Kyle Renquist

Perfect evening. People in L.A. were so used to beauty, whether it was the top shelf ladies who emigrated here and were perpetually forced to remain in perfect shape and looking their absolute best due to the competitive environment of being in hot-chick Mecca, or the scenic perfection of the mountains touching the ocean, or the weather which while not quite as good as San Diego, was pretty close to ideal, or a myriad of other wonders; but the effeminate, self-absorbed, self-important shitstains living here would never think to look up, turn off their petty fucking lives for a moment, and just admire the clearly visible moon. Even some stars were starting to become visible at this point, an even greater tragedy when one realizes how few nights that you could see the stars clearly in L.A., but fuck 'em, narcissistic waiters waiting to be movie stars weren't worth worrying about. That went double for this Madigan asshole that was his current mark.

Daniel Madigan, born 1981, raised in one of the less-than-upscale sections of New York, and apparently one of those dickheads who figured he'd watched enough movies that he figured he knew how to make 'em better than the pros…and maybe he was the rare instance where he might have a point. Madigan Studios was on the small-midsized end and had produced some real winners, though these winners always seemed to fall into two buckets; action movies with likable characters who wind up with happy endings, or interesting but horrific asshole protagonists who get their bloody comeuppance at the end. With the former, they're typical Frank Capra style sugary goo with modern sensibilities, with the latter, good ol' brutal bloodfests where everyone's bad, and everyone dies horribly. Being in the same age demographic as Madigan, Kyle understood the appeal of the second; a newly-minted teenager catching 'The Usual Suspects' or various Tarantino flicks would grow up a cynical prick. Perhaps the one thing Kyle had in common with this East Coast import. But there was one key difference between the two men. Well, there were lots of differences, but one related to movies; Kyle had loved the Jack Slater films, and while Madigan claimed to love them as well, even referring to himself as Jack Slater's biggest fan, what he had done to end the series was unforgivable. This fucking New York assbag had made a few hits, made a fair bit of money, and bought the rights to the series. Probably got a good deal, Schwarzenegger was just finishing off his stint as Governor and decades past his prime, the Slater series was long done, yet Madigan spent every penny he had to get the rights to it, hire on a very reluctant Govanator, and even got the Billy Madison chick to reprise her role as the daughter, marrying her off to a character played by himself, friggin' egomaniac, and giving Slater the sappiest fucking ride off into the sunset happy ending ever. No introducing previously unknown relatives for sacrificial motivation, no major injuries, no destruction of any of Slater's property, just a bullshit reconciliation with his estranged ex-wife, a dream wedding of his daughter with a noticeably younger Dan Madigan…he didn't even change his fucking name, the character was named Dan Madigan…and a goddamned dream sequence where his murdered son is happily in heaven telling him he loves him and will see him again someday. Fucking bullshit fangirl nonsense! It had everything short of a predominantly female audience 'woooing' every ten seconds. Kyle had grown up with Slater, Jack Slater had been his hero, and Madigan sodomized him. Kyle was a thief by profession, but this target was more personal than financial. Frankly, Kyle wasn't expecting that significant of a payday, but it would feel good to stick it to this blond prick.

Madigan typically had two schedules for when he got home at night, either on time for an eight-o-clock dinner with his wife, or he worked until midnight. Kyle looked at his phone, noted the white 8:07 against the black background, and resigned himself to a long night. He reached for the phone and thumb-printed it to life, looking through his apps and opened one of the two he had installed just as he was leaving his house, probably the thousandth time he'd installed Kik to his phone, whereas the GPS spoofing app was a new discovery. No need to open the GPS spoof until he knew Becca was free. Logging on to Kik, he shot a message to the 23-year-old aspiring actress who, if what she said yesterday still held true, had the night off from the restaurant she worked at. As expected a response came back from Becca, the unsatisfied waitress, one inundated with gay-ass emojis, but the message was clear; game-on. With the next few hours accounted for, Kyle opened the GPS spoof app, zeroed into the alley he was parked in at that moment, and activated it. An unfortunate necessity that came about last year when his son had not been at a friend's house as Kyle and his wife were told he'd be, and in response to that situation Kyle's wife Moira had installed Life360 on all their phones so that they could track their son…and each other apparently. So, this spoof app, which billed itself as a way to mess with friends or cheat at Pokemon Go, but come on, really, come on, was now needed to let his wife believe he was really in the alley two blocks from Madigan Studios. Moira was aware of and completely fine with Kyle's illegal activities, but banging another woman, yeah, she wouldn't be fine with that.

As a precaution, Kyle opened his Life360 app to track himself and make sure he didn't move on the screen before pulling out and heading to Becca's shitty studio apartment four miles away. Sure enough, if Moira wanted to check up on him, she'd see his unmoving beacon down the road from the target that he'd made her aware of, and not pulling to a stop in front of a rundown factory converted to apartment dwelling where a girl fifteen years his junior was going to ride him for the next three hours. He just needed to make sure he uninstalled both apps when he returned to his stake-out spot later. There was no reason for a person with a working cell phone possessing texting capabilities to have Kik, unless they were married, in which case they did have a reason, and that reason was to communicate with the person you were cheating on your spouse with. And as for the GPS spoof app, yeah, come on.

Kyle trotted up to the door and pushed the button for Becca's apartment, such a ridiculous name, but tweaked 'unique' names like these were so common in Los Angeles that he barely even rolled his eyes anymore. And given that she was hot, well, a goofy name was easy to overlook. And she was hot, even by L.A. standards she was still an eight. Back home in Lisle...it was Lisle, right? Yeah, back home in Lisle, Illinois, she would have been the hottest girl in her high school, and probably that community college as well, a clear 9.5-10 by midwestern standards, but in the city of hot ass angels, she was bumped down to an eight, but still a solid eight, and Kyle, who was reasonably handsome and in shape, but nothing special, a solid eight was a fantastic way to spend three hours, even if it meant listening to her mindless bullshit in between sex sessions. The door buzzed and in he went, bounding up the stairs three at a time until he got to the third floor, marched down the hall and knocked on the door, which opened two seconds later and in he went.

Three hours later Kyle rolled to his side in Becca's double bed and looked up at her as she read lines from a script her agent had given her the day before. She was auditioning for it the next day, and he had agreed to listen, watch, and provide feedback, but instead of focusing on her he let his mind wander to the job ahead of him…and smile at the familiar ache on either side of the base of his penis that comes from multiple ejaculations occurring within a few hours of each other. Three times, by no means a record, or even uncommon when they have more than two hours to work with, but still a good night and another reminder of how that vasectomy was so worth the miserable few days that followed it. Becca yammered on, and then lowered the papers in her hand, looking to him expectantly. "That was fantastic!" Kyle replied with feigned enthusiasm. "I'm sure you'll get the part." That one was a flat out lie.

"Thanks Babe!" Becca chirped as she jumped onto the bed next to him, her light brown hair falling over her face as her tight body wrapped in panties and a sports bra bounced next to and against him, the crumpled papers still in her hands. He felt a slightly painful throb coming from his reluctant yet interested cock and figured he might be up for one more round, though only if Becca wanted and was willing to inflate things down there with her mouth and tongue. But she seemed to be focused on jabbering, and he was drained to the point of being happy if it didn't happen again, so he just relaxed and let her drone on about whatever the fuck she wanted to drone on about. He envied his great grandsons, who would probably live in an age where realistic android women with mute and off switches would be readily available, but alas, Kyle Renquist was born too soon and was forced to listen to this gorgeous young thing tell him about how she would someday be a star. "This role would be perfect for me, it's a small one, just two lines in the episode, but it's pretty prominent and really could lead to my discovery."

"That's great. What does Doug think?" Doug was her agent, who Kyle had no doubt was fucking her too, but he really didn't care. No warts had appeared on hid dick yet, so Doug likely kept his fuck circle tight and clean.

"He's very supportive and encouraging!" Of course, he's fucking you. "He thinks I'll get it!"

"That's fantastic." Is that the word he used last time? Need to mix them up to make it seem like he's not phoning it in. "What time's the audition?"

"Ten, so early, but not too early." Doug smiled at the remark. Being a burglar, he really didn't have a right to look down on her for what she considered early, but his brother John, who was at work every day by seven, he'd have a choice insult or two. It was at this point that Kyle decided that round four was just not appealing enough for him to sit through any more conversation and reached to the table to get his phone and feign disappointment at seeing the time and determining that he needed to leave. As his hand covered his phone on the bedside table he knocked a book that had been resting next to it to the floor. "Hey, don't lose my place!" Becca barked out as the book bounced and landed on its spine, falling open. Fortunately, the bookmark, one meant for children with a looped yarn ring through a cut out, remained in place about a third of the way from the beginning. The young woman bounced off the bed, and stooped over to recover the book, closing it and giving him a faux-threatening look. "You're lucky."

Kyle looked at the thick paperback, one with a white cover, some gold disk think in the middle, and the title on the lower section "A Dance With Dragons". He noted the author's name at the top, George R. R. Martin, and realized what it was. "That's one of those Game of Thrones books. I thought you've read them all."

"It's A Song of Ice and Fire when talking about them as a collected whole, Game of Thrones is just the first book of the series." She corrected with fake sternness. "Cripes, when are you going to remember that?"

"Game of Thrones is a cool title; A Song of Ice and Fire is fucking gay." He replied. "HBO must agree with me, as the series, including the later books, all falls under the Thrones umbrella. Seven seasons down and no mention of any fucking song."

"You should read the books." Becca replied after a brief scowl.

"Yeah, you keep telling me, and I keep telling you that I just don't care enough about the story to put in the time." Kyle grumbled back. "Besides, have watched the show, which is just as good."

"No, it's not!" Becca snapped back. "The books are always better than the movies or shows!"

"Not 'Interview With a Vampire'." Kyle grinned. "Movie was better."

"I don't know, that's one I haven't read." The young woman, one apparently possessing boundless energy, replied as she twisted and crossed her small studio to a pile of books on an end table next to a shitty used futon. She returned carrying a blue paperback and tossed it to Kyle. "Here, it's yours, and I will be testing you on it whenever you come back." Kyle looked down at the book, unsurprised to see 'Game of Thrones' written across the lower cover. "And don't think having watched the first season of the show will prepare you for the questions I'll ask!"

"Yeah, yeah, there's details that are different." Kyle grumbled but smiled as he looked back up at her. "But you've already gone into most of the differences between the books and the series. Like I know the mom…Catelyn, she becomes a zombie, and you said the clues about Jon being King Arthur are actually in the book, whereas in the show they don't drop any clues until season six."

"Quit calling him King Arthur, he's not king Arthur!"

"He's totally King Arthur!" Kyle replied quickly with a grin. "Raised a lesser son by a nobleman, born to save the realm, and probably use a magic sword while doing it. Oh, and Arthur's last name was Pendragon. Jon Snow is totally King Arthur. You yourself keep pointing out how those books are just like our reality but tweaked."

"Whatever." Becca grumbled with a grin, knowing he was right.

"Let's see, in the books you say they have Neanderthals, just like us but they still exist, Valarian steel is just a stand-in for Damascus steel, only better and sharper, Westeros is basically just the Americas, but instead of Asians crossing a land mass to discover it twelve thousand years before it was the equivalent to Eurasians, let's see, what else?"

"OK, enough." The young woman playfully slapped Kyle's leg after leaping back onto the bed. "He created this world using influences from the real world. That doesn't make it less amazing. And besides, until you've read the books, you're not entitled to criticize them!"

Kyle shrugged as he finally got a chance to look at his phone's screen. "Fine, whatever." He displayed the mild look of surprise and disappointment as he noted the time. "Shit, later than I thought. Gotta go." He bounced off the bed and started dressing, but heard Becca clear her throat as he got his pants on and looked down into her expectant face. She was giving a smile, but a playfully disappointed look as well. Fucking sugar babies. Kyle smiled and reached into his pocket, pulling out a small black jewelry box and tossing it to her, eliciting a playful squeal from the young woman. "Here."

"Ohhhhh." Becca cooed as she looked upon the diamond earrings inside, a set that Kyle had boosted a couple weeks before and kept hidden from his wife. "These are gorgeous!"

"Then they'll compliment the wearer nicely." Kyle replied after sliding his shirt on, then leaned down, gave her a kiss, and made for the door.

"Wait!" Becca called out. Kyle turned in time to catch the blue object being flung at him. "Don't forget your homework!"

Kyle looked at the book in his hand, groaned internally, but displayed a weak smile to his girlfriend. "Right, thanks."

An hour later Kyle was finally watching the blond man walking out of the building with his name over the door toward his Model S, getting in, starting it up, or at least Kyle assumed he was starting it as the fucking car made little to no noise, and finally drive off, leaving the building vacant, or at least Kyle hoped. The burglar had been casing Madigan for many weeks now, and had already infiltrated his surprisingly small condo, finding a safe containing a few thousand dollars, his passport, other paperwork, and a torn golden ticket stub, with really nothing else. His contacts at the local banks had verified that Madigan did not have safety deposit boxes at any of their banks, leading Kyle to believe that the blond dickhead had a safe at the office that contained his valuables. By no means a foregone conclusion, and his 'bankers network' was in no way all-encompassing, but it was reasonable to assume he had some expensive swag in there and Kyle had broken into and out of much tougher places than this without breaking a sweat. He gathered his tools, slid his balaclava over his head, slit on his latex gloves, snagged the tool pouch off the passenger seat of his Elantra, and took off across the street and toward the building.

There were guards, but nowhere good enough to notice Kyle getting past him. There were cameras, but they were predictably placed with plenty of blind spots and easily avoidable. There was a security system, but Kyle had bypassed so much worse. He was in the building in a matter of minutes, and in Madigan's office a short while later. You'd think a writer and producer of movies would be original, but the safe was behind a large picture of Madigan and Schwarzenegger behind the desk. Schwarzenegger in full Jack Slater attire just pissed Kyle off all the more and made him even more resolute to empty that fucking safe. It was an SLS Gem Anti Lance, a very high end safe, but nothing he hadn't cracked before. An hour later the thick metal door was open, and Kyle was staring down into the safe mouth agape. Just like at home, a few grand in cash, lots of paperwork pertaining to the business, some photos…man this guy really had a hard-on for Arnold, and another torn golden ticket. Hell, maybe it was a prop from one of the Willy Wonka movies. "Fucking weirdo!" Kyle snarled as he grabbed the cash and put it in the black backpack he had brought in. He was about to turn and leave but looked back down at the ticket stub and motivated by nothing more than spite, grabbed it and shoved it into his jeans pocket. He likely wouldn't get an opportunity to hit the house, once this was discovered Madigan would be bumping up his security at both work and home significantly. Kyle stole out of the office, through the halls, out the building and was soon back in his car, starting it up. Just as the car started rolling forward he hit the brakes and threw it back into park, pulling out his phone and turning off and uninstalling Kik and the GPS spoof.

Moira

She heard the car pulling into the parking spot in the alley below around half past one; looks like Madigan hadn't made it home for dinner last evening. Moira Renquist rolled over and pretended to be asleep, hoping her husband was quiet enough coming in to allow their son to continue sleeping. Fortunately, he was fairly silent in his entrance to both the apartment and the bedroom, and quietly made his way into the bathroom. A few minutes to brush his teeth and empty his bladder, and he was sliding something on the bedside table, followed by his keys and the other contents of his jeans pockets before taking them off, then his shirt, and then sliding into bed. "Well?"

She heard him sigh in frustration. "Just short of eight grand cash, two Krugerrands, and some scrap of movie memorabilia, or, at least I think it is."

She stared through the blackness at the ceiling. "Are they at least the full-sized Krugerrands?"

"Yeah, one ounce, so, what, like twelve, thirteen hundred each?" Kyle verified and asked.

"Something like that." Moira replied. "Not what we were expecting."

"Nope."

"Similar to the house safe's contents." Moira muttered.

"Yeah, but much bigger, tougher safe, so I was really surprised by the lack of, well, much much more."

"What'd you put on the table?" Moira asked. "Hopefully nothing you pulled from the safe. We have the lockbox hidden like we do for a reason."

"The swag was put away properly. I just got a book to kill time, something completely unrelated to Madigan Productions." Kyle grumbled as he leaned over, kissed Moira and rolled back away from her. "Good night." He was sawing wood in minutes, it would be another hour before she fell asleep again.

She got up with the alarm, got ready for her job at the bank, woke up their son Kevin, and let Kyle sleep as she and Kevin had breakfast. As they discussed what they had planned for the day, Moira heard Kyle moving around in the bedroom a little. Kevin grabbed his backpack and lunch and kissed her on the cheek before heading out the door. Moira headed to the bedroom to say goodbye to her husband, and peered in to see him reading a book, probably the one he brought home a few hours ago. "Getting some reading in?"

Kyle looked up at her from over the top of the book with bloodshot eyes and smiled. "Figured it's the best way to fall back to sleep."

"Not a bad idea, and certainly not without precedent." Moira smiled back. "It wasn't what we were hoping for, but it certainly covers the bills between now and your next score."

Kyle shrugged. "Yeah, but really wanted to fleece this dude. He's the one that sodomized that last Slater flick."

"What? I thought the last one was sweet." Moira replied, then smiled and laughed at the disgusted look on her husband's face. "Enjoy your book."

Work was slow, the bank really wasn't busy, it rarely was. She was just happy that she'd been around long enough to become branch manager prior to the onset of ATM's replacing the majority of human tellers. There was still a lot that the machines couldn't do, her job was secure, but there was always that worry about being replaced. Kyle could pull in more than enough money doing what he does easily, but it didn't provide health benefits for the family, and if it were their only source of income, well, they would have to be very creative with their laundering of it to avoid the notice of the IRS or other powers that be. But for now, they were doing well. Evening came and time to close with it, and after locking up Moira stopped by her parent's home, into the basement, and looked in the save hidden behind the fake wall Kyle had installed years ago. She looked over his collection from the previous night, just as he'd described, though she didn't see anything that resembled movie memorabilia. Oh well, he probably just forgot to take it, he did seem very tired when he got home, was probably worn out from the stakeout prior to the robbery. She just hoped he wasn't so tired he got sloppy.

She got home to find Kevin doing his homework. All things considered, he was a good kid, good student, and aside from a few slip-ups here and there, a well-behaved young man. "Hey mom." He said calmly without looking up from the Advanced Algebra book.

"It was fine sweetie, how was school?" She asked as she plopped her purse and keys down on the kitchen counter.

"Fine, nothing monumental." The boy replied.

"Where's your father?" Moira asked, walking around him, kissing the top of his head as she made her way to the couch and dropping into it.

Kevin shrugged, again without looking up. "Don't know. Don't think he's here, haven't seen or heard anything from him since I got home."

"That's odd, his car is out back." She commented but pulled her cell phone out and dialed Kyle's number.

There was one ring, then, "Hey, you've reached Kyle Renquist. Can't take your call, so leave a message."

Moira hung up, a confused expression on her face, and then she got up and marched out of the room and into the master bedroom. Kyle's keys were on the table, as was his wallet. His shoes are in the middle of the floor, looking as though they'd been untouched since being removed last night. The bed was unmade, but it would have been far more unusual if it had been. On it was that blue book he had been reading earlier. Moira turned to walk back to the living area but jerked her head back as she though she saw some sort of sizzling wave pass over the book, but that had to be a mistake. She stared at the book for a few more seconds before turning back and walking away from the bedroom. "He couldn't have gone far, he doesn't even have his shoes."

Bran

They were on their way to execute a deserter of the Night's Watch, it was the first time he was being allowed to witness such a thing, but at seven years his lord father had determined him to be old enough, much to his mother's dismay. In all there were twenty men riding out from Winterfell to enact the King' Justice, a somber duty, but Bran could not help but feel a tad giddy at riding next to his older brothers. A quick ripple of light off to his left drew his attention, and upon twisting his head in that direction he noticed a disruption in the high grasses along the side of the path. "Robb, there's something over there!" The boy pointed toward the rustling.

"Wait here lads!" Jory called out as he directed his horse toward the disturbance, giving Bran's brothers Robb and Jon, both having seen fourteen name days, a stern glance to keep them from following him.

Before Jory's horse could get half way to the rustling grass, a man stood revealing himself to be the source of the commotion. "What the fuck?" The clearly agitated man growled loudly. Bran took in his appearance and was left bewildered. He was a mid-sized man with brown hair, closely cut, his face looked to have been shaved within the last day or two, merely a shadow where his beard would be, and seemed to be wearing what could only be called colorful smallclothes, a shirt with sleeves going midway down the bicep, colored a dark blue with odd designs and even words across the chest. To the far right of the man's chest was what appeared to be the image of a banner, one with red and white stripes and section of blue in the top left corner. Written in an odd script across the center of his chest was 'CAMACHO FOR PRESIDENT'. There was smaller print above that as well as more below it, but it was too small for Bran to read from the distance. Instead of trousers he was wearing, well, shortened trousers, trousers that seemed to be made up of a thin, black fabric that only went halfway down his thighs. He appeared to be naked beyond these two meager yet interesting pieces of garment, an extremely unlikely occurrence as while still summer, this far north the cold was far too potent to allow for such insufficient covering. The man looked up and seemed equally surprised to be looking upon them. "What…the…hell?"

"State your name!" Father called out, as he rode next to Jory. Father left the great sword Ice strapped to his back, but Jory drew his and held it preparedly, but not threateningly at his side.

The man stared at them all for several minutes more before raising his hands slightly, each containing on unusual object, and staring at the object in his left hand, what appeared to be a yellow or gold strip of parchment, though the light of the sun seemed to bounce off it almost as though it were liquid. The object in his right hand, which seemed less interesting to the man, was a black rectangular object that was nearly flat, and which reflected the light of the sun off its surface with even greater intensity than the golden parchment scrap. He continued to raise the yellow parchment closer to his face, scrutinizing it with great interest. "Is this some sort of…super acid tab?" He looked back at the men of Winterfell. "Gotta be."

"I said name yourself!" Father demanded.

"Who the fuck are you?" The strange man snapped back.

"Watch your words and tone, stranger!" Jory snarled back. "You are addressing Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, Warden of the North!"

The man's eyes grew wide at that, and a smile slowly spread across his face. "Definitely an acid tab." He peered intently at father, studying his face. "You don't look anything like Sean Bean."

"Sean Bean?" Father asked, agitated by the stranger's lack of respect, but apparently as thoroughly confused by the man as the rest of them were.

"Yeah, the actor that plays Ned Stark in Game of Thrones." The stranger replied in a manner that would suggest father should already know who this Sean Bean was. "The guy you're pretending to be." The man stepped forward, but apparently stepped on something that hurt his foot, which Bran was finally able to confirm was as naked as most of his legs. "Fuck, that hurt!"

"How did you get here without boots?" Jory asked, almost amused by the stranger's discomfort.

"Wasn't wearing any when the chemicals in whatever the fuck this is," he held up the golden scrap, "got absorbed into my skin!" He then seemed to realize something and tossed the scrap away from him. "Damn, smart Renquist, keep holding onto it, that won't make this trip any worse!" The yellow parchment fluttered to the ground.

"What is that scrap?" Father asked, keeping a look on both the man and the discarded strip resting on a bit of trampled grass.

"You know, that's an excellent question, pal." The man replied. His accent was, unusual. Bran had never heard its like, though to be fair, Bran had never traveled much beyond Winterfell, so different manners of talking were unknown to him.

Theon directed his horse out away from the main party, but only took a few steps toward Father and Jory. "Lord Stark, could he be the deserter we're to administer justice to? Or perhaps another deserter."

"He's no man of the Night's Watch." Father replied.

The man laughed. "Love pussy way too much for a life of celibacy."

Father glared at the man, but once again held his temper in check. "I will ask you one last time. What is your name?"

The man sighed, looked around, and then shrugged before replying. "Fine. My name is Kyle Renquist. I'm from L.A., a place that," he looked around, "is nothing like this. A place that is a lot warmer, where I wouldn't be freezing my ass off like I seem to be doing now." He looked back down at the scrap. "Man, that thing is fucking strong."

"I am unfamiliar with this L.A." Jory stated. "Given its apparent warmth and your foreign accent, I assume it's not in the North."

"Naw man, southern Cali." The stranger replied almost absently as he studied his empty left hand, focusing on the fingertips that had been pressing against the scrap a few moments before.

"Southern…what?" Jory asked.

"What is the purpose of the dragon glass in your hand?" Father called out, apparently more concerned with the black rectangle than the location of this Cali.

The man looked up at Father, had what seemed to be a moment of confusion, then seemed to realize what Father was asking of him. "Oh, it's an S9. iPhones are too glitchy," he then smiled conspiratorially at Father, "and when you watch as much porn as I do, you realize how necessary a back button is." He looked down at his phone, then back up at Father, a smile on his face. "Way to maintain the renaissance faire illusion, pointing out a cell phone."

"I've heard stories that dragon glass has magic powers." Jory muttered.

"Hand it here!" Father demanded.

The man gave Father an incredulous look. "Fuck you, this thing cost me over eight hundred bucks. Get your own gawddamned phone."

"Speak that way to my Lord again and I'll run you through!" Jory threatened loudly and pointed his sword at the stranger. "Now hand over the dragon glass!"

"Big man, hiding behind a fucking sword." The stranger growled at Jory but raised his hands unthreateningly and held out the dragon glass toward Father, slowly approaching him. "Don't expect to unlock it without my thumbprint."

Father took the offered object and looked down at it. "What is this…SAMSUNG?"

"Dude, you don't get to keep pretending it's the Dark Ages while asking questions about a cell phone." The man replied.

"Is this dude a pejorative term?" Jory asked threateningly.

"A pej…you mean an insult?" Jory nodded at the question. "No, it's, well, it's just a general term for man. In some circles it can even be flattering, but I'm just going with the general man connotation."

"Samsung!" Father growled.

"It's the company that makes the phone." The man shot back, clearly annoyed and slightly bewildered. "You know, phones, refrigerators, and TV's? Like, TV's that the characters you're pretending to be are from?"

"Kyle Renquist," Father growled lowly as he studied the black shiny object, "I have been far more patient than this situation warrants, but that patience is at an end. Answer my questions faster, more clearly, and with far more respect, otherwise you will be treated like a prisoner."

"Father," Robb called out, "I suggest we take him with us. He clearly has much to answer for, he may be a Wildling if not a Night's Watch deserter, or more likely a foreign agent."

"Either way," Jon added, "if we leave him here, he'll be dead by nightfall."

The stranger stared at Robb and Jon. "Wait, these are supposed to be your sons?" He noted Father's reluctant nod. "Come on, they're way too young to be Robb and Jon Snow," the man looked at Jon and winked, "or should I say Robb and His Grace?" Father froze, his eye stretched wide. "Seriously, Robb's hair was a lighter shade of brown, but this guy's is damn near red. And these characters are supposed to be months away from getting laid. I can't be the first to point out the pedophilia connotations here. And is that kid supposed to be Bran or Rickon? He's too young to be Br…" Unseen by the ranting stranger, Father had drawn Ice and smacked him in the head with the flat of the blade, dropping the stranger to the ground and rendering him unconscious.

"Jory," Father said as he got down off his horse, "bind this man and send five guards with him back to Winterfell. In fact, lead them back yourself. See that he's placed in a cell and allow no one to speak with him. In fact, keep him bound and gagged. See to it that no one can hear a word he has to say."

"Yes, my Lord." Jory replied as he too dismounted.

Father walked over and picked up the discarded piece of yellow scrap with his gloved hand, studying it for a moment before placing it in a pocket, along with the strange bit of dragon glass. "We will continue on and deal with the deserter."

Daniel Madigan

He was never one to pace, no matter how nervous he got. Even now, with his worst nightmare having come to pass, he could only sit in his office chair and stare at the computer screen in front of him. It had been about thirty-six hours since the theft, and his mind was whirling with all the possible damage that could be in the works that entire time.

"Danny?" His secretary Elaine's voice cut through the speaker.

Dan leaned forward and with a slightly shaky hand, pressed a button. "Yes Elaine?"

"Officer Burris is here to see you." The woman's voice came through, prompting a held breath to come bursting forth from Dan's mouth.

"Please send him in." Dan said as he stood from his chair and rounded his thick wooden desk, moving toward the door. A moment later a medium sized African American man in his mid-thirties opened the door and walked in. "Dave, so great to see you. Find anything yet?"

The officer, dressed in a dark gray suit with a white shirt, but no tie, walked forward and shook Dan's extended hand. "Hey Danny, good to see you, and…maybe. Got one that hit your criteria. Missing person, adult male, called in early this morning, wife called it in, no sign of violence or break-in of any kind, guy left his wallet, keys, even his shoes, so unlikely he went somewhere." Officer Burris held out a file folder for Dan to take. "Guy has one prior, B and E, and apparently pretty good at it. Only reason we ever caught him was because we collared someone he once did a job with and the guy ratted on everyone he ever worked with to lighten his sentence. Even then, we could only get six months for him, and we were lucky to get that. I met with the wife, and she was pretty nervous, like not just nervous for his safety, but I think she wanted our poking around kept to a minimum."

Dan opened the file folder, pulling out a couple printed out photographs and reading the details of the missing person. "Kyle Renquist, age thirty-seven, address 407 Kellison Way, apartment 3E," Dan looked at the one of the pictures, a picture of the bedroom, specifically an unmade bed with a book closed, but balanced face down on the bed, "Dave, this is going to seem like a weird question," he looked up and noted the shrug to indicate for him to continue, "but was there a bookmark in this book?"

Dave leaned forward and looked at the picture. "Uh, I don't remember seeing one. Doesn't look like there's one in this picture. Frankly, not the sort of thing we're trained to look for. Why do you think it matters?"

"No reason, just picking at nothing." Dan closed the file and smiled at the police officer. "Thanks Dave, I think I'm good. We still on for golf Sunday."

"If you're still OK with getting humiliated." Dave replied as he turned and headed toward the door. "You going to tell me what all this is about?"

"Research for a possible movie." Dan replied, looking down at the floor to avoid eye contact while lying to his friend. "Say hi to Barb for me."

"You do the same to Cindy." Dave replied as he left, pulling the door shut behind him.

Dan reopened the file and studied the picture he had been scrutinizing earlier. He then made his way back around the desk, sat down and yanked up his phone, pulling a note pad and pen in front of him as he did. "Elaine, get me George R. R. Martin." As he waited he scribbled down the word 'septon' onto the note pad. "Hello George, this is Danny Madigan. A case of Kentucky bourbon for you if you can tell me all there is to know about your religion of the seven. As detailed as you can get."