Authors Note: Leave a review or two on your way out, I'll notice and continue the story as best as I can; I just don't have time to spend on something no one is reading : )

I'm not going to pretend this story is lore-proof. While I consider my knowledge of the lore to be fairly decent, there may be the occasional hole that I miss. Leave a comment, and I'll fix it.

Also, I don't own any rights to Arthas or any of the other places or people mentioned in this fiction, besides Claera and Tyrion.

Enjoy the story.

-Jakkani

BOOK ONE: SAVIOR

He hung from the frozen ledge by one hand, gritting his teeth, surprised that he managed to catch it at all. His grip, iron as it was, was faltering; the snow fell around him in frozen clumps. The wind blew the falling snow almost horizontally, stinging his bare skin with its cold, and as a result of that his fingers were numb.

It's funny what you notice sometimes.

Tyrion reached, with his free hand, to clasp the frozen ledge and heave himself up onto it; it was a small windowsill on the side of the watchtower, no longer than outstretched arms, but tall and wide enough to sit on if he balled himself up. He did so, tucking his fingers underneath his armpits, rocking back and forth in the freezing cold. He sat there for a moment, gathering himself, but at the same time knowing that the longer he waited, the more likely they'd realize they didn't kill him, and the more likely he'd bleed to death. The gash across his stomach wasn't immediately lethal, but would be if he didn't treat it soon.

He turned, tracing his fingers across the half-frozen windowpane, looking for the latch. There was one, but it was secured with an even more frozen lock. It stung his fingers just to hold the cold steel, let alone try to break it. He reached into his trouser pocket, producing a lock pick, and jammed it into the keyhole; but his fingers were dumb with cold, and refused to follow his commands. Before long, the lock pick slipped from his fumbling fingers, rolled off the windowpane from where he sat, and disappeared into the swirling snowstorm below.

He groaned as he reached for it in vain, kicking himself mentally for dropping it; but it was long gone, fallen hundreds of feet to the earth far below him. His eyes, the icy blue-green that ran in his family, widened in shock.

He sat back on the windowsill, resting his head against it, closing his eyes as the snowstorm raged around him. He was going to die here, the last of the Menethil lineage, frozen to death before anyone knew of his existence.

He was supposed to lead his people to redemption against his brother, Arthas; He was supposed to reveal that he'd been in hiding, to reveal that there was another heir, and yet Arthas' followers had gotten to him first, stabbing him wildly and tossing him off his own watchtower. The thugs that called themselves The Hand of Arthas weren't particularly stealthy, and he was caught unaware due more to his own carelessness than their skill.

The cold suddenly wasn't so unbearable; in fact, it became comfortable. He sat there, his heartbeat slowing, his blonde hair turning to frost, the cold freezing his eyelids shut for good.

The windowsill suddenly opened, shoving him off the ledge. His eyes exploded open, realizing he was about to fall, but a thick and meaty hand grasped his cape and pulled him, back onto the windowsill, through it, and into the warmth of a room. The man who pulled him in shut the window, latching it closed, and then crossed the room to the door, doing the same.

Tyrion coughed the frost out of his lungs in the fetal position, feeling the warmth of the wooden floor. There was a fireplace in that room; he crawled towards it, his body desperately needing heat. He was so close that he was almost touching the fire with his outstretched hands.

"Oi. Careful, now. You're like to burn yourself, mate."

The ice in his hair began to melt as the warmth returned to his bones. He turned, looking at his savior for the first time. It was a man he didn't recognize, a lesser servant of the tower, with long black hair in a ponytail. He had an eye patch over one eye, but shouldnt've at his age; he was no older than twenty-five. His arms were corded with muscle; his hands thick and callused, with a scarred face. It was the kind of face that was trustworthy, and hard working.

"What...who are you?" The words came out more ragged than he expected, especially for a boy of his age.

"Name's Gentry, my king." The servant sat heavily in a nearby wooden chair.

Tyrion's eyes widened at the words "my king". "What do you mean? I am no king. I am just a lord. Lord of this keep, and nothing more."

His voice lowered to a whisper as he glanced around the room as if he expected to see a spy crouched in the corner. "No, sir, you are Tyrion. Tyrion Menethil. I am no fool, I know everything you know. Your father requested that I watch over you while you grew, and I almost hadn't gotten to you in time." He stood, crossed the room, and began shuffling through his splintery cabinets. He produced a needle, and tucked it under his arm; thread, and bandaging, too.

He ripped open Tyrion's chest piece from where he lay on the floor, revealing the gouge in his stomach. It wasn't a deep stab, more of a glancing slash, but blood still poured free from it. He cleaned it and poured stinging salt in the wound; stitched the skin back together, and wrapped it all in bandages treated with gauze. By the time he was done, Tyrion had cried a bucket of tears.

"You'll be fine, now, I think. As fine as your like to get, at least." Tyrion ran his fingers over the stitches, wincing as the pain spiked every time his finger brushed a stitch.

"I…how? No one…" He lowered his voice to a whisper, giving Gentry his most serious face. "No one was supposed to know of my lineage."

"That doesn't mean they don't know of it. Would you be so quick to forget the men who tried to claim your life an hour ago?"

Tyrion had nothing to say to that.

A king should always know what to say…I'm no king. I'm just a boy...

The bed he sat on was cheap and stuffed with hay, not at all what he was used to. He had a feeling that his life of luxury had come to an end, and that it was just one of many things that would change. Unless…

No, I have a duty to my people. I can't stay her, not any longer.

Gentry handed him a bowl, smoke rising off of it in wisps. He accepted it, nodding as he did so, feeling the extreme heat of the soup inside. It was plain, with beef and radish chunks, but it was enjoyable. He wolfed the soup down as Gentry sat, watching him, smiling.

"You know, I'm a lot older than I look. I was there when you were but a baby." Tyrion looked at the mirror in the room, looking at himself for the first time that day. He had the long, thin face of a young lord, the square jaw of a teenager, the high cheekbones of an elf. He wasn't considered a man yet by many; he was only seventeen summers old, but sometimes he forgot that whilst buried in paperwork and coins he had to count and divide every night. His father always told him, "You work to live, my son. And you live to work." And so, he'd lived out much of his youth filing taxes and sorting coins, while Arthas fought in battles and seduced women.

The stress of being lord of a castle, and secretly heir of King Terenas, had begun to show in his face; dark rings began to appear under his eyes lately, and he was an unhealthy weight. His hair, however, was still bright golden and flowing, the pride of his family.

Almost like brother…He thought, grimly, as he gazed at himself.

A dark servant's robe, plain, faded, and black, landed on his lap, along with a small curved dagger in a sheath.

"Let's get moving, then. Wear these, and keep your hood low. We've got to make the city gate by morn, and there are a lot of people that don't want us to do that. Be prepared to kill if need be."

"And you? What's your business?"

"I have family in Southshore, I'd like to visit them. Why do you ask?"

"There's a blockade. No one in or out of the city, understand?" He rested a mailed hand on the pommel of the blade hanging from his hip. "It ain't my rules, lad, I just enforce em'. Give it a few days, it'll pass over."

The gate watchman rubbed his stubble as he thought. "Haven't I seen you before? A friend of the family, perhaps?"

Tyrion nodded, his timid voice shaking. "Yes, I painted your shield a year ago. Have you forgotten me so soon?"

The muscled guard didn't seem to notice the obvious lie. "Ah, yes. You're the lad who lives in the building across the street from the The Bleeding Maiden. The one with the pretty doors, right? Gave me a damn good deal on the job, too." Tyrion nodded, again. He already had shaved his head bald to the scalp, put on Gentry's eyepatch and cut a gap in his eyebrow. And, just as he had hoped, this guardsman did not recognize him. He would miss his hair, so very much.

"Either way, you're like to turn around."

Tyrion nodded, once more, holding out a hand to shake. The guardsman, puzzled, grabbed the hand, and then pulled it away slowly. There were four glittering golden coins in his palm. He stuffed them in his trouser pocket, nodding at Tyrion before turning to address the other men who guarded the south gate.

"Let him through, lads. They're men of the king." The other men, standing in the gateway, uncrossed their spears and let them pass. Tyrion pulled down his hood and followed Gentry to the stable outside of town. The soft snow swallowed up to his knees as he walked, and more than once he stumbled. He pulled his plain black cloak closer about himself as he treaded, dreading the cold.

"Well," huffed Gentry, "that went better than I thought." He untied the horses from the stable, a fine brown mustang and a wide-eyed coal palomino, leaving a silver coin in its place. Tyrion and he mounted up, without a word, riding down the dirt road leading into the east through Silverpine Forest.

Gentry guided them off the main road, and into the deep woods. The rain began to fall, in thick stinging sheets, making the cold all the more unbearable; the trees, dead and absent of leaves, provided little protection. The water made his cloak and hood unbearably heavy, and seemed to be trying to drown him.

I shouldn't be here. This is a nightmare; I'm actually asleep within my bed back at the keep.

For a while, the only sound was the horses plodding along in the snow. Tyrion broke the silence, his curiosity killing him.

"So?"

"So what?"

"What do you mean to do now?"

Gentry ducked under a low hanging branch. "I mean to take you to Ironforge, and then to Stormwind." He lowered his voice. "I imagine it is the only place we can rally your people, hard as it may be. Lordaeron has fallen; there is little other choice…" His voice trailed off.

Tyrion had nothing to say to that.

"You're a quiet one, then? Good. I hoped you were." Tyrion opened his mouth to speak. "Hold your tongue until we're out of Hillsbrad, you never know who's listening." He closed it with a grimace, patting his mare as they walked. They would need to water them soon.

The dead trees stood around them like spears pointed at the dark gray skies; the horses had to weave to get between them, and it made traveling a mile take an hour. They rode through lowlands, stubbed with trees and rocks and brush; around frozen lakes, and over low mountain tops. The rain never stopped raining as they rode, although the snow began to melt a bit.

Gentry rode in front of him, heavily wrapped in his cloak; Tyrion was jealous of his warmth- he wasn't used to being out here, in the wilderness. Gentry had two three foot long blades hanging from his back and hip, and a dagger strapped to his thigh. The snow was slowly gathering on his hood, but every once and a while he shook it off. He wore dark brown leather armor underneath his cloak, with no insignia. Tyrion could tell that he was used to this sort of thing, or at least had done it more than once.

Tyrion glanced at the remainder of a wooden sword sticking out of the dirty snow as they rode up the side of a low mountain, and had a flashback of his childhood.

He and his brother were sword fighting as children, practicing their techniques, when Arthas overpowered him. He cracked the wooden blade out of his hand with a wild backswing, causing it to land there in the snow, standing over him with his blade positioned over his head. The wooden blade was heavy, for it was filed with lead, and could easily break a bone; Tyrion flinched at the mere thought as he held his hands up to protect his face.

He dropped the blade to his side, holding out a hand to help his brother up, showing his beaming smile. Their father, watching them both, nodded in satisfaction with their performance.

"Stop."

The word broke him from his train of thought. Gentry stopped suddenly in front of him, holding up a gloved hand. He was turned in the saddle, looking behind them down the mountainside. Tyrion twisted in his saddle to see what he was staring at.

There were four riders trotting up the hillside a half-mile away from them, men with longbows slung across their backs, wearing black leather. They were going twice Gentry and Tyrion's speed, for they were riding pitch black Chargers bred for knights; their cloaks couldn't be seen from where Tyrion was standing, but they were riding in a wedge formation. They didn't seem to be openly chasing them, but were obviously following them.

"They've seen us." Grunted Gentry. "Their shields. Their shields have two blue axes crossed on a black background. What is that?" he said in a hushed whisper. "I've never seen that emblem before."

Tyrion shrugged, his hands subconsciously fingering the knife at his belt for comfort. "I have no idea. I haven't, either."

"Do we run, or do we fight?"

Tyrion was silent, his heart beginning to beat faster as fear creeped into his bowels. He could see two of the men glancing at him, noticing Tyrion was staring back, and then glancing away again. "I...I don't..."

"Well, the closest village is four days away. Do you know how to use a sword?"

"Yes, I do. Kind of." Gentry looked at him. "I trained with my brother." The image of his limbs being almost broken by Arthas's wooden blade flashed before his eyes.

"Well, then. You should be able to defend yourself. He is, after all, considered one of the greatest swordsmen of Azeroth; and besides, they could be friend as well as foe. Let's wait for them to come to us; we've got the high ground, those bows will be useless anyways. "

He sighed the last of his words out. "But keep your steed at the ready, nonetheless." He hopped off his saddle. Tyrion did the same, landing knee-high in the snow. The horses wandered off, noses searching deep in the snow for grass. They loosely leashed the horses to a tree. He knew Gentry didn't truly believe they were allies; he just knew that they wouldn't be able to escape in this weather.

Tyrion leaned against a tree as the rain began to let up, and, eventually, cease altogether. Gentry gathered firewood, humming some unknown tune. Tyrion knew enough about people to know that he was trying to distract himself.

Tyrion pulled flint and tender out of his saddlebags and struck them together, and a small stream of smoke flowed from it. He waved it gently, letting the fire grow to a low glow. Tyrion stomped through the snow, putting his hands to the growing flame. Gentry shuffled through his saddlebags again, and pulled out pork. He impaled it with a small stick, and heated it on the flame, handing it to Tyrion.

"Savor it, lad. It could be the last hot meal you and me ever have." He unhooked the sword hanging from his back and handed it to him as well. Tyrion took it without an instant of hesitation, examining it for the first time. The blade was leaf shaped, longer than a regular sword but shorter than a claymore, and inside of a fine leather scabbard. It was a plain sword, for plain use, but its edge was fine and sharp.

They sat there, eating food in complete silence.

Gentry stared into the campfire absentmindedly as if he were trying to solve a puzzle, his eyes dancing in the reflection of the firelight. His face seemed even more ancient, even more tired, than it already was. One hand absentmindedly fingered a tiny steel "M" that hung from a necklace around his throat.

I wonder what Gentry is thinking…

He whispered something, under his breath, barely audible against the pounding rain.

"…Margaret…"

Tyrion had half a mind to ask him, but he decided against it.

The bushes rustled in front of them. Gentry stood. Tyrion stood too, his sword still in its scabbard. The riders were now only yards away from them. They came bustling through the trees one by one, their horses snorting and bucking, until they were all in the clearing where Gentry and Tyrion sat.

Gentry yelled first. "Halt. What do you want with us?"

A gruff man, apparently the leader of the riders, responded. "Nothing, can't we just be passing through?"

"Four armed men following two travelers through the wilderness with unknown emblems on their cloaks? It's unlikely you're just passing through."

"We want your gold, not your life, but if you don't give it to us we won't think twice to kill you and take it either way. You should consider us chivalrous for not just killing you."

Tyrion's voice cracked. "Why? Why must you do this to us?"

He stroked his beard as he turned to Tyrion. "I'm sorry, boy, but we all have mouths to feed and taxes to pay. This is your last warning, give us your gold or we'll do what we have to in order to eat tonight. Nothing personal, we're just trying to get by." All the riders dismounted, pulling out their bows and knocking arrows as casual as if they were preparing to eat whether than to fight. They, obviously, did not see them as a threat.

Gentry grabbed the hilt of the blade hanging from his belt, leaning over to whisper to a terrified Tyrion.

"On the count of three."