This is part two of Wolves And Mockingbirds, it won't make any sense if you've not read part one (Broken Chains) so please read that first and enjoy! :-)

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He ran, quick and desperate he charged through the darkness of the deep forest, leaves crackling under foot while twigs snapped, a ridiculous chorus sung by nature that only existed to scare and torment; so inscrutable. He ran. The June evening air bit at his cold pale skin, as though Jack Frost had a personal grievance with him, some nips almost as sharp as a blade gliding over his cheekbones, slashing them. The sandy-haired man continued to run, couldn't stop, wouldn't stop, the words played like a mantra in his head slowly tuning into a prayer or an oath, he didn't know and didn't particularly care, or maybe it was more that he didn't have the metal focus to care. Police behind him and escape before him, body panting and panicked, heart drumming in his chest. An owl hooted and green eyes darted up to it though they never actually saw the creature, too dark were the depths of the forest, just another part of nature's chorus.

He knew that if he didn't escape them soon he'd be caught, ripped away from freedom like a nightmare, his energy had dwindled after digging the grave, palms aching from the harsh wood grating against them even through his gloves. He couldn't go to jail after everything, what sort of a story ending would that be? Normally he was such a calm and collected man, so much so it bordered on ataraxy, but he'd grown too complacent and cocky until consequences had come knocking, their thuds on the proverbial door still echoed through his mind. He must have been spotted behind the seedy bar as he drug the cooling body away to his car, it was the only moment anyone could have witnessed him. It had been sloppy and beyond stupid. He ran, running was his only option in that moment, feet pounding against the wet soil and rotting leaves. The police followed, heavy stomps and flashlights that flickered a little too close for comfort and looked like a bad horror movie scene. He ran. They'd have found the car by now – of course they had, he'd been in it when they tailed him – but the middle-aged and sandy-haired man didn't have to worry about that, he'd worn thick leather gloves and the car had been stolen that morning; they'd get no evidence from it; a void of nothingness. At least they'd get no information unless they managed to catch him, which was not an option, never an option.

A stream cut through the forest not far from Dwellers Hollow, a thin little thing that was rather pathetic in the grand scheme of things, muddy and half buried under dead brown leaves and smoothed pebbles. He could lose the police and any snarling dogs that came later to track him. He ran. He ran and he kept running for his life, his freedom, his heart thudded in his chest beating in time with harsh pants that turned to mist before his face. There would never be any silver bracelets on his wrists. Water sloshed loudly as his feet stomped through the forlorn stream, flashlights continued to haunt him, their supernatural luminous tormenting him as he charged before clawing up a muddy mound that called itself a hill to escape into the night. Freedom!

~X~

When dawn finally graced the world with it's presence the rain decided to as well and not too soon later a grey sedan pulled up by the edge of the woods looking very out of place, Detective Inspector Oren Heyerdahl and his Detective Sergeant emerged from it along with the best Medical Examiner King's Landing had to offer; Jefferson Von Voltaire. They'd been put onto the Dwellers Hollow case a few hours ago calling all three out of their warm and peaceful beds, they'd just shook off the groggy grip of sleep and downed at least three cups of dark coffee each; black as night and sweet as sin.

Jefferson had almost instantly noticed four other fresh graves with bodies – all young women – buried only five to six feet down almost as though the murderer hasn't cared enough to dig deeper, a few moments later he noticed several patches of darker grass and felt a chill run down his spine almost like a snake slithering down a tree; there were more bodies, a lot more.

Heavy rain tumbled down in the style of a waterfall, angry and resentful with an almost waxy finish, the sort of rain that seemed wetter then wet and dripped off people's noses. Despite being day the sharp dark clouds kept Dwellers Hollow in a sort of constant twilight that could have easily become depressing had the Detectives, Medical team and CSIs not been too focused on the job at hand, water bounced off the white and blue pop up crime scene canopy almost deafeningly, a wrathful drumming. Murder wasn't unusual in King's Landing by any means, narcissists and bestial morons were everywhere, but the sight before them was certainly an anomaly; unique.

Thirty-five minutes later – when the air had grown almost icy – Doctor Von Voltaire had the ground penetrating radar he'd asked for which only revealed the horror of where they stood, Dwellers Hollow wasn't just a dump site, it was a graveyard, necropolis of forgotten souls. That chill Jefferson had felt before intensified. Radar had revealed at least forty more bodies each buried seven to eight feet down and all set out in neat rows; whoever had done this was organised and precise.

"Heyerdahl!" Doctor Von Voltaire called out from his place at the small screen, his rich voice echoing around the tiny Gothic-like glade. "You're going to want to see this."

In seconds DI Heyerdahl and Sergeant Larroquette were by his side almost as though they'd simply materialized, two sets of unique eyes peered at the screen before glancing up to the mass of damp yellow flags that littered the clearing; each one a life that had been taken.

"Shit!" Growled the Detective Inspector, shoulders tense and square.

"We've got ourselves a serial killer." Said Sebastian.

"Yeah, a really neat one. They're all set out in rows and at the same depth. Whoever your boys chased last night didn't kill these people, these fresher graves aren't as deep or in rows. That poor bastard stumbled on someone else's dumpsite."

"Which means there are two bastards out there." Oren continued to growl, it seemed to be a pre-requisite of being him. He glared at the Medical Examiner. "Voltaire, get 'em dug up and give me details so I can find these fuckers!"

It was rather glaringly obvious that Oren Heyerdahl wasn't a nice man – Detective Sparrow was probably the only person that liked him, so what did that say about the man? - he stood tall as an oak at six-foot-six with unnecessarily broad shoulders that left him built like a brick wall; a fact he liked to remind everyone about. Egotistical bastard. His mocha skin had aged poorly over his fifty-four years of life but he didn't seem to care, or maybe he'd just not noticed. Oren's hair had long since greyed and had always been cropped close to his head, a shame really since it could have been rather luxurious and full had it been longer. Ebony eyes enclosed by a thick black ring that had been hidden away within a constant frown of sharp lines and bushy eyebrows, yet another shame, those ebony eyes were the only part of him that could have been deemed handsome; beautiful even. A too large nose called his face home with one nostril smaller than the other, there was also a scar that ran over his left eyebrow slashing it and down his cheek somewhat, over many years it had faded but still the raised and discolored line remained over his cheek; no one dared ask him where it came from but as with all workplaces there were rumours, some dark while others were almost comical.

DI Heyerdahl's suits were expensive but ill-fitting from years of improper care and his ties only ever tightened up against his shirt collar when in court. The DI was just one of those people that others took an instant dislike to, an automatic response caused by his violent temper, superiority and his homophobic attitude. The homophobia was why he'd hated Sebastian and Jefferson at the start – still did in all honesty – in his mind couples shouldn't have been on cases together and certainly not gay couples, Oren thought they made the force look weak. King's Landing didn't particularly care that one of the force's Detective Sergeants was dating the head ME, Oren Heyerdahl however believed he wrote the law for everyone; the hubristic, imperious and supercilious bastard that he was . At first he'd tried to get Sergeant Larroquette moved to a different division – Vice had been his preferred option – and out of major crimes but after only a few weeks he'd been forced to give up and keep him, Sebastian was just too damn good at his job to get rid of.

Sebastian Larroquette however, was the total opposite to his boss, not only was the man accepting and highly intelligent but he was also very thoughtful and brave, though quite stoic upon first glance. Like Heyerdahl he was rather tall – though about an inch or so shorter than the ebony eyed DI – as well as far thinner, porcelain skin wrapped tightly around his toned muscular body and square shoulders; slender but strong. Despite having just turned forty-six the DS certainly didn't look it, in fact he appeared ten years younger, more maybe, he'd always been blessed with good skin and youth almost as though it were a consolation prize for his horrid upbringing. Larroquette's eyes were a grey-blue with a hint of red making them look like a drop of blood in a calm pond; they were Jefferson's favourite thing about his lover. His hair hung in jet black locks around his face similar to that of an Animé character, smooth to the touch and never out of place even after his morning jog; a trait the Medical Examiner envied. His left ear had been pierced as a teen but he'd long since stopped wearing the small silver earring, much to his boss' pleasure. His features were sharp and made him utterly beautiful, as though carved by the Gods – Sebastian believed his forehead to be too big though in reality it was just as perfectly proportioned as the rest of his face – the sort of man that could make any woman swoon without even trying, that didn't matter though because Jefferson was the only one Sebastian had eyes for, ever would. Long fingers lay at the end of his large hands coated in fine black hairs that vanished into his sleeves, slender fingers that often found themselves twisting pens around his ambidextrous hands, sometimes absent-mindedly, sometimes not. Larroquette had never been one for suit jackets – he found them restricting and cage-like – however, every one he owned was well cared for and fit perfectly, some were ridiculously flamboyant in patterns that few men could have pulled off. He may have hated suit jackets but there was no denying he adored waistcoats, he was never without one, each one beloved and cared for. Sebastian spoke with an accent far more subtle that his boss' thick northern one, it had been dulled after so many years in King's Landing but at the end of sentences it emerged and showed he'd clearly originated from the windy shit hole known as The Fingers. Sebastian often wore sibley reading glasses made of a silver-grey metal which only added to his beauty, they added a secondary layer of mystery to him but in reality Sebastian used them as a mask. Sebastian Tomoe Larroquette was a true Adonis, if he and Oren Heyerdahl stood side by side one looked angelic while the other appeared demonic; however just because Sebastian looked angelic didn't mean he truly was. So many idiots had ended up dead because they had gone ahead and judged the book by its cover, and most of those presumptuous simpletons had deserved it.

The last of their little trio was Doctor Jefferson Von Voltaire – commonly known simply as Voltaire – he wasn't only the best Medical Examiner in King's Landing but Sebastian's long time boyfriend, which gave him the perk of being one of only two people in all of creation allowed to call him Seb without getting punched in the throat, sometimes Sebby if Jefferson felt particularly brave.

Doctor Von Voltaire could only be described as kooky, he may have been the M.E but his personality was far from macabre or at least most of the time yet some of his jokes could be pretty morbid. N ormally he filled the role of happy-go-lucky, a man who constantly wore a sexy smile, a sparkle in his eyes and a skip in his step . He wasn't quite as muscular as Sebastian but his milky skin was just as toned and held far more strength than it seemed, he'd always been chubby in the face though which just provided him an innocent cuteness. Voltaire's hair had been styled in a messy quiff of dark auburn almost chestnut locks that made his eyes really pop, they were cerulean – the sort of eyes one could easily get lost in – with a bold black ring around the edge of his iris and a scattering of gold which just made them seem even deeper, almost like something out of a fairytale. There was a dinted scar on the right side of his upper lip from a fight years ago but it was far less noticeable that the one Oren wore; more a faded memory than anything else . He spoke with a posh accent, the sort that only came out of the Reach, he'd grown up on ly a stones throw from Highgarden; an investment banking firm that had made the Tyrell family practically the most wealthy in all of Westerose. Jefferson had talented fingers that always got to work quickly, his thumbs were spoon-shaped and perfectly manicured despite his occupation; he wasn't the sort of man to let what he wanted slip from his grasp . Normally Jefferson was seen in his uniform, white scrubs and thick boots as well as his long lab coat when in his office, but in reality Jefferson was more of the Victorian Gothic persuasion; the police had long ago gotten used to him showing up in his long Gothic burgundy colored frock coat rather than his assigned black polyester jacket with M.E written neatly across the back in large yellow letters. N o one really questioned it his oddness , instead they just referred to him as kooky like everyone else. Another ever present item was a simple silver bracelet on the inside of which had been engraved the words for my love , it had been a birthday gift from Seb when he'd turned thirty and he'd worn it ever since; at heart Jefferson was the sentimental sort.

In summary they were three very different men, Oren was cruel and full of his own self-importance, Sebastian, stoic and quite frankly a genius surround by adolescent morons and lastly was Jefferson, their Gothic joker. A strange little team and so the three of them made it work; they didn't have much choice.

~X~

It was either excruciatingly late or really early when the beautiful Tristan Baelish, a sweet four year old with a dark mop known as hair padded into the yacht bedroom of his parents; the heavy rain had probably woken him. C arefully he tried to clamber up onto the bed, hands fisting at the green duvet, but all he succeeded in doing was pulling the covers off his Father and waking the elder man. Grey- green eyes fluttered open and glanced down to the small boy stood by his bed, he didn't say a word just picked up the child and pulled him up onto the bed with ease before settling Tristan between himself and a still sleeping Sansa. It took the four-year old only a few seconds to slip back off into slumber and dreams of dragons after Sansa instinctively tucked her arm around him pulling their son closer to her chest. It was the perfect image of family; Petyr had Sansa, two beautiful children, Tristan and Poppy, a protective dog and the most powerful company in all of Westeros. Being CEO of Lion and Stag Enterprises pretty much made him a King in the modern world, especially after he'd brought Iron Isle Shipping into the fold. Theon had been his in for their company but Yara Greyjoy was the one with the business mind, she would make that company into something to be proud of now that their Father and Uncle were gone. It also gave him another angle at Daenerys Targaryen's thriving company other than her right hand man Tyrion Lannister who'd gone rather silent since he'd crossed the Narrow Sea after Tywin's death.

The Mockingbird club continued to thrive rather substantial ly as Petyr always knew it would, rich people would always want pretty young things to fuck without questions. However, none of that was important as he lay there with Sansa and the eldest of his children cuddled to his side aboard their yacht, the gentle swaying and sound of rain splattering against the hull soothing them back of to sleep.

Sansa's strength had grown to new heights over the last three years – almost four – and he'd even taught her about what being a Vice President meant, his girl was a quick study and had gotten the hang o f t hings, her clever mind stored everything he taught her away for later . Often Petyr would have to help her but she'd gathered the bravery and knowledge to contribute to meetings on more than one occasion showing she was far more than her age suggested or Petyr's trophy wife . There were times though where her courage failed her and Petyr would have to help; always her hero to the rescue.

Still, none of it mattered, he was at peace sleeping beside his wife, that was when he forgot who he was and what he'd done, everything would just stop and he'd descend into a fairytale like sleep; until a disconcerting chill ran up his spine. At first he'd thought it was the sway of his luxury yacht on the water but he couldn't fool himself into believing it was that for more than a second.

This wasn't going to be good... he could tell.