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Tyrion I

"Telegram fer yeh."

Bronn's dulcet tones, a mad combination of gutter Irish and Five Points slum, woke Tyrion Lannister from his morning stupor. He forced his bleary gaze to where his valet was ruthlessly flinging aside the heavy velvet drapes that were all that stood between Tyrion and the unmerciful glare of the sun.

"Where?" he croaked, struggling to sit up in his bed. It was far bigger than Tyrion needed— bigger, even, than a half-dozen Tyrions would need, given his petite frame— but he always felt he should comport himself for the size he felt like rather than the size he was. And he felt like a man of considerable stature, indeed.

"On the coffee tray," said Bronn, jerking his chin toward where he'd placed it at the corner of the bed. He remained by the window, squinting out at the world, while Tyrion reached over and grasped the yellow rectangle of paper.

"TO TYRION LANNISTER STOP ROBERT MURDERED STOP CERSEI MISSING STOP JAIME ARRESTED STOP EXPECT YOU ON NEXT TRAIN TO KINGSLAND STOP FIX EVERYTHING TO MY SATISFACTION STOP DO NOT CONTACT ME WITHOUT RESULTS STOP FROM TYWIN LANNISTER STOP?" Tyrion read aloud, his voice pitching higher and higher in amazement and alarm until he was nearly squeaking. "What in the all the hells is going on in Texas?"

He hopped out of bed and made directly for his dressing room, Bronn following at a leisurely pace.

"I need a valise!"

"Packed."

"We have to buy train tickets!"

"Bought."

"Where are my clothes?"

"Laid out."

"I must send a telegram back so Father knows I got it."

"Done."

"And another to Kingsland so they know I'm on my way."

"Sent."

"Tell the housekeeper to shut up the place while we're gone!"

"Already did."

"And the mail is being held?"

"Yeah."

"Milk and newspaper delivery stopped?"

"Yeah."

"Carriage ready to go?"

"Yeah."

Tyrion finished dressing, alternating a garment with a huge bite of breakfast or gulp of coffee and finishing all at the same time.

"Bronn, you're a treasure."

"I know. You should pay me more."

"Let's not get carried away."

"Cheap cunt."

"Yes, yes…"

They climbed into the carriage and were whisked away to the train station. Within minutes they were settled into their private compartment and heading westward from Charleston, Tyrion's mind a-whirl from the telegram. He desperately wished he had more details. It would take over a week to get to Kingsland: west from Charleston to Atlanta, to Birmingham, to Jackson, to Shreveport, to Dallas, then south to Austin before taking the smaller local train west once more to Kingsland.

"Thank god Kingsland has its own station," he muttered, not relishing the idea of taking a coach for the final leg of their trip.

Bronn only grunted noncommittally; the man couldn't have cared less where they went, as long as he were being compensated for it. Tyrion often had to stifle the urge to take Bronn somewhere truly bizarre, just to see if there were anywhere his valet would actually balk at. He suspected no such place existed; Bronn was equally at ease in a ballroom at the Ritz or the worst ghetto known to mankind. And usually the most dangerous man in either.

"What do you think happened?" Tyrion asked him.

Bronn's pale eyes swiveled from where he'd been gazing out the window at the quick-passing countryside to focus on Tyrion, who suppressed a shudder to be pinned by such a cold stare. He himself was a cold bastard as well, but in a rather more abstract way: he could commit many foul misdeeds from a distance, but up-close and in person… no. That was what he had Bronn for.

"I think Robert found out his wife an' her brother were fooking, tried to kill 'er, Jaime killed him, and got caught."

Tyrion blinked. "I… I don't think they've been fucking for several years, now," he said weakly. "Jaime said he ended it when she fell pregnant with Tommen… she lied, saying she'd made it so she couldn't conceive again, and he could no longer take her word or risk even more children—"

"Daft cow told him that, the other two times as well, why would she mean it the t'ird?" interrupted Bronn. "Yer brother's a fooking eejit."

"Yes," agreed Tyrion sadly, and sighed. The gods knew he was no saint— "Did you cancel my next few appointments with Shae?" he asked Bronn, who smirked and nodded before looking back out the window— but at least he knew not to dip his wick in a) family and/or b) women who could not be trusted to keep their wombs unoccupied.

Jaime was truly a fool for love. Tyrion turned his attention to how Charleston swiftly receded into the distance, and hoped that this time, his brother would be able to recover from the catastrophe his weakness had wrought.


Jon I

Jon's weary horse stopped at the crest of the ridge overlooking Kingsland, and even though he was tired, himself, and eager to get home, he didn't urge Ghost to continue right away, giving himself a moment to enjoy the vista splayed out before him.

It had been a long drive back from St. Louis, made longer by some heavy rains causing the Colorado to flood and forcing Jon and the other men to adjust course. Instead of their usual straightforward route, they'd had to make a time-wasting zigzag out of Oklahoma into Arkansas, skirting around the Osage reservation where he liked to stop for a night or two to spend time with Ygritte, a particular friend he had made during the course of his frequent drives.

Not being able to snatch his rare occasional evening with Ygritte had put him in a sour mood. It wasn't like he had any options for feminine companionship in Kingsland, his options restrained to the ladies of the town, none of whom would have anything to do with him, or Baelish's girls at the saloon. But he had never been comfortable with the idea of paying someone to lay with him, no matter how his friend Sam said it was nice. But the only girl he could bear the idea of being with was Gilly, since she was so sweet and he knew she was clean, but the way Sam felt about her... the idea of Sam's round face crumpled in betrayal, to learn Jon had been with Gilly, doused any trace of arousal Jon might have felt about it.

He knew he had no future with Ygritte, no more than he had with the Kingsland ladies. Her father was a very proud and prominent warrior in their tribe, and the idea of his fierce daughter wed to a half-white, half-Mexican bastard was hardly the life he'd imagined for Ygritte. So Jon resigned himself to seeing her a few times a year and counted himself lucky to have even that.

Judging Ghost to be recovered from his climb up the ridge, Jon nudged him into a canter that would take him around the town to the road leading to the Northpoint. At the fork in the road where one had to either cross the Colorado or follow as it curled and wound its way across the plains, he bade farewell to the others.

Garlan Tyrell and Dickon Tarly were fine fellows, and made for good companions on the long drive. But Theon Greyjoy only rode herd because he hadn't the stomach to be a highwayman like his brothers and uncles. He spent every evening obliterated with drink, and every day bemoaning his folly of the night before. Bronze Yohn, who drove for the Arryns, and the two sullen jackasses driving for the Double B, Meryn Trant and Boros Blount, kept themselves apart, glowering and cheerless the entire time.

Jon directed Ghost to the bridge arching over the river, with Blount and Trant not far behind. This side of it, there were only a few claims. The Starks' Northpoint Ranch and the Baratheon's Double B were the two largest cattle operations in the county. Crossing the creek to the south of the Northpoint would bring a person to the Tarth claim. The Tarths hadn't contributed to the drive this season; no surprise, now that Galladon was gone, and Mr. Tarth laid up. Jon wondered how much longer Brienne would be able to hold off before finding a way to drive her cattle to St. Louis.

He'd seen her ride herd; she was just as good as any man, or even better, but it was a terrible idea for her to go along with a half-dozen men. He had no worries about himself or Dickon or Garlan or even Theon, who'd doubtless be too soused to do anything worrisome, but the other three… you'd have to be a fool to think those three would be anything but problems to a lone woman on a drive. And Jon was no fool.

He doubted she could afford to hire someone to drive the herd in her stead, like Dickon and Theon had hired themselves out to the Tullys and the Targaryen girl respectively. Jon made a mental note to mention it to his father. The Tarths didn't have so many head that it would be a terrible hardship to bring them along with the Stark cattle, and Bran at twelve was well old enough to join them for his first drive.

He turned right at the road's next fork, leaving the other two behind, and trotted through the gate under the sign proclaiming the land was Northpoint Ranch, property of the Starks. For all that Catelyn did what she could to make him unwelcome, Jon loved coming home. The Northpoint was in his blood the same as it was in Robb's and Arya's and Rickon's. Sansa and Bran, they were different, they could live in town just as well as on the ranch, but he and the other three had grown up from the very dirt.

He let out a sigh as the first outbuildings came into view. It was late, the sunlight slanted and golden over the long grasses blowing in the wind, and he couldn't decide if he wanted a bath or supper first. It wouldn't be the big copper tub in the big house's bathing room, and it wouldn't be the refined supper with bread and vegetables and wine that people named Stark got to enjoy. No, for him, just like the rest of the hands, it would be a shallow tin pan in the barn with the stink of horse shit warring for dominance with the smell of the lard-and-lye soap that was all he was allowed. And supper would be some form of hashed-up meat with beans, washed down by beer. But both would still be satisfying after a hard few weeks.

Jon wasn't sure what he expected, but a trio of fat Manderlys, the town's carpenters, hauling a coffin from their somber black wagon was not it. His heart gave a hard thump of alarm as he slid off Ghost and tossed the reins to the nearest hand. He spotted Rickon lurking on the front porch, far enough away not to get trampled by Manderlys but close enough to see everything.

"Rickon," he called to the boy, walking up the steps and going to him. "What's happened?"

Rickon's gaze shifted from the coffin carried by on the shoulders of the Manderlys, a glossy chestnut case with brass handles, to Jon.

"Is it Nan?" he pressed when his brother didn't reply. Nan was old and only getting older; Jon had been resigned for a few years, by then, to her passing at some soon moment.

Rickon shook his head. "Father," he said tonelessly. "Father died. And Jory."

Jon felt the blood drain from his head, and little silver dots appeared in his vision. He reached out and clamped his hand around the porch railing. Once he was steady again, he strode into the house, calling for Robb, but it was Arya who responded, darting from the parlor and into his arms.

"Jon, it's awful," she exclaimed. "Father's dead, and Jory, and Sansa's been beaten, and—"

"What? When?" The dots threatened to make another appearance. Jon tightened his hold on his sister. "How?" He felt like every question, ever, rose to his lips and fought to be free. "Where's Robb?"

"Here," said Robb, and Jon turned to find his other brother at the parlor entrance. Robb leaned heavily against the door frame, as if unable to stand upright without the support. "It all happened this morning."

"Robb, what—"

"Sansa broke her engagement to Joff Baratheon. He beat the shit out of her for it. Then on the way home, he saw Father and Jory mending the fences between us and the Double B and decided Sansa wasn't enough. He shot them both through the head."

Jon could only blink at him for a few long moments, waiting for the words to start making sense. Once they did, he felt a wave of heat— pure rage— roll through him, so fiercely his fingers and toes tingled from the force of it.

"Where's Mr. Robert through all of this? And Miz Cersei?"

"Mr. Robert's dead, too, a week ago, now," said Arya. "And Cersei's gone missing, as soon as people started to think maybe she was the one who did it."

"Did she do it?"

"Wouldn't put it past her," said Robb with a shrug. None of them had liked the supercilious bitch. They'd barely liked Mr. Robert, in fact, but he'd been Father's closest friend— somehow— so they tolerated the Baratheons as a necessarily evil to being a Stark. Or almost-Stark, in Jon's case. Sansa's blind affection for Joffrey, based entirely on his improbably handsome appearance, had been to the chagrin of her siblings, all of whom had placed bets on when, specifically, she would wise up to the reality of his awfulness and dump him.

Jon felt a bleak satisfaction in the midst of all the horror; looked like he'd won the bet, because he'd had a dollar on her breaking it off before he returned from St. Louis.

"Let's go get him, then," he said. There was no point in going to Sheriff Clegane; he'd been in the Lannisters' pocket since before his appointment as Kingsland's peacekeeper. There'd be no justice for Starks but what they took for themselves.

"The sheriff is in the parlor right now, asking all the servants and hands questions. He's going to investigate," said Arya, her tone heavy with sarcasm. "Says no one saw Joffrey do it, and he can't arrest anyone without three things… what were they, Robb? Motive, proof, and…"

"Probable cause," replied Robb. "Never stopped him before, but I think we know why he's such a stickler, this time around."

Jon thought back to various times people had been blamed for infractions against Lannisters or Baratheons without a lick of proof… and how Joffrey had been skating by without repercussions for years despite copious evidence provided by the ladies working at Baelish's saloon.

"Why is he bothering?" he asked. "You can't tell me he cares that Father and Jory are dead."

Just saying the words, thinking the thought— Father is dead— made his chest feel like it had been pried open and hollowed out. Ned Stark was— had been— the only person Jon knew was his. His siblings… he loved them, but Ned had made him. Without knowledge of his mother, and Ned gone… who was he, really?

"He doesn't," Robb was answering. "But he doesn't truck with woman-beaters. You wouldn't believe the sound he made when he saw what Joff had done to Sansa."

Jon forced a deep breath to stay calm. "How is she?"

"Bruised rib, mild concussion, busted lip, black eye, and bruises from head to knee," Arya recited grimly.

"I want to see her." Jon and Sansa were not close— she imitated her mother a bit too much for that— but she was still his sister.

Robb stepped aside and Jon went to Sansa's room. It had that hushed, still feel of a sickroom, where everyone was terrified of making noise, and the sweet smell of poppy milk lingered thick in the air. Sansa lay in her bed, covers drawn up to her chin so only her face was revealed, but what Jon could see was the stuff of nightmares.

Bruises bloomed, violet and blue, across the right side of her face and down her neck, and the skin split over the bone of her temple had been neatly stitched closed, the white silk floss gleaming sallow against her face from the late afternoon sunlight pushing through the window. Her eyes were closed, and the veins of her fragile eyelids stood out against the pallor of her skin as if someone had drawn them on with blue ink.

Jon knew, then, the way 'horror-stricken' felt, standing frozen in the doorway. His stomach rebelled. Sansa wasn't the warmest person, not to him, but she was family, and a woman. To do such a thing was monstrous. He burned for vengeance.

Catelyn, at her bedside, looked up from her vigil of prayer, and saw Jon. Her face underwent a frightening transition, from abject misery to feral rage, in the space of a heartbeat.

"Get out of here!" she hissed from between bared teeth, standing, looking like she'd fly at him at any moment. Jon drew away, bumping into Robb at his back. "You don't belong here!"

"Mother!" exclaimed Arya.

The familiar sensation of rejection lanced through his belly, and then he was furious. He'd just come back from a three-week cattle drive— to benefit her and her kin, not himself— to find his father dead, and his sister terribly hurt, and now this?

"I have just as much right to be here as your children," he hissed back. "I'm just as much Ned Stark's son as Robb or Bran or Rickon."

"I want you gone," Catelyn continued, as if Jon had not said a word. "Get off this ranch!"

"No," Sansa mumbled from the bed, and they all whipped around to see her. She had woken from the commotion, and gazed blearily at the angry knot of people by the door. Her eyes settled on Jon. " 'M glad Jon's here."

And she tried to smile at him. It was ghastly, and brave, and he felt a rush of affection for his haughty sister that he was used to feeling only for the others. The blanket moved in the vicinity of her hips, and he realized she was trying to extract her hand.

Arya darted around Catelyn and peeled back the covers. Sansa lifted her hand toward Jon, a bare inch from the mattress, but it was enough. He approached, sat in the chair pulled close to the bed, and took her hand in his. Behind him, Catelyn gobbled like an enraged turkey.

"Mother, no," said Robb. "You've been waiting for years to get rid of Jon, but the ranch is mine, now, and I won't have it. He's my brother, just like Rickon and Bran are my brothers, and I won't let you run him off."

Catelyn's eyes darted around the room from child to child, then glanced at the door, where Bran and Rickon stood, watching.

"We've just lost Father. We can't lose Jon, too," added Bran. "We need him. We need everyone."

"He's our brother, too," Rickon said.

"It's wrong, Mother," intoned Arya. She stood at the foot of the bed, her face blank but her eyes cold.

"Wrong," agreed Sansa. "Ours."

With a wordless cry of frustration, Catelyn stalked from the room as hard as her dainty feet could manage. It still wasn't much. In the distance, a door slammed.

Sansa's hand trembled in Jon's grasp. He felt the faintest pressure, and realized she was trying to reassure and comfort him by squeezing his fingers, and moisture flooded his eyes.

"We'll get Joffrey," he promised her. "He won't get away with this, Sansa, I promise you. I don't care if he's got the sheriff in his back pocket, or the judge, we'll—"

"You'll what?" rasped a voice from the door. Jon turned to see Sheriff Clegane himself looming in the doorway behind the young ones. "I don't hold with vigilantes, boy."

"I'm not a boy." Jon tried to stand, but Sansa found some hidden cache of strength and refused to let go of his hand. Short of tearing free of her, he had to remain sitting.

"Don't," she said, looking from him to the sheriff. "Please."

"I thought you left," Robb said, his tone short.

"Just finished talking to the last hand."

"Anyone see anything?"

"No." Pause. "I'm going. Let me know if anyone comes forward with something."

He turned to leave, but then stopped. Didn't turn back around, but said, "I'm not in anyone's back pocket. Not about this."

Then he was gone, his steps receding into the distance. Robb and Arya exchanged a glance with each other, then with Jon.

"That was peculiar," Arya muttered.

"I'm going to keep an eye on him," said Robb. "I don't trust him."

"How?" Jon asked him. "You… you have the ranch to run."

Now that Father isn't here to do it, he left unsaid, but they all heard it as clearly as if he had.

"I'll help!" said Arya, eagerly. They all knew she'd do anything to get out of her last year of school.

Robb forced a grin. "Sure you will." Then he looked at Jon. "You'll help, too." When Jon was silent, Robb continued, "…won't you? I need you, Jon. Bran was right. We all need you. The ranch needs you. I don't know why Father let Mother be so unkind to you, all these years, but… it won't be like that. Not anymore. I want you to move into the main house. You shouldn't be bunking with the hands, like you're not family."

"You can have Bran's room!" exclaimed Rickon. "He'll move in with me!"

Bran, looking amused at being volunteered, said, "I'll go shift my things into Rickon's room."

They all stared at Jon in expectation. He felt his throat tighten beyond the point of speaking, so he just nodded.

When Jon left the house, it was at the same time as the second coffin, Jory's, was being carried out to the Manderlys' wagon. They would carry both caskets to their shop, where they had a room specifically for such a thing, and in the morning would bring them to the church for the funeral. Jon pushed his grief down deep and trudged to the bunkhouse.

He hadn't much, so it didn't take long to shove his things into an empty feed sack and transport it to the house, where he found Bran had duly vacated his former room, leaving it for Jon, while Catelyn glared razor-sharp daggers. He ignored her.

"I've been thinking," said Bran as he helped Jon fold and put away his clothing in the bureau and Arya and Robb remade the bed with fresh linens. "Sansa will want to go to the funeral, tomorrow."

They all stopped and looked at each other.

"She'll be sore and the poppy milk makes her dizzy, but we can't carry her all over like a bag of potatoes," said Arya, ever-practical. "The only one who can is the sheriff, and that's just…"

She trailed off, her expression disturbed.

"Exactly," Bran said, very patiently, letting them know that was exactly his point. "So I thought we could ask Miz Brienne if we could borrow Mr. Selwyn's wheeled chair."

"I'll go ask her tomorrow, first thing," Arya offered. "I know she'll say yes."

Supper was odd, eating with the rest of the family, except for Catelyn, who ate alone in her room in protest. The empty chairs on either end of the table kept drawing everyone's gaze, especially Ned's at the head. The food was good— far better than mystery meat and beans— but Jon was very glad when it was over. He had a quick bath in cold water, not wanting to bother heating the water, and fell into bed, his body aching for rest, and fell asleep right away in spite of the disturbance of his thoughts.