asked as Jon helped him to cut away all the layers and reveal the small chest that lay within.

"Aylwood," Barbrey Dustin muttered to one side. "An annoying man who tried to lecture me on what Willam would do. I dismissed him for many reasons, the last being he was in here without my permission." She sighed. "He must have taken the book."

The chest was locked – but that was not a problem as the key to it was tied to one of the carrying handles on its side. Ned took the key, inserted it into the lock and then paused. "Wait, someone bring me some oil for this."

Oil was brought and inserted into the lock, just barely enough because the bloody thing stuck a bit before it finally turned. Ned opened the top and then paused. There was a note within, resting on what looked like a number of book-shaped objects tightly wrapped in cloth. He picked it up. 'For the new Lord Dustin, when he comes.'

So he stepped away from the chest. "Lady Dustin, this is yours I believe."

Barbrey Dustin sent him a veiled look of… something he was not sure he could identify, and then stepped up to the desk. With hands that trembled more than a bit she pulled the topmost shape up and then peered at it, before placing it gently on the desk and then using Ned's dagger to cut through the stitches that confined what was within.

And what was within was a large book that was bound in grey leather. The moment that Ned saw it he all but sighed with relief. He picked it up – and then passed it over to Barbrey Dustin. "This belongs to you I believe, Lady Dustin."

Barbrey Dustin took it with an odd look on her face, as if she had expected him to do something else, before putting it on the desk and drawing up a chair. And then she did something that made Ned blink. She took a deep breath and said: "Lord Brandon, you can read the language of the First Men I believe?"

"I can," came the reply. "My Father and Grandfather taught me."

"Then please…" She seemed to gird herself. "Assist me in looking at this book. In a matter of this importance I think that two sets of eyes are better than one."

Ned schooled his face as Brandon Dustin nodded carefully, drew up a chair and then joined her in starting to read. Ned watched them for a moment, thinking of a pair of cats that were circling each other, and then joined Jon and Lord Ryswell at the chest, where they were pulling out and unwrapping more books. All were bound in grey leather and seemed to be progressively older and older as they emerged from the chest. And there were six of them.

Ned took one and carefully opened it, before opening another one and looking at the same page. They were written in different hands but the language was identical. "They're all copies of the same book, Father," Jon said wonderingly. "Past Dustins must have seen this as so important that they ordered copies to be made at regular intervals."

"The Maester knew that they were important," Ned muttered. "He put them away for safety. But why tell no-one?"

Ryswell leant closer. "My daughter does not like Maesters," he said softly. "If he had said that these were very important I am not sure if she would have listened." He said it quietly, but a red spot had appeared on the cheeks of his daughter and she was obviously repressing a sharp word at her father. "He kept the books safe and for that I thank his memory."

Ned nodded. He was of a mind to suggest that a book be sent to Surestone, as Dacey would find it fascinating, but he had a feeling that now was not the time to suggest anything like that.

And then they waited as the two Dustins sat at the table and pored over the book, turning pages only after both had read and then nodded over it. Brandon looked fascinated whilst Barbrey looked more than a little wistful at times, probably as she thought of Willam and the absence of little Dustins of her own. But then, as they made their way through the book, he noticed new emotions from the pair of them. Surprise, shock even, and then growing worry that seemed to almost become alarm. The two reached one particular page, leant back a little in shock, read on, looked at each other grimly and then turned the page, where the process was repeated. Brandon then inserted a page marker, turned back a few pages, placed a finger on a few lines and looked at Barbrey, who turned white but then nodded. They then looked up at Ned.

"Lord Stark," they both said almost simultaneously, before looking at each other. Brandon leant back and gestured at his late cousin's wife.

"Lord Stark," Barbrey said in a shaking voice. "We know what the fog is." She raised a shaking hand to her face and then stood abruptly and walked to one side. "The fog is… is the spirits of the dead."

There was a startled silence that was broken by Rodrik Ryswell, who sighed and sank into a chair. "Aye, I feared that. The voices alone… what do they want though?"

But Barbrey Dustin seemed to be too shaken to answer and instead waved a hand at Brandon Dustin, who sighed and looked around the room at them all. "This tale dates back to the Long Night. When the Others started to roll South, attacking the First Men and turning them into wights… well news travelled slowly at first and was not always believed. Then when it became clear that it was true… again it varied. Some fought. Some fled. And some tried to court favour with these powerful creatures – they worshipped them in the hope that they would be killed last.

"When it became clear that the only course of action was to fight, your ancestor Lord Stark called for a great assemblage of the leaders of the First Men and their supporters, here at Barrow Hill. They met here and they swore a great oath to ally themselves with the Children of the Forest and to fight and beat the Others. They swore it at the Oathstone, by the barrow of the First King."

Brandon Dustin paused and licked his lips. "There were those at the Oathstone who knew that they were not trusted. They were those who had fled, or who had tried to worship the Others. They knew that the men around them thought that they would break their word and flee or betray them. So… the oath that they swore was different. It was… binding in ways that the other oaths were not. They swore a great and terrible oath to fight the Others no matter what the cost, to fight them no matter how many of them died. The oath was binding for the rest of their lives – and beyond."

There was a long silence, one that was broken by Stannis Baratheon. "And beyond? Meaning what?"

"Beyond death my Lord Hand," Brandon Dustin said soberly. "There could be no more binding oath than that. So that when the Call was sent out it was heard by both the living and the dead."

Ned felt the blood flee his face for a long moment. Then he thought it through. "So the sprits of the dead who swore that oath are converging here, at the Oathstone?"

"Aye, Lord Stark. Many of them died near here – there was a great battle against the Others not far from here."

Ned sighed. "Very well, that is what the fog is. So – how do we disperse it?"

Brandon Dustin looked at Barbrey, who was still deeply affected by what she had read, and then gazed at Ned. "One of the tasks, no, duties of the Dustin of Barrowtown is bound up with the Call. When it is sent he must go to the Oathstone as soon as he can, place his hand on it and bid the dead to sleep again. Their assistance is not needed yet, the book says – it will only be needed in the final battle against the thing that created them, when the dead will be commanded by…" he looked down at the open book and then shook his head in clear puzzlement. "The word is old and odd and needs translation by a better reader of the language of the First Men than I am."

The thought of the spirits of the dead marching with the living was one that made him shudder a little, but then he paused. "But the Dustin of Barrowtown is by blood a Ryswell, not a Dustin. Can it still work, can we take Lady Dustin to the Oathstone and have her command them to sleep?"

He was answered with a shake of the head. "No, Lord Stark, she is – as you pointed out – not a Dustin by blood. And I cannot do it either as I am not the Dustin in Barrowtown. But even if I married Lady Barbrey tonight and laid with her until morning, becoming Lord Dustin, I cannot disperse the fog and the dead. The book makes it clear that if too much time passes between the Call being sent and the Dustin of Barrowtown commanding that the dead sleep again, then the command of the Dustin will not be enough. There will be too many dead – as there are now. Too many will have woken, and other things besides according to the book. Only one man can command the dead to sleep now – the Stark who holds the Fist of Winter in one hand as he touches the Oathstone with the other." He fell silent, not looking at Barbrey Dustin (who was a little flushed). "And it must just be you, Lord Stark. Only a Stark can do this."

Everyone looked at him and he did his best not to wince too much as yet more weight was added to the burden he always carried. "Me then," he said with a sigh. "Me. Very well. I will go to the Oathstone."

"Tomorrow though," Ryswell pointed out. "The sun is setting now. You cannot ride to the Oathstone – no horse will approach that fog – and you get lost too easily in the growing dark. You must do it tomorrow."

Ned nodded. "Very well."

The evening meal in the Great Hall was a… quiet affair. Not melancholy, not sad, no foreboding exactly, but most were lost in their thoughts. Ned found himself wondering what it would be like to walk through a fog that was made up of the spirits of the dead, whilst to one side Jon seemed to be thinking very hard. As for Barbrey Dustin, she was staring more at her plate than anywhere else.

And above all Ned found himself with a piece of song stuck in his head, something that after a while he found himself humming softly.

"Aye," said Jon quietly next to him, "I've been thinking about the same song Father. Jenny of Oldstones is it not?"

"It seems fitting," Ned said with a slight smile. "Tomorrow I hopefully won't be dancing with ghosts."

"What's Jenny of Oldstones?" Ygritte said the words through a mouthful of bread. No-one quite knew how to deal with her, as a member of the party of Lord Stark and the Lord Hand, but also not of the nobility.

"A song," said Ned, thinking of the different times that he had heard it. "About the wife of the Prince of Dragonflies."

"Oh?" Ygritte said, her brow wrinkling. "A prince made of dragonflies?"

Ned almost laughed. "No, he was Duncan Targaryen, who died at Summerhall. The Green Man knew him."

Ygritte opened her mouth again and he could tell that the next words she was going to say were on the lines of 'How does it go?', when something happened that he would never have thought possible. Barbrey Dustin raised her head and started to sing in a high, clear voice.

"High in the halls of the kings who are gone, Jenny would dance with her ghosts. The ones she had lost and the ones she had found, and the ones who had loved her the most. The ones who'd been gone for so very long, she couldn't remember their names." There was total silence in the hall, as they all listened to the Lady of Barrowtown sing. Ygritte's mouth had dropped open and all of a sudden Ned was reminded of Lyanna at Harrenhall.

"They spun her around on the damp old stones, spun away all her sorrow and pain. And she never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave." There were tears in her eyes now, but still she sat upright and sang.

"They danced through the day, and into the night through the snow that swept through the hall. From winter to summer then winter again, 'til the walls did crumble and fall. And she never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave.

"And she never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave." The tears were sliding down her cheeks now, but still she sat upright and kept on singing.

"High in the halls of the kings who are gone. Jenny would dance with her ghosts. The ones she had lost and the ones she had found, and the ones who had loved her the most." She fell silent and just sat there and Ned had no idea if she had been singing for the living or the dead. After a long moment she reached out and picked up her goblet. "To your success at the Oathstone, Lord Stark."

It was an apt toast and after a slight pause Ned and the others also raised their goblets and drank.

Oddly enough for a man who was going to take a walk through a fog filled with the spirits of the dead he slept very well that night, probably because he was utterly exhausted. He didn't even dream much, although from what he could remember his dreams were of home and Cat.

In the morning he broke his fast in his room, a simple meal that involved bread and ham and small beer. As he ate he studied a small map of the area about the Great Barrow to memorise the path to the Oathstone and also watched at Frostfyre, who looked back at him levelly. If horses would not go near the fog, would a direwolf? He didn't think so, but he did not know and he sighed a little as he finished his food and stood, pushing the Fist of Winter into the loop in his belt and then striding out of his room and down the corridor. It was early and the hall was still stirring, but there seemed to be quite a few servants about who watched him and nodded formally, in the manner of the North, in respect and acknowledgement of what he was doing.

He met Stannis at the main gates, where the Hand of the King nodded in respect himself and then shook hands with him and bade him luck gruffly. Barbrey Dustin was standing to one side and he acknowledged her nod and that of Brandon Dustin to one side as well. Theon and Asha acknowledged him on the other side, concern on the face of the first, respect on the other. Ygritte was there as well, looking both irritated and concerned, he knew not why. The courtyard was silent as he passed through the gates and down through the town.

Word had passed before him and the streets were filled with people, although a path was always open through them for him and his direwolf. Men and women nodded and muttered their support, as if afraid to speak too loudly, and he would nod back now and then from side to side, hoping that he did not let these good people down.

And then, at the main gates of Barrowtown he saw someone who made him stop. Jon was standing there, Ghost at his feet and Dark Sister at his hip. "Father."

"Jon."

"I am going with you."

"No," he said with a shake of his head. "You are not. We don't know what's out there in that fog, it's too dangerous. I will not put you at risk."

"Father, only we can do this. I am a Stark, am I not?"

"You are," he said, feeling irritated. "But-"

"But if you trip over a stone on the barrows and break your leg who would know about it? Who could pick up the Fist and use it? You need someone to guard you out there Father, someone who can also use the Fist. You need me. Come on." And with that Jon started to walk towards the fog.

He swore under his breath and strode after his blasted son, no, nephew, repressing the need to strangle him. "Jon-"

"We are not going to argue about this Father. Accept my help." Jon stopped and looked at him. "Trust me on this. You need me."

He looked into those all too familiar eyes for a long moment. And then he sighed and nodded reluctantly. "Very well. But if I say 'run', you bloody well run, do you hear me?"

"I understand, Father."

On they went, towards the fog and as they approached it felt more than saw the hackles go up on the back of Frostfyre. He looked at both direwolves and could see at a glance that they were both becoming distressed, but wanted to continue. "Jon." He gestured at the direwolves and then saw the boy realise what was going on. He turned to the two creatures. "Stay. Wait. We will return." The direwolves stared at him, obviously conflicted, before sitting and then dipping their muzzles in compliance.

On they strode, to the very start of the fog and he felt his skin crawn as the tendrils of mist envelop him. He looked up at the Sun, found his bearings and then looked at Jon. "Keep your wits about you. And we need to walk in this direction." He gestured with one hand, whilst keeping the other on the Fist almost instinctively.

As they kept walking he stretched out with all his senses. Brandon Dustin had mentioned that he and his sons had heard the sound of voices in the fog and after a long moment he felt his nostrils narrow as he also heard something. There were voices, faint at first but then growing a little louder, speaking the language of the First Men, or an archaic version of it.

"They come! They come!"

"Watch to the right!"

"Spears and shields! SPEARS AND SHIELDS!"

"Go for the tendons!"

"We are the living. We are LIFE! Beat back the dead! Send them back to the shadow that awaits them!"

He could tell that Jon could hear them as well and he placed a hand on his shoulder. "Ignore them. They are long dead."

He hoped they were dead anyway, as the fog billowed about them, fading at times just enough for him to catch a sight of the Sun and guess at their bearings. As they strode on the fog would thicken every now and then and sometimes he could see shapes in it, the shapes of men and even women dressed in old armour, walking or running or even swinging pale swords or axes against something unseen.

And then abruptly the fog thickened and he paused. Suddenly something felt very wrong and as his senses screamed at him he pulled the Fist of Winter out of its loop at his waist and hefted it. Jon felt the same way, judging by the sound of Dark Sister being pulled from its scabbard and they stopped and stood back to back. "Something is coming," he muttered. "I feel it."

The fog broiled to one side and they both turned to face it – and then some thing out of his darkest nightmares seemed to form itself of the fog. Its feet were no more then vapour and mist, but its body looked like several ribcages of men joined together, with many arms and a head made from at least three skulls fused together. It screamed at them with a voice that spoke of madness and then hefted a blade spun from ebon night at them.

Ned swallowed and somehow got the Fist up into a guard position before the two weapons met with an unearthly noise. The impact rocked him back on his feet and he grunted with effort, but he could see that the Fist had notched a jagged rent in the blade of whatever the hell this thing wielded. The thing gaped – or seemed to gape – at him and then he used that moment of astonishment to his advantage, bringing the Fist down again onto the blade, shattering it to pieces before he reversed his impetus and brought the Fist back around and smashed its head to pieces. The thing didn't even have a chance to scream and he stared as it disintegrated into mist as it fell to the ground.

"Father," said Jon shakily, "What was that?"

"I don't know," he replied. "But some of the books said that the Others did not make just wights at the beginning. When they had time… they got inventive." He shook his head. "Be wary."

They strode on, more watchful than they had been previously. He hoped that they were on the right path towards the Oathstone, and as they walked up and over first one barrow and then another he realised that they were not too far away.

But then the fog thickened again – and again they stood back to back. For long singing moments they watched around them. And then it started to get cold, as their breath started to appear in the air about them. Jon stiffened in shock. "Father, it's like it was beyond the Wall at the Nightfort. When the Others attacked."

He looked about – and then something blue started to swirl into existence from the fog. Deeper and deeper the cold became and then all of a sudden something came into brutal focus. He recognised it at once from the descriptions. The shade of an Other. It looked about its surroundings almost wonderingly for a long moment – and then it drew a pale sword that flickered about its edges and looked at them. Ned drew himself up as the thing raised its weapon, but it was Jon who met the stroke that fell – and the pale sword shattered on impact, astonishing the shade but being met with a grin by Jon, despite the blood that the shards inflicted as they glanced past his forehead. Jon didn't even flinch as he then brought Dark Sister around and sliced through the shade of the Other, which shattered into a thousand pieces.

They moved on again, deeper into the fog – and it was then that Ned realised that he could not even see the Sun above them and that he did not know exactly where they were. He stared at the ground carefully, still doing his best to keep an eye on approaching threats. "Where's the nearest barrow?"

Jon paused and he looked about himself. "Over there. I think that-" But he was interrupted by a broiling in the fog again, before something once again emerged. Like the first thing to come from the fog it was from his deepest nightmares, a creature made from tendon and bone with many arms and legs, one of which opened up a cut just about his right eye as he darted back just in time.

Unpleasant as it was, it died quickly. It mewled with what might have been pain when they both struck at it with their weapons and then flailed at them again, leaving a long but shallow cut on his leg and cutting Jon's arm as well. The Fist and Dark Sister rose and fell, shattering the white form into pieces as they hammered it to pieces.

Blowing hard as he looked about Ned winced a little as he looked at the blood on them both. He opened his mouth to tell Jon to look for the Oathstone again, when all of a sudden two things happened. The first was that he caught site of a pale light to one side through a rent in the fog. The second was that something deep in the fog uttered a roaring noise that made his blood run cold for an instant.

"What in the name of all the Old Gods was that?" Jon gasped

"Let's not find out," Ned replied. "I think I saw a light over there." It was in the right direction and at least it didn't hurt too much to walk.

They walked on through the suddenly thickening fog – and then Ned and Jon stopped dead. There were figures in the fog, men and women in all kinds of armour, clutching ancient weapons. They were motionless, all staring in the same direction – at the pale light ahead of them all. He squinted at it. Yes, it matched the description of the Oathstone. But that light…

He reached out and clutched at Jon's shoulder. He could tell at a glance that Jon was afraid. But then the thing in the fog bellowed again, closer this time, and they both started walking again, towards the upright standing stone, threading their way through the motionless figures.

He looked over his shoulder and all of a sudden something vast and sinuous seemed to billow out of the fog, something that made the hairs on the back on his neck stand on end in sheer terror. Whatever it was, he knew at a glance that it could kill them both.

They hurried on, getting closer and closer. They were less than fifty yards away now, dodging through the still ghosts. The bellow came again and then Ned noticed something else, one, no, two blue figures converging on them, obviously the spirits of Others.

He ran then, Jon at his side, straight for the Oathstone. There was a pair of ghostly figures standing on each side of the Oathstone, with a hand on its surface. One was unfamiliar to him, a tall man dressed in archaic armour with a glowing weapon that he couldn't quite see in his free hand. The other he knew. Lord Willam Dustin, his eyes glowing.

As he stepped up to the Oathstone the late Lord of Barrowtown turned his head to look at him. "Ned."

He didn't know what to say, but eventually he replied: "Willam. How are you here?"

His old friend laughed shortly. "How could I not be? Barrowtown is peril." The thing in the fog screamed again, far closer this time and his breath was white vapour again. "Ned! Step up, join us! Place your right hand on the Oathstone and tell them to sleep again! In the Old Tongue!"

He stepped up, holding the Fist in his left hand and placed his right hand on the Oathstone, which flared gold as he did so.

"Father!" Jon cried as he caught side of the Others approaching quickly now, not to mention the other thing. Ned snatched a hurried look over his shoulder and caught sight of something huge and with far too many teeth emerging from the fog.

He collected himself as the words clattered almost from nowhere into his head and then threw his head back and roared in the language of the First Men: "Hearken to me! HEARKEN TO ME! I am the Stark in Winterfell! I hold the Fist of Winter! Sleep until the day when your Oath will be fulfilled! SLEEP!"

There was a moment of crystalline singing silence as the fog seemed to freeze into place – and then a column of light seemed to erupt out of the Oathstone, up into the heavens above. The motionless figures shivered into life and then seemed to see Ned and the other figures by the Oathstone and all raised weapons to their lips and spoke words that Ned could not hear in an endless susurration, before bowing to them.

The figures of the Others seemed to be frozen in place, almost in mid-cower against the light, and the huge figure of the beast – and then a wind seemed to come from nowhere, a wind from the West. As it blew, the figures – all the ghostly figures, bar that of those who were touching the Oathstone, shimmered and then faded, taking with them the ghosts of the enemies of the people of Westeros. The fog faded, slowly at first, but them with growing speed and Ned could see that Willam and the other ghost were also fading.

"Willam… thank you. Are you really here?"

"An echo of me, Ned, just an echo. Tell Barbrey to live again will you? It saddens me to see her so bitter."

Ned nodded and then looked at the other man. "Are you an ancestor of Willam Dustin?"

The other man laughed, an echoing sound that started to fade as fast as he was. "Nay, I am an ancestor of yours." He smiled. "I built a lot of things." And with that he was gone and Ned and Jon stood together, just them alone, by the Oathstone, with the Sun on their faces and the wind tugging at their hair and their bloodied faces.