Notes: Yay! So glad you all enjoyed the last chapters, but shit's about to get real, and I suggest that you all read through this carefully for there are hints here and there you cannot afford to skim over! As always, my sincere thanks to those who take the time to leave feedback *bows gratefully* I truly do appreciate it. Enjoy!

Dragonstone:

"The goal is to open up your stance with feet apart like so," Tyrion instructed while taking a few practice swings.

It was a little difficult keeping said stance thanks to the strong gusts of winds at this altitude, but the scene was picturesque as it gave one a fantastic view of an aquamarine sea where fishing boats, a cargo ship, and two large yachts floated like miniature toys. Besides, there was no way he was going to lose face in front of Missandei…not that the woman from Naath was paying much attention. She seemed more interested in her phone; her fingers flying across the screen as she browsed or typed with an intensity that was almost mesmerizing. She did look good in the black golf pants and matching long-sleeved blouse. Very casual chic.

"Ahem!" he cleared his throat and took another practice swing. "The stance, Missandei."

"Uh huh," came the absentminded reply.

She eventually looked up long enough to notice the dwarf had a petulant expression on his visage. Dressed in loud multi-colored plaid knickers and a cream-colored golf shirt, topped off with a rather ridiculous leather golf cap, Tyrion seemed determined to channel his inner athlete. She wondered, and not for the first time, why she had agreed to be his caddy today. She had a lot of work piled on her desk; after all, running a castle and seeing to the needs of the staff wasn't a cakewalk. However, it was a beautiful afternoon; not too hot and not too chilly, and she had been cooped up for the past couple of days. The chance to get some fresh air was not a bad idea…if only Tyrion would stop trying to teach her how to golf. She just wasn't interested.

"Your stance is wonderful, my Lord," she praised with an indulgent smile.

That seemed to appease him as he grinned and turned to address his ball; his hips wiggling in an interesting manner which had Missandei immediately recording it to show Dany later. She had no doubt her friend would get a kick out of it.

However, just as Tyrion raised his golf club for its imminent descent; their cellphones buzzed with a familiar notification alert. Under any normal circumstance, Tyrion might have ignored it and concentrated on getting his ball onto the makeshift 'green' – for this wasn't really a golf course but simply an untamed open field. He had, however, been warned to be alert for this particular notification. He all but flung the club to the ground and whipped out the device; hardly aware of holding his breath in readiness for the worst.

If it all goes south, he thought with his heart pounding at a mile-a-minute, we are in deep shit. Dear gods, please let it –

"Aah!" Missandei cried out before Tyrion could finish reading through the text message. It wasn't particularly lengthy, but the main gist was understood loud and clear.

"They did it!" Missandei squealed in delight as she wrapped her arms around Tyrion to give him an uncharacteristic hug. Not that he was complaining at the gesture, but he was still too stunned to really function much, and he barely heard Missandei rattle something about going back to the castle to complete her Queen's instructions.

They did it. Those two rapscallions actually did it. I don't fucking believe…how?!

Mingled emotions of relief, pride, admiration – though laced with a faint sliver of fear that would not fade no matter how often he tried to will it away - ran through him in waves. Caution was a sledgehammer drilled into him since childhood. Was it any wonder he took all good news with a grain of salt? There always had to be a catch in these things, and one could not choose to sit on their laurels and expect absolute peace and stability. That was the stuff of fairytales. This was reality, and reality stunk worse than horseshit.

"Incredible," he whispered as he paced toward the edge of the daunting cliff, while dialing a certain man's number. Tyrion, despite his appreciation of the northerner's influence in his Queen's life, still did have a few nagging doubts about Jon's leadership abilities. Bastard or not, Jon Snow had the blood of the Starks in his veins, and despite their best intentions, most Starks could prove to be irrational and much too hardheaded. Tyrion had already witnessed some of that, and it wasn't pretty. However, if what Jorah had sent them really was true…

He can be a formidable ruler…if he chose to be.

Which led him to his next concern. Not for the first time, the notion of those two taking their relationship to the next level was another scenario one had to take into consideration. He knew of Dany's history with the opposite sex, and one might assume the northerner might end up just being another conquest. However, anyone with eyes could very well see that this was just no 'fling', and if she should ever consider becoming permanently attached to the bastard...

Too soon to think of that, Tyrion. Let's focus on the task at hand and then we'll cross that bridge when we get to it.

"Good news I believe," were the first words out of Varys once the call went through. "Was there any doubt about the outcome, my dear Lord Tyrion?"

"Oh, cut the bullshit," Tyrion sneered. "You doubted him as well."

"Doubted him? I sent him there, remember?"

"To probably get him killed," Tyrion retorted with a cold smirk. "Knowing you, my Lord, you had a plan B in case things didn't go as planned."

"Of course there was the possibility he might fail, but he didn't, so we move on from there. In fact, as we speak, the wheels are already being set in motion. You should be pleased with what should be gracing the headlines first thing in the morning."

"And the Iron Bank?"

The Spider gave a girlish giggle that had Tyrion's skin crawling. There was something decidedly spooky about hearing that man laugh.

"Don't you worry about that, my Lord," Varys replied. "For the right fee, those greedy fools will do anything, so let's just say our dear King Robert will be in for even more of a surprise quite soon."

"Hmm…"

"And you?" Varys asked. "What's your next course of action?"

"You know exactly what it is," Tyrion said with a grim smile as he watched another cargo ship peeking beyond the horizon; a dusty shimmering gray haze against the sun's rays. "I do believe I am long overdue for a glorious reunion with my father and siblings."

Varys giggled again. "Indeed, my Lord. I do so look forward to seeing you grace the halls of the Red Keep again. Stay in touch."

Tyrion remained staring at the sea long after the conversation was over. He had known this was inevitable, but it still didn't lessen the enormity of the situation. He suddenly felt the urge to expel the rather delicious lunch he'd eaten earlier, but he took a deep breath and willed himself to relax. If Daenerys Targaryen, and that Jon Snow, had been able to convince a man like Khal Drogo to work with them, then what was a mere visit with the man who had tortured him for most of his life?

"It's all in the stance," he muttered as he walked back to his golf club and picked it again. He took a few practice swings and addressed his ball, and with a hard swing he watched the white object sail into the air in a graceful arc that brought a smile to his face…until it landed within the depths of the ocean miles below.

"Fuck!"

Ah to hell with it. Golf was a terrible sport anyway.

King's Landing:

Make no mistake about it, the world of journalism was survival of the fittest; a sometimes literal bloodbath when it came to the quest of being the first to feed the insatiable public with the latest breaking news. None was averse to going deep undercover, exchanging bribes, or even sleeping with the enemy just to get the most scandalous of scoops. Nothing was too sleazy or underhanded enough.

There were three major publications; the titans of the industry if you will: The Westeros Times, The Independent, and Westerosi Daily. Each would brag about being the best in the business, and as much as the digital age had overshadowed the need for actual publications, there was still a section of the public who cherished opening their newspapers first thing in the morning even if they eventually became wrapping paper or soiled derriere wipes.

Despite their impressive sales, these giants still knew they were in constant competition with the influx and readily available information on the internet. That desire to be number one was now more imperative than ever and journalists seemed to be working around the clock just dying for something to shake up the competition. News these days traveled at the speed of light, and the goal was to get there before the others even got a whiff of it.

So far, The Westeros Times was leading the way in the race. They were the first to print the pictures of Daenerys Targaryen, with her 'mystery' date, when she was in Dorne. In fact, when it came to anything about the last Targaryen, they were determined to make it their leading story. It was no surprise that those papers or digital releases sold the fastest, for despite their troubled and doomed history, the Targaryens did always capture the public's imagination. With Daenerys finally crawling out of the shadows, their offices buzzed with whatever news they could drag out of the few who had managed to catch a glimpse of the elusive would-be-queen of Westeros.

The current rumor was that she was somewhere in Essos, and two of their best journalists had been sent across the Narrow Sea to gather as much information as possible. Unfortunately, either Daenerys was damn good at hiding or she was already onto the media. Those journalists were yet to really find anything concrete, and no one could rely on drunken tales about the silver-headed woman who flew on dragons like her ancestors. What bullshit.

With frustration mounting, especially with her vanishing act after posting that introductory video - which now stood at almost 200 million views and counting – and no updates on her social media accounts, there was a palpable impatience amongst the public desperate to know more about her.

However, all of that would pale in comparison when, on that cold Wednesday morning, a weary Joaquin Meek – whose job was to sort through the thousands of mail in his claustrophobic basement office – would find himself staring at a bulky yellow envelope with the simple words:

URGENT ATTN:

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

THE WESTEROS TIMES

RE: ROBERT BARATHEON FILES

He might have tossed it aside; for it wasn't uncommon to get such packages with folks sending in alleged videos of famous people/celebrities misbehaving, UFO sightings, or stupid pet tricks in the guise of the latest scandal. However, when he noticed the official stamp of none other than Petyr Baelish - the ex-master of the coin for King Aerys – his eyes widened in surprise. The one many called "Littlefinger" had gone into hiding after the King's death, though many still insisted he operated in the underground. To suddenly receive an obvious exposé, especially about Robert Baratheon…

"Holy shit."

He dug through the bin and found two more large envelopes, and not waiting a second longer, he all but ran to the top floor like a maniac. He burst through the glass doors leading into the conference room where his editor-in-chief was in a meeting with some of his top editorial staff.

"What the fuck, Meek?" came the furious roar from the burly man at the head of the table. "We're in a goddamn meet…!"

"Got…got…something," he interrupted breathlessly as he held up the envelopes; his sweat-flushed features breaking into a grin of satisfaction. "I think you might want to check this one out, sir."

Merlyn Hightower was smart enough to know that Meek wouldn't run up here if it was nothing important, and his theory was proven right once he noticed the stamped mockingbird sigil on the envelopes. Impatient hands ripped the packages open, and as several tapes and documents tumbled to the table, his once thunderous expression faded into one of smug triumph.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he declared as he rose to his feet and puffed out his chest. "Looks like we're about to shake up Westeros again.

"Fire up the presses! It's time to bring down a giant."

Braavos:

Sensible heels click clacked upon the polished marble floors with experienced precision.

The corridor was endless and without warmth; its walls of aged stone and granite garnished with painted glass designed by the greatest artists ever assembled. It was high noon, yet a hushed silence filled the cavernous halls and chambers, where men and women slipped between them like shadows; the many secrets they held within a welcome burden on their backs and shoulders. Behind each heavy door of oak and steel; they spent countless hours calculating and tabulating figures that could make or break entire nations.

She came to a stop before one such door, and pressed her hand against the monitoring system which was quick to recognize her fingerprints. The door glided open noiselessly and she was ushered down yet another lengthy corridor; only this time the activity was a little more noticeable. Monochromatic-clad workers could be seen on their computers typing away or chatting on the phones; their voices rising and falling in a sing-song cacophony of enterprise while wheeling and dealing with potential clients or wayward loaners.

She smiled at the statuesque brunette at the receptionist desk, who smiled back and accepted the large flat envelope.

"I'll make sure he gets this," the brunette said in an accent that betrayed her Volantis ancestry, before rising gracefully to her feet.

She walked past several cubicles to the lone elevator, where with a single push of the button (there was only one way up anyway); she was taken to the pinnacle of the institution. The doors opened to a grand hall of marbled floors and flickering oil lamps gracing its walls. It was hardly a hospitable space, for at the apex sat a long table of polished stone with three matching chairs behind it. The rather intimidating sigil of the institution hovered behind it as if to remind everyone walking into the room of just where they were. Two narrow stone benches had been placed before the long table; where clients were scrutinized and judged (unbeknownst to them) by the three men who occupied said chairs now.

These were the top three keyholders; descendants of the original holders of the keys to the greatest vaults in the world. Only they knew all the contents within those hallowed spaces; as well as their secrets they would carry to their graves. Two wizened men with long matted gray hairs and beards flanked the youngest of the trio; a man with narrow features and a pinched expression as if wary of everyone who came before him. He was Tycho Nestoris, and as he looked up from his ledger; a ready frown of impatience on his features, his brow raised as he noticed the envelope being thrust in his direction.

"From Westeros," the brunette clipped with a polite bow.

At first Nestoris looked bemused, for he got so many requests daily, it was somewhat difficult to keep track. However, when the keyholder to his right leaned close to whisper "the Baratheon affair, I reckon", Nestoris's brows raised in acknowledgment.

"Indeed. Thank you, Miss Antonsson."

She bowed and spun on her heels to leave, but not before shivering at the devious expression on her boss's features as he ripped open the package.

Only the gods knew just what new secrets it contained.

King's Landing:

Sam gave a loud belch as he the drained the last of the beer. He tossed the empty can into the wastebasket beside his desk and frowned at the computer screen. Being an admin for one of the most active forums on the internet was no small task, and lately the members of The Blind Alley were becoming more bitchy and disgruntled with every passing day. The impatient fans wanted more from their queen, and it was becoming a chore having to moderate all the hate threads popping up or dealing with private messages from members requesting so-so-and-so be banned for one thing or another.

In addition to this, he still had to maintain the Raven and Maesterbook accounts, and he did his best to update with little nuggets of Targaryen history to keep the fans appeased. He would post old videos of Daenerys when she was at Slavers Bay or link to the Illustrogram account, which was under Missandei's watch. Not that anything new had been posted in a while. It still didn't stop her fanbase from growing. Her Illustrogram account now had five million followers, while her Raven and Maesterbook where approaching the two-million members milestone.

And his job was to keep them all happy. Dear gods.

He did wish she'd at least text him with an update; any bone to throw to the fans, but he realized she and Jon were in dangerous territory, and with every passing day Sam could only wonder and hope they were both all right. He had done more research on Khal Drogo and the Dothraki, in general, and nothing in their history gave him any hope that they would be successful.

But I've got to believe in them. If anyone can do it, it's you Jon. I'm sure of it.

He sighed as he noticed his Blind Alley inbox was filled with over a hundred messages. Time to dig in and start blocking or banning some folks. However, as he prepared to put on his headphones, a notification on his phone had him glancing at the device with mild irritation. He hoped it wasn't Gilly sending something inane again. Though he loved his girl, she could be a pain in the ass every now and then.

However, when the letters J-O-N flashed on his screen, he couldn't control the breathless squeal of delight to escape his lips. It seemed like an eternity since he had heard from his best friend, and for a second, his clumsy fingers nearly dropped the device to the floor as he tried to reach for it.

-U up, Sam?

-Yes, he typed with a goofy grin on his features. Pity Jon couldn't see it.

-Sorry. Can't talk, Jon responded. Been a long day. Tired as fuck.

-Got it. What's up?

-Back in Pentos now. We got Drogo on our side.

Sam's eyes widened. U're shitting me.

-Serious. Called back his men and all that. Even agreed to sign docu despite them not believing in that shit.

-Whoa…that is amazing.

-Not all me though. Dany did her bit. She's the amazing one.

-Says the man who's in (heart emoji)

-Fuck u (middle finger emoji)

-Seriously Jon. That is great. That's one hurdle out of the way.

-Right.

-See the news lately?

-Yeah. Pretty fucked up, ain't it?

-Sickening. Who knew he was into freaky shit like that? And all those bastards he's fathered? It's all anyone can talk about.

-I'll bet.

-Things have been tense on the streets in KL. Lots of protests by people who want him gone or in prison.

-…good.

-He hasn't bothered you, has he?

-No. Not heard anything yet.

-Maybe he's given up?

-Doubt it. This is Robert Baratheon, remember? What about Gendry?

Sam sighed; his features now morose. Haven't seen or heard from him in a while.

-I see.

-I did try going to his apartment the other day. Wasn't home.

-Maybe he's out of town again.

-Maybe.

-Anyway…gotta get off, but expect a package in the mail soon.

-Package?

-Yeah…finally did that DNA testing thing.

Sam's eyes widened. For as long as he he'd known Jon, he never liked talking about his birth or anything related to his bastard status. To think he would even want to do something like this…

-Dany talked me into it, Jon confessed. Sam was sure he could literally hear his friend blush.

-So, she knows u did it?

-No. Not yet. I want to surprise her with the results.

-Wow. U sure about this, Jon?

-It's done now. No turning back.

-Yeah. U still have Stark blood though.

-Yeah, I know that.

-Nervous?

-Of course, but don't wanna think about it now. Gotta go.

-Alright.

-Don't open the fucking results until I get back!

-Geez! I won't!

-See you in KL in a couple of days. I missed u, Sam.

Sam's throat tightened, and he had to close his eyes for a few seconds to gather himself. It didn't stop the blurring of his vision when he lifted his lashes to type back with trembling fingers.

-Missed you too, Jon…missed both of u. Give Dany my regards.

-Will do. See u soon.

Sam all but gave a whoop of excitement as he bounded off his chair and did a little jig in the middle of the living room; glad for once that he lived alone with no one to laugh at his antics. The past two and a half-week had been the longest of his life, and to think it was all coming to an end soon…well hopefully. Daenerys was yet to really make her impact in Westeros, and although Robert Baratheon's sins were now being splashed across all mass media, there was still Tywin Lannister to worry about.

"One step at a time," Sam muttered as he shuffled toward the fridge to grab another six-pack. He might as well get wasted while working on the forum, because he had a feeling he was going to need to be in that state when dealing with some of those members. He was just about to crack open a can, when his doorbell chimed.

He froze in mid-swig; eyes widening for an instant as his heartbeat quickened in immediate panic. He knew it couldn't be Gilly. She was out of town visiting family, and there was really no one else he knew that would be visiting him at nine-fifteen in the evening. Lowering the cans of beer on the counter, he grabbed the closest 'weapon' his hands could get, which turned out to be a frying pan he had left to dry on the dishrack.

He had done his best to be careful wandering around town, for there was no telling if Robert would send one of his goonies after him. Being a friend of Jon Snow was likely to get him killed, and so far, he had done his best to stay out of the City Watch's radar. If it turned out to be one of them at his doorstep…would hitting him with a frying pan be considered assault? Or could he just plead self-defense when on trial?

"Who…who is it?" he asked once he was close to the door. His breathing sounded like a steam engine on its last legs, and a sheen of sweat had formed on his forehead and upper lip.

"It's me, Sam," came the barely audible response which had Sam straining closer still.

"Who?!"

"Gendry! Seven hells, man! Open the fucking door!"

Gendry?! Sam tossed the pan to the floor and jerked around with the locks on the door before getting it open. It was Gendry all right, and he looked like absolute shit.

"Dear gods," Sam gasped as his friend stumbled into the room reeking of cheap booze and cigarettes. He was still clutching a half-filled bottle of rum in his right hand; the knuckles bloodied and swollen. The left side of his face was a grotesque display of cuts and bruises; some turning a sickly yellow. In addition, it had swollen to about the size of a tennis ball, and when he spoke, it sounded like his mouth was filled with cotton balls.

"You don't mind if I come in, do you?" Gendry asked with a crooked smile revealing several missing teeth.

"Not until you clean up first," Sam said quickly as he shut the door and dragged Gendry back to his feet before he could crash on his couch. His torn tee-shirt was streaked with blood and soot; same with his jeans. He yanked the bottle of rum from Gendry's grip, ignoring the weak protest this elicited and led him to the bathroom.

"Got towels, plenty of soap, and running water. Get clean, buddy, and then we can talk."

For a moment, it looked as if Gendry was about to get into an argument, but to both their surprise, all that managed to escape his lips was a strangled sob as tears formed in those startling blue eyes.

That's right, Sam thought sadly as Gendry backed in and slowly shut the door. All of this is happening to his father. It can't be easy for him either.

When Gendry finally came out of the bathroom, he looked a little more human. His face still looked like roadkill, but at least he was in cleaner clothes despite the sweatpants and shirt being a size too large for him. Looking sheepish, he accepted the cup of coffee Sam had made and sat gingerly on the edge of the sofa, staring morosely into the drink as if hoping it would give him all the answers he desperately needed.

"Where the fuck have you been?" Sam finally asked when it seemed like Gendry had no plans to start talking any time soon. "I went to your apartment last week and you weren't there. Called a few times and texted you, no answer. Did you leave town?"

Gendry shook his head and took a sip; wincing as his battered mouth protested the intrusion. He sighed and ran a hand through his wet hair.

"I was here…always been here," he replied quietly. "Just…it's been hell the past few days, that's all."

Sam said nothing and tasted a bit of his coffee as well. There was no point telling Gendry this was all a plan they had hatched in their bid to destroy his father, but damn it! Even Gendry had to know there was no redeeming a man like Robert Baratheon. For fuck's sake, he had ignored Gendry for most of his life and only decided to take his fatherly responsibilities recently. In Sam's humble opinion, Gendry owed him nothing.

Or maybe I'm just channeling my own bitterness towards my father, Sam thought with a tightening of his lips. That asshole would have been happier if I didn't exist anyway.

"Guess you've seen the news, huh?" Gendry asked with a wan smile. "Seen all the shitty things my great father did, right?"

Sam squirmed. "Gen-"

"I sorta knew," Gendry continued as if Sam hadn't spoken. "I mean…he did the same thing to my mother, didn't he? I grew up not even knowing who he was. He was never there for us. Didn't give a shit when we lived on scraps and mom had to work three jobs just to put food on the table. He wasn't there when she got so sick she could barely get out of bed. I was the one cleaning up her shit, Sam. All the vomit, the piss, the blood…everything. I did it. Not him. He wasn't there. He didn't care. She never spoke about him, and I only got to know who he was because she kept an old photograph of them in one of her keepsake boxes." He laughed bitterly. "You wanna know what's even worse? When I finally confronted him that first time and told him who I was…he couldn't even remember her name. The asshole didn't even know…wh-wh-who she wa-wa-was…" His voice broke and he lowered his head; the tears he had long held falling fast now as his heart broke all over again.

Sam, not caring how this looked, moved to sit beside his friend. He wrapped an arm around Gendry's shoulder and forced him to rest his heated forehead upon his shoulder.

If Jon was here, he'd probably do the same thing, Sam thought as he listened to the harsh sobs with a heavy heart. Hell, if there was ever a time they both needed Jon Snow, it was now.

"He's going crazy you know," Gendry whispered when he was all cried out. He didn't pull away from the embrace.

"Who's going crazy?"

"Robert," Gendry replied. "He's drinking has gotten worse, and he keeps himself locked away in his 'war room'; some room with a full-scale map of Westeros on the wall. That room gives me the fucking creeps."

"Why?"

"Why?" Gendry pulled away with a bitter laugh. "Because he's obsessed with some woman in a portrait, that's why!"

"Some woman…?"

"He's got this humongous painting of a beautiful woman with long black hair and blue roses in her hair. When he's not around, he hides it behind a curtain, but on some evenings, I peek into the room and there he is, standing before the picture for hours at a time- just freaking staring at it and not saying anything. On the days he gets really wasted, he starts ranting something about that fucking Targaryen bastard and calls her a fucking whore and then smashes his glass against the wall or begins to rip at his hair and shit." Gendry shuddered; his eyes distant and haunted. "These past few days, his madness has gotten worse. Now, he puts on these old home movies and plays it constantly on repeat."

"What home movies?"

Gendry snorted. "Who do you think? Not any of the weird underage shit the papers accuse him of, thank goodness. It's the same woman in the painting, only she's not dressed in some fancy ballgown. The video shows her, my dad, Ned Stark…gotta be him because I hear the lady calling him 'Ned! Ned!' and he does look a bit like Jon, and then…I swear I'm not making this up…Rhaegar fucking Targaryen."

Sam's heart skipped a beat. Like most of Westeros, everyone knew Robert Baratheon was responsible for taking the life of the once popular and loved prince. Unfortunately, Robert's brainwashing claims that all the Targaryens were evil had made the death a celebration instead. To think that those two men might have once been friends…

Something isn't right.

"…called her Lynn…Lyanna…or something like that," Gendry was saying forcing Sam's attention to him again.

"What was that?"

"I said, the woman my father's so obsessed about, I think her name is Lyanna or something. He keeps muttering that name whenever he watches the video and then he bursts into tears before going into another tirade about how all Targaryens need to be burned. Guess someone forgot to give him the memo that there's only one left, and I'm sure he's going to try to get his hands on her too. Fuck."

Oh, if you only knew, Sam mused with a light shake of his head.

"So, Robert is home now?" Sam queried.

Gendry nodded and tried taking another sip of the coffee. "Been locked away in there since the scandal started. There's been Press hanging around the castle wanting interviews and shit. I've had to use the underground tunnels to get in and out of there. But…I'm worried."

"Worried about what?"

Gendry looked up then; his gaze intense and earnest. "I think he's planning to do something really stupid and dangerous soon. He was somewhat sober this morning, and I heard him talking on the phone with someone…something about sending a warning message to those who want to fuck with him."

Sam sat up; his heart now somewhere in his throat. It was just as Jon had predicted. There was no way Robert would let things go this easily. If he was no longer waiting for Jon to follow through on his promise, there was no doubt he was about to do something drastic. Whatever that was could relate to his family in Winterfell.

Seven hells!

"And you have no idea what he plans to do?" Sam asked; hoping his voice didn't give anything away. He'd have to reach Jon again as soon as possible. He would have to forget plans to come back to King's Landing. Winterfell should be top priority.

Gendry laughed long and hard; though there was no humor in it. "Look at me," he said once he was finally calm enough. "This is how I ended up all black and blue. He sent his fucking goon, The Hound, to teach me a lesson. Said he's noticed me spying on him and was sure I was the one responsible for selling him out to the Press, so yeah…we got into a fight. That monster might have killed me if I didn't flee the scene eventually. Wish I had my fucking hammer on me. I'd have bashed his ugly face in."

"I'm sure you would have," Sam replied absentmindedly as he glanced at his laptop and phone with longing. He had no idea what he could possibly tell Jon anyway, and for all he knew, Robert might have been talking about retaliating against the media.

"You don't mind if I crash here, do you?" Gendry asked with a loud yawn. "Sorry, but I'm too beat to go back to my apartment. That fucker might be there waiting for me."

"Sure. You can use the sofa…pulls out and everything."

He helped get Gendry situated, and in less than twenty minutes, his friend was dead to the world with exhaustion. Sam studied the sleeping visage for a long time; his mind torn with all he had heard especially about the relationship between Rhaegar and Robert, and this mysterious Lyanna that was no doubt the bane of their friendship.

Curiosity getting the better of him, Sam nodded to himself and went to his desk, and slipping on the headphones, he decided that a little digging into the history books was in order. Perhaps there was bound to be something to give away the real reason behind Robert's Rebellion and why it was all connected to the events of today.

The impatient members of Blind Alley would just have to wait a little bit longer.

Winterfell:

It was almost a strange sight; happy laughter and squeals of delight considering the events of the past week. Arya's snowman was currently under attack by Rickon, who kept shooting snowballs at it, while Arya – as agile as ever – deflected them with a baseball bat.

"They can be so silly," came the dry comment beside him.

Robb stole a glance at his sister. "They're just having fun, Sansa. You don't expect them to be miserable all the time." Like you, he wanted to add, but then again, Sansa had been the closest to their mother, so it was no wonder she was still in deep mourning.

The simple but well-crafted black wool gown covered her completely; leaving only her pale beautiful features and hands to anyone's gaze. Their mothers' favorite cameo brooch was pinned on her left breast, and with that shocking hair of burnt copper and empty blue eyes, it felt like he was standing next to a much younger Catelyn Stark. Robb shuddered. There was something almost eerie about it.

"Where's Bran?" he asked as he pushed off the railing and prepared to head back to his office.

"Where else?" Sansa replied; her gaze still trained on her siblings below. "Stuck in the library. I'm sure he's already read everything in there, but nothing stops him from starting all over again."

Robb chuckled and began walking away, but stopped at her quiet question.

"Do you still know what he wanted to share with us about Aunt Lyanna?"

"No idea," Robb replied. "But he did say it would be best if Jon was here."

"He's never coming back home," came the flat statement which had Robb feeling a flicker of anger at how dismissive it was.

"What makes you say that?"

"He's a bastard," Sansa reminded him, and in that moment, Robb was sure he was staring at Catelyn and not his sister. How many times had he listened to his mother remind him of Jon's status? "He's never really felt a part of us, and I'm sure he's much happier in the South…with his new queen."

"…that's probably a rumor," Robb mumbled, for he too had heard the stories (and seen the pictures) about Jon and Daenerys Targaryen.

"Is it?" Sansa asked with a wry smile. "Guess we'll see, won't we?" And with that cryptic comment, she spun on her heels and glided down the veranda; her feet barely making a sound on the worn wood.

Shaking his head, Robb made the turn toward his office, or rather what used to be Ned Stark's office. Like most of the rooms in Winterfell, its furnishings and décor leaned toward the dark, solid and sturdy. Thanks to the natural hot springs running underground and within the granite walls, the castle did not lack for warmth especially during the winter. Still, there was a welcoming fire in the grand fireplace as he sank into the comfortable leather seat behind the large desk cluttered with paperwork that still needed his attention. His computer screen came to life, and aside from the scrolling menu showcasing the stock market figures, he mused at the headlines regarding a certain Robert Baratheon.

What a clusterfuck.

There was no way anyone could survive such brutal character assassination, but then again, any pity Robb might have had for the man was non-existent. With a sigh, he pulled open the top drawer on his left and carefully withdrew the leather-bound dossier with unintentional reverence. Taking a deep breath, he opened it; his blue eyes scanning the fine print as if hoping the words would never change.

Miracles do happen.

He still had to pinch himself to be sure he wasn't imagining things, yet here they were. Winterfell, and perhaps the entire fucking North, saved by someone he was never going to know.

My dearest brother,

I hope you get a chance to read this email before anything dangerous befalls you. I must say I was quite stunned at your letter, not just because of all you've experienced with Robert, and what you hope to achieve by avenging Uncle Benjen's death, but just how far you're willing to go for us. Sometimes I wonder if we truly deserve your devotion and love, Jon. I really do. When I think of all the times Mom treated you with such contempt, and how powerless I was to stop it, I wish I could kneel before you and ask for your forgiveness. However, I know this is something you do not want to read right now, so I'll spare you the gushing.

However, I feel I do owe you an apology, because yes, I haven't completely been honest with you.

You once asked if things were going well with the family business, and I believe I might have told you a falsehood. If your gut instinct was to believe that things were at a crossroads, then you're exactly right.

For all his business acumen, Dad wasn't quite as shrewd as one would believe. According to a mountain of files and documents, Dad had partnered up with Tywin Lannister where they were allegedly supposed to have equal shares in an investment opportunity with a mining corporation set to be opened somewhere near Moat Cailin. Dad sunk more than half of his savings into the project, which ended up being a dud. Tywin was smart enough not to put all his eggs into one basket, and left Dad to scramble around picking up the pieces. His pride wouldn't let him sell his shares to Tywin, who made offers to simply buy out the entire cooperation and keep us out of the red.

In his quest to stop Tywin's constant harassment, guess who Dad turned to? His buddy and old friend, Robert Baratheon. Robert was more than willing to chip in with the belief that he would eventually get a share of the profits when the company was back on its feet. It's one of the first things he reminded me of when we had a private meeting after the funeral. It's just like you said, Jon, he smiles in your face, but has the tongue of a fucking viper. He didn't really give a shit about us; saying he was only doing things for Mom and was hoping I'd be wise enough to not make the same mistakes Dad did when he was alive.

I then asked, because I was pissed off, if this had anything to do with Dad's 'accident', and he looks me right in the eye and says, "You do not want to get involved in the games of the adults, Robb Stark." He was treating me like a fucking kid, Jon! Man, I saw red and told him to take a hike, vowing I would get the company back on its feet without his help.

Guess what the fucker does the next day when he assembles a meeting of all the northern lords? Starts going off on a rant about how the North was getting weak with me being at the helm, and how Tywin Lannister was proving to be an ineffective leader as well. He planned to unite Westeros by taking control of the Syndicate again, and vowed to give the North the independence it needed instead of being subservient to the Red Keep. As you can well imagine, this went well with a couple of them; especially the Boltons, Glovers, and Karstarks, but guess who stepped in? Greatjon Umber! You should have seen the speech he gave, Jon! He fucking put Robert in his place and pretty much told him to go fuck himself and not show his traitorous face in the North ever again. Anyone who waged war against the Starks waged war against House Umber. Besides, as far as they were all concerned, the North had always been independent anyway. They rarely pay much attention to what happens in the South, so if they wished to kill themselves, they were welcome to it.

Let's just say Robert wasn't too happy about this, and stormed off spouting something about all of us regretting the decision to ignore his warnings especially with the Targaryen bitch – no offense if she's your girlfriend (and that's something we'll have to talk about next time, bro) – but those were his words. Trust me, we didn't all go singing off into the sunset. The Boltons and Karstarks are still fuming about the whole thing and seem determined to work with Robert, but the Glovers reluctantly swore their allegiance to the Starks again. I still don't trust that rat-faced asshole.

All this aside, there was still the problem of being in debt especially to the goddamn Iron Bank of Braavos. It's no fun getting phone calls or letters from them, Jon, and those assholes are ruthless. It's been so hard having to compose the words to tell Arya she won't be able to go to The Prestige after all…or having to tell Rickon he won't be able to get into the college of his choice because we can't afford the goddamn fees. His grades weren't high enough to get him a good scholarship as that would have helped a bit.

But the gods have been good to us, Jon, in more ways than one. First was the sudden influx of money sent to our private bank accounts with the message that it was for the Stark children and Stark children only. It didn't take a scientist to figure out you were the one behind that, Jon. You really didn't have to do that seeing as it was probably the money Uncle Benjen left for you. However, I know if I decided to return it, you'll be pissed, so trust me when I say that your generosity is more than appreciated, my dearest brother. I think we should be set for the next few months, and at least pay the first semester fee for Arya.

But wait…there's more.

And this time, I'm still at a loss as to who or what is responsible for this bit of great luck. I even had to go to the godswood for hours afterwards praying that this wasn't all a dream.

It happened a few days ago. It was the familiar dreaded call from the Iron Bank, but instead of receiving that snippy voice warning us of all the horrible things in our future, it was Tycho Nestoris in person! He was sounding much nicer, saying something about congratulations on all our debt being paid off and having the Stark holdings and estate fully reestablished under our names again. Now, I know Uncle Benjen left you with some money, but it wasn't that much for you to buy us out, Jon, which leaves me with…who? I've wracked my brain trying to figure out who could be responsible for it, and I keep coming up empty.

I haven't told Sansa or Bran about this yet, because I didn't want them worrying about things, but as you can well imagine, I am so happy I could cry. Hell, I think I did shed a few tears when the Iron Bank representative showed up with the documents for me to sign. I did pester them to reveal who our benefactor was, but they wouldn't say anything. All they said was 'this person simply wishes you all the best', and that was it.

Do you think it's Dad from the grave? I know it's stupid, but what else do I have to go with? I'm sure you're probably telling me not to overthink things, right? Just appreciate what's happening and take the company to new heights, and trust me, I intend to do just that.

Holy shit, I've written a fucking essay, but this is what happens when you insist on acting so mysterious and traveling to strange countries without keeping in touch often. Bottom line, don't worry about us anymore, Jon. We've got things under control, and I think things will be fine from now on. Just promise to come home as soon as you can, okay? Arya would really like to see you before she leaves for Braavos, and hell, if it means bringing your 'imaginary' girlfriend with you (seriously, are you really dating Daenerys fucking Targaryen? How?!) – that's fine too. We'll give her a proper northern welcome.

Take care of yourself, Jon. I (We) miss you lots.

Love,

Robb Stark.

Pentos:

If he was going to be completely honest, they were quite exquisite. Mesmerizing in fact.

"Seven hells, Jon," Dany grumbled as she trotted past him and stuffed more of their clothes into a trunk. "How long are you going to keep staring at them?"

"Says the one who kept oohing and aahing over them all day yesterday? You almost fucking slept with one."

She smirked and sat on the luggage to try to get it shut. "Well considering you've got only one functioning arm…"

"Hardy har har," he replied with a mock pout, knowing full well she was right. His left arm was wrapped in bandages and with the sling to hold it in place, the doctors had said it should be fully healed in a couple of weeks.

Or sooner, he thought as he recalled Drogo's words about being touched by a maegi. Hell, the once throbbing pain in his right leg was almost non-existent, though he still visibly limped a little.

"Aww, don't pout," she crooned as she leaned close to steal a kiss on his lips. She did stop to stare at the objects of his attention; a beautiful small smile coming to her features as they reflected in her violet eyes.

"I still can't believe he gave them to us," she whispered as if afraid of disrupting them, which was rather silly. "Actual dragon eggs."

"Might be fake," Jon mused aloud as he placed a hard kiss on her head before reaching into the elegant walnut box to lift one of them. It was supposedly fossilized and had turned to stone over time. llyrio claimed they were from the Shadow Lands, and having read up about the place, Jon could almost believe it. They were quite heavy, but it was their intricate scales, with their kaleidoscope of colors, that made all the difference. The one he held was black yet could ripple and swirl with shades of scarlet when raised to the light. The other two were deep green with bronze flecks, and pale cream streaked with gold. If Jon didn't know any better, they sort of reminded him of certain Komodo dragons back in Dorne.

…or were these actual Komodo dragon eggs some sneaky master carver had created to fool…

"Stop thinking so hard, my darling," Dany chastised with a playful pinch of his cheek. She failed to notice the blush her term of endearment brought to his features as she turned away to focus on the chaos that was their bedroom. He had no idea how they had arrived with only a couple of handheld luggage and were now returning to Westeros with fucking trunks.

Well, returning to Dragonstone to be exact.

He lowered the egg back in place and caressed it absently. It would be a quick pitstop at Dany's new home where he might stay for a day or two before heading back to King's Landing. He knew he would have to face Robert, sooner or later, though having read and re-read Robb's letter was a promising start. Knowing that the North would no longer be a factor or leverage to be used against him, Jon could go on the offensive and end things once and for all. With Drogo at their side and the promise to send his khalasar across the Narrow Sea, should there ever be a need for his new army, Jon was still too overwhelmed by all that had happened to really deny his generous offer.

He was sure sometime during the endless two days and nights of celebrations back at Vaes Dothrak, they had unofficially made him a Khal with about five thousand men now under his command. Of course, there was no way Jon could handle something like that, so they had agreed to let Jhogo be in charge until he returned to visit, or the gods forbid, a war was to break out.

Word spread fast, for even before the plane came to a complete stop at the tarmac, Magister Illyrio was already bowing and praising Khal Jon Snow for doing the impossible. The good news had also been delivered to their allies in Westeros (the Martells and most of the Houses around Dragonstone), causing Dany and Jon to turn off their phones after a while as they became bombarded with messages and calls from their excited subjects.

"Ah fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck," she cursed at the realization she had mixed up some packages. "Fuck! I wish Missandei was here."

"I'd love to help, but…" He wiggled the fingers of his left hand and looked sheepish.

"Just stand there and keep looking pretty…or sing to me or something," she grumbled, and tried to swat him away when he ruffled her hair. Gods, she looked adorable when flustered.

He could only imagine her expression when he finally revealed he had taken the plunge and done the DNA test. It was while at the hospital that he had noticed the ad for The Lineage Tree; a fast and easy way to learn about your ancestry within 1 to 2 weeks. One of the nurses was kind enough to give him a kit at his request, and to say he had debated with himself for almost an hour before finally giving in, would have been an understatement. Jon almost felt violated while spitting into the narrow tube; a part of him rebelling against his innermost desire to find out who his mother really was. Not that the test would be able to pinpoint an exact person, but at least it would give him a general idea of where to start looking.

Wouldn't it be poetic justice if his mother turned out to be a fucking wildling? Hah!

DNA woes aside, there was still another nagging question that needed answering, and it had to do with the mystery person responsible for helping his family in the most generous of ways. Like Robb, he too was finding it hard to come up with a name. He had shared the story with Dany, and was rather taken aback at her almost flippant response of "this person wanted no thanks and no recognition, right? I think you should just respect their wishes and don't dig too much into it, Jon. Sometimes miracles happen for a reason."

Miracles? He could almost believe that –

A sudden knock on their door had them looking up at the same time.

It was Davos, and he looked anything but his usual amiable self. His features were flushed with either exertion or panic, it was hard to tell, but there was a strange look in his eyes; an expression that was a mixture of fear and madness. It was enough to send alarm bells going off in Jon's head.

"Davos…?"

"Jo-Jon," came the stuttered reply as he staggered into the room and had to hold onto Jon's shoulders as if afraid he'll fall. He was literally trembling all over. Jorah and Magister llyrio had arrived as well, though they chose to hover at the doorway with concerned expressions on their visages as well.

Just what the fuck happened?!

"Davos," he began again; surprised at how calm his voice was despite the pounding of his heart. "Take a deep breath and tell me what's going-"

"Burned!" the older man cried out so loudly, Jon had to pull away from the spittle flying in his direction. "The apartment complex, Jon! It's burning! The whole fucking thing!"

Wha…what? what the hell is he talking about…?

It wasn't computing. The words weren't making any sense. Even when Jorah came forward to show them the video on his phone – breaking news of a huge inferno consuming one of the premiere apartment complexes in King's Landing – it still wasn't registering. It couldn't be the White Castle Apartments. It couldn't be where he had called home for the past year and a half. It wasn't his uncle's first legacy currently being wrapped in plumes of yellow, red, and black. It couldn't be the possible loss of so many innocent lives, could it? None of this was real, was it?

No…no…this isn't happening-

"Robert. That fucking bastard did this," came the fierce whisper beside him as he felt her hand squeeze his right upper arm with a pressure that would have caused him to wince if he was completely functional.

"What do we do?" someone was saying, and Jon could have laughed at how ridiculous a question it was. What were they going to do? He didn't know about them, but he had a very good idea of exactly what he was going to do.

"King's Landing," he said aloud with an expression that gave no room for arguments. "We're going to King's Landing now."

"Then I'm coming with you," Dany said with a firm nod.

"No," Jon replied with a frown and a shake of his head. "You go to Dragonstone and-"

"And sit there waiting for news about you? Spending every waking minute wondering if you're alive or dead?" she quipped back angrily. "No way, Jon Snow. I'm coming with you whether you like it or not."

"Seven hells, Dany. I can't risk something happening to you…"

"You can't treat me with kid gloves, Jon. I'm a big girl. I can handle myself."

"It's not about your fighting skills," he retorted with exasperation. "You could get arrested! They'll find any reason to lock you away, and I -"

"Fine! I get arrested, but I'm not leaving your side until then! I appreciate you fighting for me, Jon, but this is my fight as well. You forget that Robert Baratheon was single-handedly responsible for destroying my family, and I owe him one. You cannot take this away from me!"

He opened his mouth to argue back when he saw the shimmering tears of anger in her eyes. Her jaw was clenched so tight, he could see the effort it was taking for her not to smack him in the face for being so obtuse.

Dear gods, help him.

"All right…all right. We'll go together," he finally croaked as he pulled her trembling body into an embrace – as awkward a hug as it was with his injured arm – to bury his face within her hair. With a gentle kiss on the silky mass of silver, he would eventually lift his gaze to his trusted Hands, where without uttering a word, they understood his intentions loud and clear.

It was time to end this.