Sorry for the delay on this. September has been just as brutal as I thought it would be. I am exhausted mentally and the UK is, I suspect, about to go back into lockdown fairly soon. Urgh.

The next update should move things along more.

Jon Arryn

He stood there on the road that led to the Dragonpit and sighed for a moment as he caught his breath. He was mostly recovered but he could feel the Eyrie calling him. Home. He wanted to go home, to the halls of his ancestors, and organise the Vale to meet the coming storm. But he had too much to do first. That said, at least the ships were gone. One less thing to worry about.

Every time he saw Blackwater Bay he wondered where that little fleet of ships were now. Every time a raven message from the Vale or the North-Eastern parts of the Crownlands came he girded himself a little for bad news. But so far none had arrived. No word of smoke on the horizon, no word of a great flash and a noise like a thousand thunders.

Before he had left with the ships Ser Davos Seaworth had told him wryly that word had gone out about the fleet and that every pirate and SellSail out there would give the ships a very wide berth indeed. Apparently even Salladhor Saan had announced that anyone who tried to seize those ships for the wildfire was a lunatic. Strictly speaking the wildfire was priceless. Practically speaking anyone who tried to seize it was, indeed, a lunatic.

He would long remember the day that the little fleet had set sail. What seemed like half of King's Landing had been there at the docks to watch them leave, a huge crowd that had been strangely silent. Everyone wanted that wretched stuff gone. Oh and according to Quill the other half of the population of the city had been at the other end of the city, hiding in cellars. He still wasn't sure which group had been the wiser.

What he was sure about however, was that any residual loyalty to the Targaryens was now at a very low ebb – not even a warm ember. He'd had a very quiet and unofficial word with Lord Velaryon about this, who had told him that he'd heard – no names of course – that a few Houses with ties of affection and loyalty to the old royal family had recently pulled out certain banners and burnt them. He suspected who had done so and why. Well. Water under the bridge – and a few names to take a note of. Not that there was any chance of Daenerys Targaryen returning to King's Landing.

Her disappearance… concerned him. It was far better when she was in one place, where someone could keep an eye on her, especially after she had somehow hatched three bloody dragons. The moment that he had heard of that stupendous piece of news a chill had run through him and that chill was still there whenever he thought of those dragons. They were important, he knew that somehow.

Which was why, as he turned towards the Dragonpit and started walking again, he'd ordered that it be cleared of the rubble that had choked it since the Dance of the Dragons and the storming of the Dragonpit itself, not to mention the damage from the wildfire that had been used in it to incinerate the bodies of those who had died in the Great Spring Sickness. The dome was beyond repair but it had always irritated him that the place was disused. At the very least the stones that had fallen could be extracted and used to repair and rebuild other homes in the city.

He found Quill and, oddly enough, Pycelle at the main gates. There were also a number of guards who were watching over the workmen that were coming and going from the Dragonpit bearing stones, some blackened and others mis-shaped.

"Your message was highly enigmatic, Quill. Grand Maester, I did not know that you were here too?"

The old man harrumphed a little and then gestured at the dome. "My Lord, I was here to observe the work and look at the dome. A magnificent piece of architecture, although one that is somewhat desolate at the moment. Not to mention fragile in places. I felt that certain spots should be out of bounds, in case the arches were weakened by the removal of the rubble."

He nodded, conceding the point, before turning back to Quill, who had a peculiar look to his face.

"My Lord, we… we found a group of bodies on one of the upper areas. Not one of the areas covered in the ash from the bodies of the Great Spring Sickness, a higher area than that. Rubble from the roof had killed them all, and they were nothing but bones… but some were in armour. And one of them… well, you need to see this my Lord." And with that he led them into the building.

As they passed through the great, no, vast doors that had been sealed for so long Jon found himself shivering a little as they passed from the sunlight into the darkened interior. Yes, the shattered dome let in light but he had a feeling that it was more than the absence of direct sunlight that had made him shiver. Terrible things had happened in here. Creatures almost out of legend had lived in here – and had died, along with untold numbers of men and women.

And then Aerys Targaryen had come so close to killing the entire city, with a huge cache of wildfire buried in here. It was all gone now, he was sure of it, but he still shuddered a little at the thought of it. To think that he owed his life – and the lives of so many others including Ned and thousands of their men – to Jaime Lannister.

Aerys… he remembered the first time he had met the then young king, back when he was merely excitable and full of promise. So many ideas… that should have been the clue that all was not well with the man. Projects had come tumbling from his lips as he went from idea to idea, like a frog jumping from lilypad to lilypad, never returning to the same place. And then had come Duskendale. When the mirror had been shattered and Aerys had descended into madness, from which he had never returned. Had Robert's Rebellion been inevitable? What if Rhaegar had been able to go through with his plan to replace his father, as had been hinted at in the run-up to the Great Tourney at Harrenhall? No, more than hinted at. But instead Rhaegar had veered off into his own form of madness.

As they passed by a section of one ruined wall he glanced around again. The Targaryens had once held the Realm in the palm of their hands, creating marvels such as this, as it had been when first built centuries ago. And now they were reduced to one old man on the Wall and a vanished girl. It was a lesson that Kings needed to be taught. That Robert seemed to be finally learning.

There were guards around the section that Quill had guided them to. They nodded to him as they arrived and he looked at Quill, who gestured at a patch of rubble that seemed to be different. There were indeed bodies there, albeit skeletons, some in rags. But there was one in armour. Runed armour. He knew it at a glance, even though it was covered in dust and pieces of debris. That was the armour of a Royce of Runestone – which meant that this could only be one man. Ser Willam Royce.

"I thought," he said thickly, before coughing. "I thought that Ser Willam Royce died out there, in the city, when the Seven That Rode tried to retrieve Prince Joffrey Velaryon's body. How could he be in here?"

"There is a door over there that leads to the street, my Lord," Quill muttered, pointing to a rubble-choked passageway. "I think that he fought his way down here against the mob and then died here, along with as many of them as he could kill. And then afterwards, when the dome was cracked and fell in, the body was covered in rubble. My Lord… this was next to the body." And with that he pulled out a sword that had been hidden by a piece of rough tarpaulin.

He felt his scalp crawl as he looked at it. It was, he could tell at a glance, Valyrian steel. And there was a scabbard next to it that had a bronze sheath, green with age and covered in runes as well. "Lamentation," he whispered. "The sword of House Royce."

"So it would seem," Pycelle said in a thoughtful voice. "Most providential, given the current need for such swords. Well, my Lord, it would seem that Lord Royce will be most happy with this news."

Bronze bloody Yohn would probably turn the air blue around him as he greeted the sword of his ancestors with excitement – well, that was what he wanted to say but did not. But there was something else, as Quill seemed to be nervous about something. "Quill? What's wrong?"

The Valeman coughed slightly. "This, my Lord." And with that he took a small rag, dipped it into the bucket that Jon hadn't noticed to one side and then drew it across the armour of Ser Willam Royce. Jon frowned – and then blinked as he saw that the runes on the armour, or at least some of them, were glowing.

He stared. So did Pycelle. "Grand Maester," he said eventually, "I am well versed in my history and none of what I have ever read about the Seven Who Rode say anything about Ser Willam Royce's armour ever glowing."

Pycelle harrumphed for a moment, before starting to mutter something about certain types of phosphorescence in seawater… and then bumbling to a perplexed halt. "I do not know, my Lord," he confessed after a long moment. "It is… peculiar."

Quill raised an eyebrow at Jon and then scattered some more dirt over the armour. "A question for another time perhaps my Lord, Grand Maester." He looked down at the body in the armour, or rather the bones of the body. "We will take up his bones and his armour with all due respect for one of the Seven Who Rode."

They observed quietly as a litter was brought up and remains transferred onto it and then they walked back to the great gates, with Jon carrying Lamentation himself. There was no chance of him letting it out of his sight until it was sent on to Bronze Yohn, he owed the man at least that. And while he had no doubt whatsoever of the loyalty of the Lord of Runestone, it would never hurt to tie the Houses of Arryn and Royce further together with more debts of honour and obligation.

And it was there that they encountered a small party of horsemen, with a small carriage that was almost one of those newish gigs next to them. "My Lord," said one of the horsemen – and then as the man dismounted and formally bowed to him, he realised that it was Bronn Cassley and his breath caught for a moment in his chest as he realised why the man was here.

"Lord Cassley," he replied easily. "Welcome to Kings Landing again."

Bronn smiled easily. "Thank you my Lord. I-" He paused and seemed to notice the litter with the armour and the bones. "Ah. Interesting." He turned his attention back to Jon. "My apologies my Lord. If you are returning to the Red Keep perhaps we might accompany you? You too Grand Maester?"

Pycelle harrumphed quite a bit at that, but after Jon turned and looked at him the older man seemed – and how much of that was real? – to put two and two together before nodding. As they mounted their respective horses Jon raised an eyebrow at Bronn. There was a shorter guard to one side who had a shield strapped to his back and who seemed to be hovering near the Lord of the Foxhold. Jon squinted a bit. The guard had the look of old Jordy Cawlish and the shield was of an ancient design. There was something odd going on here.

He wanted to gallop to the Red Keep, but that would have told anyone around him that something was truly concerning him, so instead they trotted as he discussed the matters of the day with the former sellsword who was now a Lord in the Vale. Bronn chatted easily back to him, talking about the state of the road, the varied people who were heading North in answer to the Call and other matters. At no point did the words 'Do you have my murderous, treacherous, wife in that carriage?' leave Jon's lips.

The moment that the gates of the Red Keep clanged shut behind them and he could see the Tower of the Hand, he let out a sigh of relieved tension and dismounted. "Bronn, I take it that you have my wife with you?"

"Aye my Lord," Bronn said, walking over to the carriage. Oddly enough it was empty – but then Jon noticed that the underside of it was quite deep. Bronn pulled out a tool and levered a section open and then some of his men pulled out a very large wooden box – one big enough to contain a person. They laid it on the ground and then opened it. Inside the very deeply padded interior was the sleeping figure of Lysa.

His breath caught in his throat as he laid eyes on her. The last time he had seen her she had been trying to kill him. The months that had passed since then had not been kind to her. She was thinner than before, with lines on her face that he had never seen previously. And of course she was missing an arm. He stared at her for a long moment, warring emotions rippling through him. She was the mother to his only son. A son that she had poisoned for reasons that eluded him. To make him dependent on her? To bind him closer to her? She'd been breastfeeding him for far too long. How long had she been unsound in her mind and how had he missed it? How had he missed her connection with Baelish come to that? And she had tried to murder him in vengeance of the thief of the smallest of the Fingers.

"I take it that she is dosed with the milk of the poppy?" The words were harsh in his own ear, the strain all too evident. Bronn nodded.

"If I may, my Lord?" Pycelle said the words with a surprising gentleness. After receiving his nod the Maester inspected her, peeling back an eyelid briefly before examining the stump where her arm used to be. After a long moment he straightened up and nodded appraisingly. "Lord Cassley, your Maester is most skilled and please pass on my compliments to him. Her arm was removed very skilfully and her life saved." He looked at Jon. "She is well, my Lord."

"Well enough to stand trial?"

Pycelle pursed his lips for a moment as he considered the matter. "I would need to examine her when she was awake to provide you with a full, erm, evaluation my Lord. Given her… erm, earlier instabilities I cannot say at this time."

Jon stared down at his wife for a long moment before nodding wearily. "Quill?"

"My Lord?"

"She is to be taken to a secure room in the Red Keep. An internal room – no window or balcony. And she is to be guarded at all times. She will live to stand trial Quill."

The Valeman bowed. "It will be as you say my Lord."

Jon looked back at Bronn, who was standing with that guard with the archaic shield again. He tilted his head as he made the connection. "Ursula Cawlish I presume? Your father was a good man."

The woman, who had obviously bound her breasts in order to stay hidden in the party for some reason, nodded at him. "Lord Arryn, I thank you. We must speak privately though."

There was obviously an untold story here and he led them into the Tower of the Hand and then to the Solar there, where he sat down after placing Lamentation carefully to one side.

"Is that Lamentation my Lord?" Bronn asked quietly as Ursula Cawlish removed her cloak and helmet and then held the shield in her hands. "I saw the runed armour and the body."

"It is," Jon sighed as he thought about how he was going to send it to the North. "We recovered it earlier. And the armour… well, you should know that the runes glowed under all that dirt. Some of them anyway. It must be some magic of the First Men."

Bronn and his Steward exchanged a long, long look. There was definitely something going on between them, because they were still close to each other and there was a look in her eyes as she looked at the Lord of the Foxhold that spoke of strong emotions that were barely hidden, like a furnace that had been banked.

"You found it," Bronn said to her. "You tell him."

The women's cheeks went a little pink – and then she held the shield out. "Lord Arryn, the Cawlish's are descended partly from the Mudds. And this was in the crypt of the Foxhold. It's the Shield of the Riverlands."

Jon stared at the shield and then at them both in turn, before looking back at the shield. "The shield that Hoster Tully is tearing Oldstones apart to find? The shield of the First Men? Owned by the Mudd Kings? Truly?"

"My Lord," said Bronn hoarsely, "When Ursula picked it up – the bloody thing glowed like the Sun was in it."

He stared at the shield and then passed a slightly trembling hand over his face. He had the oddest feeling that he was witnessing history here, something important. Well now. He wondered what old Hoster would make of this. This and the fact that Lysa was back in the Red Keep, although he imagined that Hoster would send him a message that would sound more like something that the Blackfish would send, along the lines of "Kill her and be done with it."

He noted that Bronn and Ursula were looking at each other again, her with a challenging, almost sultry, look and he with a look of equal challenge. He would give good odds that there would be a marriage between them both in a matter of weeks if not days.

"Well, Bronn," he said at last as he leant back in his chair. "For you the word 'boring' is just something that happens to other people is it not?"