This mini-story came to me yesterday as a potential way events could go after Sunday's episode 'The Door'. It had a lot of great material that I'm sure will have a lot of impact on upcoming events. This two-shot is what I think could happen as from next week. This is the first chapter, and I should have the second one soon.

Disclaimer: Obviously, I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire, nor do I claim to with this story.

The bitter wind whistled around their heads as they ran to their docks, whipping Theon's newly shortened curls around his face as they raced. Though no-one had said anything, they knew they were running for their lives. No-one escaped the wrath or whim of Euron Greyjoy. Theon knew little of his prodigal uncle, but he knew that when insulted, Euron barely had to lift a finger to ensure the man who had done so would never see another dawn.

And Theon had done more than insult him. He had humiliated him in front of the whole kingsmoot, and proceeded to propose that his sister - a mere woman - should take the throne in his stead.

Yara barked out orders to her men as they reached the harbour. There were about sixty ships in total, and the men who had decided to follow Yara and her brother numbered around two hundred, plus a couple of crew members on each ship, who had remained to make sure nobody sabotaged the fleet, for kingsmoots had been known to go down in flames before. That was about five men per ship, Theon calculated. Doable, but risky. They would have to work twice their normal speed to ready the vessels, and even once they were ready, getting out of the harbour would be a tricky business. No challenge for any ironborn worthy of the name, but sixty ships of various sizes all rushing to leave at the same time through the same rocky straights were another matter entirely.

Theon followed his sister as she sprinted up a ship - her flagship, the one Balon Greyjoy himself had commanded in his time - and immediately threw himself on the ropes, needing no prompt to tell him his task. Even as a young lad, before the Starks, he had done this a hundred times, preparing a vessel to enter the hungry waves of the mother sea. His hands flew, and his movement were assured in a way that his mind absently but distinctly noted despite the fear that was creeping up his spine no matter how much he tried to focus on the job at hand. Luckily, his hands did not seem to pay his terror much heed. Theon had never imagined the gestures would come back so easily. He hadn't even done this on his last trip to Pyke, too proud to be a lord and friend of the King in the North to lower himself to a sailor's task.

But now he was more Reek than the man he had been then, and even though Theon had returned somewhat, Reek would always be a part of him, just like the parts Ramsay had cut off would not.

A while later - he had no way of knowing if it had been ten minutes or sixty - Yara gave out a bellowing yell that ordered the men to follow her ship immediately or they would get thrown overboard. Considering the immediate circumstances, Theon doubted she would follow through with the threat since she was so short of men, but Yara Greyjoy was known to be capable of being just ruthless as the sea that crashed onto the rocks of Pyke, crushing and washing away any resistance to her will.

But as usual now, Theon kept his mouth shut. He found another coil of rope that was supposed to be looped around the rigging, and busied himself with the task. He could feel Yara's eyes on the back of his head as he worked, but he determinedly kept his gaze down. If she was angry with him for failing to get enough support for her to be queen of the Iron Islands, he would deal with that later. They both knew this really wasn't the time.

After the first half of the ships had squeezed through the straights safely - the others would either follow or get wrecked against the cliffs - there was a storm coming up - Theon recognised his sister's step approaching him as he worked on tightening one of the sails.

"Theon," she said, her voice surprisingly clear in spite of the wind that had doubled in force.

He turned around, and after a moment's hesitation looked her in the eye. Her face was unreadable, her eyes as flinty as usual, and there was the tautness of urgency that bordered on fear in the way her features were set, but she appeared otherwise calm.

Her eyes held his, and after a few seconds she said "Thank you."

Then her lips cracked into the smallest smile Theon had ever seen.

"Little brother."

Then she turned away and sprinted up the stairs to the ship's upper deck, leaving Theon along with the other busy sailors, who snapped at Theon to get a move on, you lazy bastard. Theon jumped and did as he was told, no longer even bothered that the men of the Iron Islands didn't care that he was Balon's son. He had renounced his claim to the throne, proclaimed his loyalty to Yara, and Yara had lost the kingsmoot. As far as respect went, Theon was fairly sure he had as much of it going for him as Euron had affection.

Little brother...

No matter how much or how long he kept his hands busy, that phrase would not stop coming back to Theon. His hands were cracked and bleeding, and still he twisted the ropes and re-fastened the rigging, still the words kept returning.

Robb had been like a brother to Theon. So had the others. Even little Bran and his naive innocence, and Rickon with his furry playmate that refused to leave his side after that day - so long ago now - when Eddard Stark had passed the death sentence on that deserter of the Wall. Sansa was family in much the same way as well now, of course. She had suffered at Ramsay's hands almost as much as he had, and they had escaped from him together, which meant they were linked in ways nobody could possibly understand.

With a jolt, Theon realised that she must have reached the Wall by now. A few days ago, at least. Had she found Jon? Were they both well? Had that knight-lady resisted the urge to drag her to a cave that was cut off from mankind but perfectly safe?

Looking over his shoulder, Theon could spot the fading sight of his homeland as they sailed away from them, and away from the storm. The scene was so grey and dreary that for a moment he was sure Ramsay had finally managed to damage his vision as well, until a gull flapped into his line of sight, its yellow beak the only spot of colour in that land of saltwater, rock and iron.

This was another turning point in his life, he knew. He had felt the same when he had pledged his loyalty to Robb, and again when he burned the message supposed to warn him of Balon's raiding plans.

The guilt twisted its iron hand around his stomach, painful in its intensity but familiar in its presence. If there could be a way of going back, of snatching the note out of the old Theon's hand before he burned it, of strangling the idiot if necessary, just as long as Robb could have been warned.

If only, if only...

Yara was right. Balon, too. Even Euron. Theon had gone soft in his time with the Starks. Those words were the saddest and most pointless in the entire Common Tongue. Not to mention practically inexistent in ironborn semantics.

And yet... An idea brushed his mind, almost too lightly for it to make sense yet. It wasn't even an idea really, just a thought that occurred to him. If Sansa had reached the Wall, and if Jon was still Lord Commander there...

In a split-second, Theon made up his mind. Hesitation had taught him lessons neither his mind nor his body would forget. He opened the latch of the lower deck and lowered himself inside, ducking his head under just as the first drops of rain hit his face.

He had a raven to send.

0o0o0o0o0o0

This city smells of blood and shit and dragon dung, Tyrion decided, leaning against the red bricks of Queen Daenerys' balcony as the sun beat down on the nape of his neck despite the wispy covering his hair provided. No wonder everyone keeps wanting to rule it.

Tyrion scratched at his head, and then at his beard. He actually had no idea why he'd decided to grow the damn thing, in this climate of all things. The beard kept his face too warm, his food got caught in it at every meal, and for some reason the combination of heat and curly hair made it scratchier than his skull had been when he'd contracted lice as a boy. When he finished satisfying the itching, his hand came away sweaty. Not that that was new, either. His palms here were always damp, unless they were constantly pressed against something cold like the goblet he was holding. It made writing horribly difficult, since the pens here were not made of feathers but wooden styluses, which absorbed the moisture from his hands and went soft as a result, clotting the ink and smudging what he had already written.

Tyrion sipped at his goblet, found it empty, and grimaced. There went another cup of the sour Meereenese wine these people kept producing. Tyrion had taken to drinking it despite its acrid flavour and bitter aftertaste, in the hopes that maybe it would help to wean him off the good stuff.

Of course, no-one knew of this recent habit. No-one had noticed, except Varys. Always Varys. Tyrion had long since ceased to be surprised at what the eunuch's deceptively made-up eyes and delicately cleaned ears could see and hear. No doubt his nose played a part in it too, Tyrion thought. At least he still has one. And this stuff is vile enough to smell.

There was a soft noise behind him, followed by some quiet exchange of words, and he turned to see who it was. The ex-slave girl Missandei had entered the room, followed by a small servant girl who was carrying a pile of linen cloths. Tyrion accidentally made eye contact with her, and tried to smile awkwardly, but the girl's eyes widened and she let out a soft squeak, ducking her head and scurrying after Missandei as she talked to the girl in Meereenese. Presumably she was explaining the purpose of the linen cloths, for the girl nodded meekly and held the pile up high for Missandei to take her pick when she finished speaking.

Tyrion went back inside the room and watched as the two conversed. The air was cooler in the stone building, but the sun still streamed in from two sides of the room - the disadvantage of having mostly windows instead of walls, he supposed - and he wasn't surprised to see that the queen's interpreter was treating the girl as kindly as if she were her younger sister. Of course, he himself would not know what a kind older sister sounded like, but he had an idea it would be something along the lines of not ignoring them or speaking to them as though they had killed their family.

Which, he supposed as an afterthought, he had, actually. Both his parents. Shame it didn't run in the family, really. Else Joffrey would've rid the world of his mother long ago.

The two girls began hanging the cloths around the window that was letting in the most sun, except he cloths turned out to be more like long, airy curtains that let the light in but shut off the worst of the heat. Missandei, being the tallest, fastened it every few inches with little leather cords she pulled from her pocket, while the little girl arranged the curtains at her feet, smoothing the drapes until the whole scene looked like a painting.

Missandei stepped down from the stool she'd been standing on and stood back to admire the result. She thanked the girl - Tyrion understood that much - who scurried out the way she came, apparently unable to resist casting Tyrion another wary but curious look as she went. He winked at her, and she squeaked again, but smiled shyly and exited the room.

Tyrion turned to Missandei, who was now arranging pretty seashells on the little table in the middle of the room.

"Clever," he said, gesturing at the curtains. "I wonder why no-one else had the idea before."

"It is for you," Missandei said, her face as impassive as ever. "You do not feel comfortable in this heat."

"I'm touched," he answered, sipping his wine and suppressing a grimace. "I never knew you cared."

"I do not. Much." she admitted, looking up from her shells and meeting his eyes. She had pretty eyes. Tyrion could definitely understand why Grey Worm liked her.

Tyrion put a hand to his chest. "Now I'm wounded," he said in a tone that matched. "I thought, after all we've been through together-"

"Oh, save your jokes for those who understand them," said a familiar effeminate voice.

Varys sauntered into the room, sashaying his bright purple robes around, then addressed Missandei.

"No offense to you of course, my dear." He simpered, "I was referring to the fact that only he sees his mock-acting skills to be worthy of smiles. And thank you for the curtains. They look just as I imagined."

"Missandei wounds me, but you kill me," Tyrion remarked as the girl nodded and exited the room. He sipped his wine again.

Varys looked at him. "And there I just went to all the trouble of making you more comfortable in this weather," the human spider replied in a bored voice. "Don't you like the curtains?"

"I do," Tyrion answered. "But I would like them better if they were scorched and tattered by dragon fire, for it would mean our queen is back."

"Wouldn't we all," Varys murmured, staring into the distance.

Tyrion watched him suspiciously. He had come to know the Spider somewhat in their travels together. Not well, no. But enough to recognise when the eunuch had something to say but would not volunteer the information himself. It was his usual tactic of making his conversing partners uncomfortable enough to say something, usually something revealing or completely pointless, which Varys would of course interpret as significant and proceed to explain how. The worst bit was, he was usually right about it, too.

"What is it?" Tyrion finally asked, setting his goblet down next to Missandei's pattern of seashells. He could practically feel his insides curling as the acidic wine eroded its way through his system.

"What is what?" Varys asked calmly, still staring out of the window, his gaze lost among the points of Meereen's other pyramids.

"Whatever it is that you came to tell me."

"My dear fellow, do you imagine that I seek out your company simply as a recipient for my humble words? You do yourself little credit." the eunuch said with a smile, meeting Tyrion's gaze at last.

Tyrion was losing patience. Heat tended to do that to his temperament.

"I know you like your games, Varys. I like mine, too." he said shortly. "How about we play a new one called Spit It Out?"

Varys looked mildly shocked.

"Oh, no." he said. "That sounds quite unsophisticated. No, I think I'll tell it to you instead."

Tyrion held his tongue and kept his arms firmly crossed. This was not the time to lose face, he told himself. The Spider was perfectly capable of leaving him hanging for a while longer if he did the wrong thing. That was one thing Tyrion didn't like about being around Varys: he made you feel like an equal, a child and an old man - emphasis on the man - at once.

"Our queen will not be riding back to Meereen on her dragon," the eunuch said clearly, clasping his manicured hands around a slightly raised knee. "She will be riding back on a horse."

Tyrion raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"Mormont and that Naharis captain are returning her, then? That is good-"

"Along with a few tens of thousand Dothraki and of all their mounts, I should add."

Tyrion fell short. He opened his mouth, then closed it again.

"She's married another khal?" he hazarded after a moment.

Varys looked amused.

"No. The Dosh Khaleen never would have allowed it. She has, however, assassinated the leading khals of the day - well, until recently anyway - and proceeded to take all their combined khalasars for herself. I dare say the Dosh Khaleen wouldn't have condoned those actions either, but I doubt they were consulted in the matter." he finished dryly.

Tyrion stared at the eunuch's chubby, hairless, smiling face. Varys seemed to know exactly what was going on in his mind.

"But..." Tyrion spluttered with eloquence, "In all the history of Essos, that has never-"

"In all the history of the world, it has never known the blood of Valyria to marry into the horse people, nor for anyone to free not one but all the ancient slave cities, nor a human girl to hatch and raise three dragons virtually on her own." Varys gave Tyrion a berating look. "Daenerys Targaryen has done all of those things, and she has not yet reached her twentieth name day. I think it is high time we start believing she is capable of far more than what she appears. Far more even than conquering Westeros, perhaps."

Varys was still looking at him smilingly, and Tyrion struggled to hold his gaze as his own mind raced. This was extraordinary and incredible news, in the literal sense. Daenerys Targaryen, khaleesi of not one but many khalasars, Mother of Dragons and rightful queen of Westeros. This was the kind of thing Tyrion usually wished would happen in his dreams, let alone reality.

He glanced at Varys, whose disturbingly lasting expression of amusement was starting to look like something else: the look of someone who knew something he did not. That was always a given with the Spider of King's Landing, but in this particular instant Tyrion was sure that he was holding something back that affected him directly.

"What?" he said again, pressing his tone. "Has my dear sister died too? How many pieces of good news have you got for me?"

Varys smiled.

"At your drunken request back in Volantis, I have been placing and keeping tabs on your lady wife, Sansa Stark."

Tyrion let the surprise show on his face, then grabbed his goblet again. He was going to need wine for this, he could sense it.

"How is she faring?" he asked in as posed a tone as possible. "I gather Tommen has not been torturing her as well?"

"King Tommen Baratheon is a sweet boy, if a little dull around the edges." Varys intoned in a bored voice, "But yes, she is quite safe. At least, she is now. You see, Littlefinger took her away to the Vale, and then married her off to Ramsay Bolton."

Tyrion spat out his drink.

"Ramsay Snow?! You call that safe?"

He'd heard stories of the boy when he was in the North. Whores liked to talk, especially when rich lords were involved, no matter how cruel. Some stories even made Joffrey seem only slightly temperamental in comparison.

"He's a Bolton, now. I'd forgotten how out of touch you were with the world." Varys said, smoothing the robes on his lap. "Yes, she married him - and was the worse for it, I'm afraid, though she managed to escape Winterfell with one of her fellow captives and has found both protection and loyalty in a woman who served her late mother. She is now at the Wall, with Jon Snow."

"Her half-brother," Tyrion said, nodding as he started pacing the stone floor and Varys watched in silence.

He supposed his own murder of his father and his young wife's own maidenhead had effectively annulled their marriage, though he was surprised at Littlefinger's choice of Ramsay Bolton as a new suitor. He'd snuck her out of King's Landing just to hand her to the other people who had slaughtered her family? There had to be a reasoning behind that - this was Littlefinger, after all - but at the moment Tyrion was preoccupied with what had befallen the shy, pretty, dutiful lamb of a girl their fellow court-goers had referred to as his wife.

"At the Wall, you say?" he asked Varys, his mind racing again.

Varys nodded.

Meereen was in a tricky and dangerous place, that much was obvious if the daily murders were anything to go by. The Meereenese wanted Daenerys out of the city - or at least, the slavers in the other cities did. Perhaps the best option was to get her out of the city - out of Essos, even.

"I think it is high time I send my former lady wife a letter. Communication makes relationships work so much better, don't you think?"

I've never written anything ASOIAF before, so feel free to criticise. I know I haven't included much vulgarity, but that's partly because of my own writing style and partly because I want a younger audience to read it as well. Thanks for reading!