DISCLAIMER: I OWN NOTHING

A/N. If you have any suggestions please be free to review.

The fucking piece of shit he was in at least made good stew. Or not. He didn't fucking know. He hadn't eaten stew before.

Since he had come in this piss poor copy of Europe everything went to shit. Here he was coming back from a protection job and someone suddenly crashed into him. Whether it was on purpose, a hit or something, or an accident, he didn't know.

Everyone called him Lucky 13 because he always found himself in bad situations and somehow got out of them unscathed. Though no one surrounding him ever did get unscathed.

The inn at the crossroads, they called it. Very unoriginal compared to every other name he heard here. The country's name was Westeros for fuck's sake. It seemed like something that Tolkien write, he didn't fucking know. He hadn't read any fantasy books since fifth grade.

Stanks, Baracks, Lannys, etc. were apparently ruling this whole shebang. It was horrible if the roads were anything to go by. He had capped some bandits who thought they could go three on one with Frank Glass. He didn't mind as he found some sort of currency.

He had gotten a good table near the kitchen all alone in this crowded inn. Until a fucking singer came along and ruined for him.

"Seven blessings to you," the singer greeted. What the fuck was that?

"Yeah, you too," Frank replied.

"Where do you plan to go, my friend?" the singer asked.

Frank eyed him dangerously before replying, "Firstly, I'm no friend of yours. Secondly, it's none of your business."

"Easy there, just wanted to make conversation," the singer said raising his hands.

They were silent before Frank decided to talk, "Why do we ask each other questions to make each other more comfortable?"

The singer stared at him before replying, "To feel more safe? I don't feel as safe as I would if I knew where you were from."

Frank nodded in agreement, "Then ask away."

"Where are you from?"

"A village nearby."

"Who are you?"

"Name's Steve."

"Where do plan to go?"

"To the city."

"What news do you have?"

"That everything that I just said was bullshit," Frank answered while the singer looked at him with a dumbfounded expression, "See that's what I'm telling you. I lied everytime, but I could sense that you felt safer. That's what the people governing us do, they tell us we're safe when we're really not."

"But why?"

"To make us feel safer. They don't want panic. Panic makes people angry. Angry people make revolutions. Revolutions make new rulers. Which they don't want obviously," Frank replied, "So where you're going, singer?"

"King's Landing," the singer answered. So that's the capital, Frank thought, might be I join this sucker. "The Hand's tourney means rich lords with fat purses. The last time I came away with more silver than I could carry . . . or would have, if I hadn't lost it all betting on the Kingslayer to win the day."

"Never gamble."

"Why?" the singer asked. "Because of the gods?"

"Because the house always wins," Frank said as a large old man with whiskers came to sit alongside a woman with ginger hair. Couldn't a man eat his meal without someone fucking joining him?

The singer asked where they were going, and from whence they had come, and what news they had, letting the questions fly as quick as arrows and never pausing for an answer. They said they were grandfather and granddaugher, but he didn't believe that at all. They were pretty shit liars. The singer however didn't seem to notice as he told them of where he was going himself.

"The gods frown on the gambler," the old man said sternly. Gods? Are they like pagan or some shit?

"They frowned on me, for certain," the singer said. "Your cruel gods and the Knight of Flowers altogether did me in. "

"No doubt that was a lesson for you," the old man said.

"It was. This time my coin will champion Ser Loras."

A waiter came by and served them bread and filled them with chunks of browned meat off a skewer, dripping with hot juice. Another skewer held tiny onions, fire peppers, and fat mushrooms.

"Bring me some beer, will ya?" Frank told the waiter and the old man asked for beer as well.

"My name is Marillion," the singer said, plucking a string on his woodharp. "Doubtless you've heard me play somewhere?"

Was he some big singer here or was he believing in his own hype?

"I fear not," the ginger woman said.

"That is your loss," he said. "Who was the finest singer you've ever heard?"

"Alia of Braavos," Whiskers answered at once.

"Elvis Presley," Frank answered and almost cursed himself for saying that. The people on the table were eyeing him curiously. Although they had before with his clothing. Guess no one had ever seen a lumberjack shirt.

"Can't say I ever heard of this Elvis Prisley," Marillion replied, "But what I do know is I'm much better than that old stick. If you have the silver for a song, I'll gladly show you."

"Liking something is always subjective," Frank responded. "Someone might find you better than him and someone might find you worse than him. No one has the same opinion."

"Well, everyone has the same opinion about me. They all think that I'm great," Marillion said.

"Lord Tully is fond of song, I hear. No doubt you've been to Riverrun," Ginger said. Alright! Information! So Lord Tully is Lord of Riverrun...

"A hundred times," the singer said airily. "They keep a chamber for me, and the young lord is like a brother. "

"And Winterfell?" she asked him. "Have you traveled north?"

"Why would I?' Marillion asked. "It's all blizzards and bearskins up there, and the Starks know no music but the howling of wolves." The Starks are the Lords of Winterfell. Frank heard some knocking on the door, but ignored it.

"Innkeep," a man's voice called out behind him, "we have horses that want stabling, and my lord of Lannister requires a room and a hot bath. "

Weren't the Lannisters the Lords of Casterly Rock? Either I'm extremely lucky or extremely unlucky.

"Oh, gods," Whiskers said. Don't tell me… the Lannisters are a mafia shtick.

The inkeep bowed, "I'm sorry, m'lord, truly, we're full up, every room."

There were four of them. A man clad in black, two servants and a short man...a very short man. "My men will steep in your stable, and as for myself, well, I do not require a large room, as you can plainly see." the short man flashed a mocking grin. "So long as the fire's warm and the straw reasonably free of fleas, I am a happy man."

"M'lord, there's nothing, it's the tourney, there's no help for it, oh..." the inkeep said, but Lord Lannister pulled a golden coin from his purse and flicked it up over his head, caught it, tossed it again.

"You can have my room," Frank said. He didn't plan on staying long maybe he could get some work in the capital and copy an invention.

"Now there's a clever man," Lannister said as he sent the coin spinning across the room and he caught it, "And a nimble one to boot. " The dwarf turned back to the inkeep "You will be able to manage food, I trust?"

"Anything you like, m'lord, anything at all," the innkeep promised.

Lannister glanced at the nearest tables. "My men will have whatever you're serving these people. Double portions, we've had a long hard ride. I'll take a roast fowl—chicken, duck, pigeon, it makes no matter. And send up a flagon of your best wine. Yoren, will you sup with me?"

"Aye, m'lord, I will," Yoren replied.

"My lord of Lannister!" Marillion stood up. "I would be pleased to entertain you while you eat. Let me sing you the lay of your father's great victory at King's Landing!"

"Nothing would be more likely to ruin my supper," Lannister said dryly. His mismatched eyes considered the singer briefly, started to move away . . . and found Ginger. He looked at her for a moment, puzzled. Lannister smiled. "Lady Stark, what an unexpected pleasure," he said. "I was sorry to miss you at Winterfell. "

Holy shit! Two fucking highborn in one day, am I on a quest or something? Frank kept his face in check while Marillion looked like a fish.

"Lady . . . Stark?" the inkeep said thickly.

"I was still Catelyn Tully the last time I bedded here," she told the innkeep. Shit, doubly highborn. "You in the corner," she said to an older man. "Is that the black bat of Harrenhal I see embroidered on your surcoat, ser?"

The man got to his feet. "It is, my lady. "

"And is Lady Whent a true and honest friend to my father, Lord Hoster Tully of Riverrun?"

"She is," the man replied stoutly.

When Frank saw Whiskers loosening his sword from its scabbard, he got his Glock 19 out. Lannister was confused and he was too to be honest.

"The red stallion was ever a welcome sight in Riverrun," she said to the trio by the fire. "My father counts Jonos Bracken among his oldest and most loyal bannermen."

The three men-at-arms exchanged uncertain looks. "Our lord is honored by his trust," one of them said hesitantly.

"I envy your father all these fine friends," Lannister quipped, "but I do not quite see the purpose of this, Lady Stark."

She then looked at two dozen men who were dressed in blue and grey, "I know your sigil as well: the twin towers of Frey. How fares your good lord, sers?"

Their captain rose. "Lord Walder is well, my lady. He plans to take a new wife on his ninetieth name day, and has asked your lord father to honor the wedding with his presence."

That old man is awesome or a fucking creep… in this world he believed it was the latter.

Lannister sniggered. That was when Catelyn knew he was hers. "This man came a guest into my house, and there conspired to murder my son, a boy of seven," she proclaimed to the room at large, pointing. Whiskers moved to her side, his sword in hand. That was all it took for Frank to get up. "In the name of King Robert and the good lords you serve, I call upon you to seize him and help me return him to Winterfell to await the king's justice."

The face of the Lannister when Frank pointed his gun to the Lannister's head was worth all the trouble that would undoubtedly come.