Copyright Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire by George RR Martin, other than my own the original character(s) in this story. This is purely a work of my personal enjoyment so don't expect anything worthy of GRRM. I fully welcome criticism/suggestions/questions. The story will eventually be finished (I hate leaving things unfinished) but I have no real schedule. Please review as I'd love useful thoughts :) feedback helps encourage my writing.

Chapter 49: Winter's Wrath
"Your debts will be paid in blood."
– King Rodrik the Ruthless

When he heard noises through the thick wooden door of his cell, Tyrion Lannister was prepared to die.

Past time, he thought. "Come on, come on, make an end to it." He was tired of being in and out of jail as if it were a cheap pleasure house. He pushed himself to his feet. His legs were asleep from being folded under him. He bent down and rubbed the knives from them. "I will not go stumbling and waddling to the headsman's block…"

He wondered whether they would kill him down here in the dark or drag him through the city so Ser Ilyn Payne could lop his head off.

After his mummer's farce of a trial, his sweet sister had jumped at the opportunity to blame their father's death on him.

"Oh?" Tyrion had scoffed at the Kingsguard sent for him. "Did I kill him too? I've been so very busy…"

As the keys rattled and the door to his cell pushed inward, creaking, Tyrion pressed back against the dampness of the wall, wishing for a weapon.

He could still bite and kick. "I'll die with the taste of blood in my mouth, that's something, right?"

He wished he'd been able to think of some rousing last words.

"Bugger you all" was not like to earn him much of a place in the histories.

Torchlight fell across his face. He shielded his eyes with a hand.

"Come on, are you frightened of a dwarf? Do it, you son of a poxy whore!"

"Is that any way to speak about our lady mother?" The man moved forward, a torch in his left hand.

For a moment Tyrion could not breathe. "You?"

"Aye, little brother, last I checked." Jaime was forcing his smile.

A bark of hysterical laughter burst from the dwarf's lips.

"Have you come to kill me?" Tyrion frowned then suddenly.

"Now that's ungrateful. Perhaps I should leave you here to rot if you're going to be so discourteous..."

"Rotting is not the fate Cersei has in mind for me, I imagine…"

"Well no, if truth be told. You're to be beheaded on the morrow for Father's death, out on the old tourney grounds. No trial this time…"

Tyrion laughed again. "Will there be food? You'll have to help me with my last words, my wits have been running about like a rat in a root cellar."

"You won't need last words. I'm rescuing you." Jaime's voice was strangely solemn.

"Who said I required rescue, eh?"

"You know, I'd almost forgotten what an annoying little man you are. Now that you've reminded me, I do believe I'll let Cersei cut your head off after all."

"Oh no you won't." He waddled out of the cell. "Is it day or night up above? I've lost all sense of time."

"Three hours past midnight. The city sleeps." Jaime slid the torch back into its sconce, on the wall between the cells.

The corridor was so poorly lit that Tyrion almost stumbled on the turnkey, sprawled across the cold stone floor. He prodded him with a toe. "Is he dead?"

"Asleep. The other three as well. The eunuch dosed their wine with sweetsleep, but not enough to kill them. Or so he swears. He is waiting back at the stair, dressed up in a septon's robe. You're going down into the sewers, and from there to the river. A galley is waiting in the bay. Varys has agents in the Free Cities who will see that you do not lack for funds… but try not to be conspicuous. Cersei will send men after you, I have no doubt. You might do well to take another name."

"Another name? Oh, certainly. And when the Faceless Men come to kill me, I'll say, 'No, you have the wrong man, I'm a different dwarf on the run!'"

They both laughed at the absurdity of it all. Jaime went to one knee and kissed him quickly once on each cheek.

"Thank you, Brother," Tyrion said. "For my life..."

"It was… a debt I owed you." Jaime's voice was strange.

"A debt?" He cocked his head. "I do not understand."

"Good. Some doors are best left closed."

"Oh, dear," said Tyrion. "Is there something grim and ugly behind it? Could it be that someone said something cruel about me once? I'll try not to weep. Tell me."

"Tyrion…"

Jaime looked afraid.

"Tell me," Tyrion said again.

His brother looked away. "Tysha," he said softly.

"Tysha?" His stomach tightened. "What of her?"

"She was no whore. I never bought her for you. That was a lie that Father commanded me to tell. Tysha was… she was what she seemed to be. A crofter's daughter, chance met on the road." Tyrion could hear the faint sound of his own breath whistling hollowly through the scar of his nose. Jaime could not meet his eyes.

Tysha. He tried to remember what she had looked like. A girl, she was only a girl. "My wife," he croaked. "She wed me..."

"For your gold, Father said. She was lowborn, you were a Lannister of Casterly Rock. All she wanted was the gold, which made her no different from a whore, so… so it would not be a lie, not truly, and… he said that you required a sharp lesson. That you would learn from it, and thank me later…"

"Thank you?" Tyrion's voice was choked. "He gave her to his guards. A barracks full of guards. He made me…watch."

Aye, and more than watch. He'd took her too… his own wife…

"I never knew he would do that. You must believe me."

"Oh, must I?" Tyrion snarled. "Why should I believe you about anything, ever? She was my wife!"

"Tyrion-"

He hit him. It was a slap, backhanded, but he put all his strength into it, all his fear, all his rage, all his pain. Jaime was squatting, unbalanced.

The blow sent him tumbling backward to the floor. "I… I suppose I earned that..."

"Oh, you've earned more than that, Jaime. You and our sweet sister, yes, I can't begin to tell you what you've earned. But you'll have it, that I swear to you. A Lannister always pays his debts." Tyrion waddled away, almost stumbling over the turnkey again in his haste. He yelled curses as he waddled in the dark.

Before he had gone a dozen yards, he bumped up against an iron gate that closed the passage. Oh, gods. It was all he could do not to scream.

Jaime came up behind him. "I have the gaoler's keys."

"Then use them." Tyrion stepped aside.

Jaime unlocked the gate, pushed it open, and stepped through. He looked back over his shoulder. "Are you coming?"

"Not with you." Tyrion stepped through. "Give me the keys and go. I will find Varys on my own."

Jaime handed him the ring of keys. "I gave you the truth. You owe me the same. Did you do it? Did you kill them?"

The question was another knife, twisting in his guts, for not even Jaime believed him… he'd only come to fulfil a debt he owed…

"Are you sure you want to know?" asked Tyrion. "Father was a damn monster and Joffrey would have been a worse king than Aerys ever was…"

"I… I didn't think…"

"Well, a son takes after his father," Tyrion scoffed. "Joff would have killed me as well once he came into his power. For the crime of being short and ugly!"

"You have not answered my question..."

"You poor stupid blind fool. Very well. Cersei is a lying whore; she's been fucking Osmund Kettleblack and probably Moon Boy for all I know. And I am the monster they all say I am. Yes, I killed your vile son, and father too!" He made himself grin. It must have been a hideous sight to see, there in the torchlit gloom.

Jaime turned without a word and walked away, leaving him alone in the dark with his thoughts…

Tyrion watched him go, striding on his long strong legs, and part of him wanted to call out, to tell him that it wasn't true, to beg for his forgiveness. But then he thought of Tysha, and he held his silence. He listened to the receding footsteps until he could hear them no longer, then waddled off to look for Varys.

The eunuch was lurking in the dark of a twisting turnpike stair, garbed in a moth-eaten brown robe with a hood that hid the paleness of his face.

"You were so long, I feared that something had gone amiss," he said when he saw Tyrion.

"Oh, no," Tyrion assured him, in poisonous tones. "What could possibly have gone amiss?" He twisted his head back to stare up. "I sent for you during my trial."

"I could not come. The queen had me watched, night and day. I dared not help you."

"You're helping me now..."

"Am I? Ah." Varys giggled. It seemed strangely out of place in this place of cold stone and echoing darkness. "Your brother can be… most persuasive..."

"Varys, you are as cold and slimy as a slug, has anyone ever told you? You did your best to kill me. Perhaps I ought to return the favour?"

The eunuch sighed. "The faithful dog is kicked, and no matter how the spider weaves, he is never loved. But if you slay me here, I fear for you, my lord. You may never find your way back to daylight." His eyes glittered in the shifting torchlight, dark and wet. "These tunnels are full of traps for the unwary."

Tyrion snorted. "Unwary? I'm the wariest man who ever lived, you helped see to that."

Varys gave a gentle tug at the dwarf's sleeve and pulled him into the stair. "We must away. Your path is down."

That's no lie, at least. Tyrion waddled along in the eunuch's wake, his heels scraping against the rough stone as they descended. It was very cold within the stairwell, a damp bone-chilling cold that set him to shivering at once. "What part of the dungeons are these?" he asked.

"Maegor the Cruel decreed four levels of dungeons for his castle," Varys replied. "On the upper level, there are large cells where common criminals may be confined together. They have narrow windows set high in the walls. The second level has the smaller cells where highborn captives are held. They have no windows, but torches in the halls cast light through the bars. On the third level the cells are smaller, and the doors are wood. The black cells, men call them. That was where you were kept, and Prince Willam and Eddard Stark before you. There is a level lower still. Once a man is taken down to the fourth level, he never sees the sun again, nor hears a human voice, nor breathes a breath free of agonizing pain. Maegor had the cells on the fourth level built for torment." They had reached the bottom of the steps. An unlighted door opened before them. "This is the fourth level. Give me your hand, my lord. It is safer to walk in darkness here. There are things you would not wish to see."

Tyrion hung back a moment. Varys had already betrayed him once . Who knew what game the eunuch was playing? And what better place to murder a man than down in the darkness, in a place that no one knew existed? His body might never be found.

On the other hand, what choice did he have? To go back up the steps and walk out the main gate?

Jaime would not be afraid, he thought, before he remembered what Jaime had done to him.

He took the eunuch by the hand and let himself be led through the black, following the soft scrape of leather on stone. Varys walked quickly, from time to time whispering, "Careful, there are three steps ahead," or, "The tunnel slopes downward here, my lord." He'd arrived here a King's Hand, riding through the gates at the head of my own sworn men, Tyrion reflected, and he was leaving like a rat scuttling through the dark, holding hands with a spider.

A light appeared ahead of them, too dim to be daylight, and grew as they hurried toward it. After a while he could see it was an arched doorway, closed off by another iron gate. Varys produced a key. They stepped through into a small round chamber. Five other doors opened off the room, each barred in iron. There was an opening in the ceiling as well, and a series of rungs set in the wall below, leading upward. An ornate brazier stood to one side, fashioned in the shape of a dragon's head. The coals in the beast's yawning mouth had burnt down to embers, but they still glowed with a sullen orange light. Dim as it was, the light was welcome after the blackness of the tunnel.

The juncture was otherwise empty, but on the floor was a mosaic of a three-headed dragon wrought in red and black tiles. Something niggled at Tyrion for a moment. Then it came to him. This is the place Shae told him of when Varys first led her to his bed. "We are below the Tower of the Hand…"

"Yes." Frozen hinges screamed in protest as Varys pulled open a long-closed door. Flakes of rust drifted to the floor. "This will take us out to the river."

Tyrion walked slowly to the ladder, ran his hand across the lowest rung. "This goes to my father's bedchamber?"

"It did indeed," Varys hummed.

"Who killed him?" Tyrion asked, eyeing the spider.

"Widow's Blood," Varys named it. "A cruel potion. It shuts down a man's bladder and bowels, until he drowns in his own poisons…"

"Prince Oberyn then," Tyrion guessed with a scowl.

"Perhaps," Varys betrayed nothing. "The man is not present to answer you…"

"And how is it you were unaware of his departure?"

"I was not," Varys admitted easily.

"And yet you didn't warn my father..."

"Nobody asked," the Spider shrugged. "They knew by morning."

"And nobody thought to check for poisons?" Tyrion highly doubted that.

"Widow's Blood is a slow and cruel thing Lord Tyrion, if it was indeed the culprit; then it was already within Lord Tywin for some time."

He made for either the worst or the greatest spymaster, for whoever the man was truly loyal to… that was certainly not Tywin Lannister…

"I do not lie Lord Tyrion," Varys insisted. "Men simply ask the wrong questions…"

Wasn't that the truth of it. So then, what questions were the right ones?

"As if you'd answer if I asked them…"

"I would answer…"

Half-truths and empty words, no doubt…

"There is no time. We must go quickly, my Lord."

They walked through the dark for what felt like hours.

Varys escorted him through the tunnels, but they never spoke until they emerged beside the Blackwater with the master of whisperers dressed as a begging brother, in a moth-eaten robe of brown roughspun with a cowl that shadowed his smooth fat cheeks and bald round head. They made for the ship without delay.

He drank his way across the sea. The ship was small, his cabin smaller, but the captain would not allow him above deck. The rocking of the deck beneath his feet made his stomach heave, and the wretched food tasted even worse when retched back up. But why did he need salt beef, hard cheese, and bread crawling with worms when he had wine to nourish him? It was red and sour, very strong. Sometimes he heaved the wine up too, but there was always more…

"The world is full of wine," he muttered in the dankness of his cabin. His father never had any use for drunkards, but what did that matter?

His father was dead. Prince Oberyn had a flare for the poetic, it seemed; making Tywin Lannister shit himself to death.

Tyrion chuckled at the thought, taking another swig of wine to fill his belly.

"I should've done it myself," his thoughts betrayed him. "It should've been Me…"

Belowdecks, there was neither night nor day. Tyrion marked time by the comings and goings of the cabin boy who brought the meals he did not eat. The boy always brought a brush and bucket too, to clean up. "Is this Dornish wine?" Tyrion asked him once, as he pulled a stopper from a skin.

"It reminds me of a certain snake I knew. A droll fellow, but quite the poet apparently…"

The cabin boy did not answer. He was an ugly boy, though admittedly comelier than a certain dwarf.

"Have I offended you?" Tyrion asked, as the boy was scrubbing.

The silent boy said nothing, simply looking at him with a blank look.

"Were you commanded not to talk to me? Or did some dwarf once diddle your mother?"

That went unanswered too. "Where are we sailing? Tell me that, at least..."

Jaime had made mention of the Free Cities but failed quite spectacularly to say which one.

"Is it Braavos? Tyrosh? Myr?" Tyrion would sooner have gone to Dorne. Myrcella was older than Tommen, by Dornish law the Iron Throne was hers…

"I will help her claim her rights, as Prince Oberyn suggested," he thought then. Would Doran Martell truly consider such a chancy scheme? He might clap him in chains instead and hand him back to his sweet sister. The Wall might be safer. Old Bear Mormont said the Night's Watch had need of men like Tyrion. Mormont might be dead, though. Did he really want to spend the rest of his life eating salt beef and porridge with murderers and thieves? Not that the rest of his life would last very long there.

The Wall had by all reports fallen to the Willdings that now pestered Robb Stark, the new King in the North. It seemed that crowns were nine a penny once more…

The cabin boy wet his brush and scrubbed on manfully. "Have you ever visited the pleasure houses of Lys?" the dwarf inquired. Tyrion could not seem to recall the Valyrian word for whore however, and in any case, it was too late for him to try. The boy tossed his brush back in his bucket and took his leave.

The wine had blurred his wits. He had learned to read High Valyrian at his maester's knee, though what they spoke in the Nine Free Cities ...

Well, it was not so much a dialect as nine dialects on the way to becoming separate tongues. Tyrion had some Braavosi and a smattering of Myrish. In Tyrosh he would be able to curse the gods, call a man a cheat, and order up an ale, thanks to a sellsword he had once known at the Rock. At least in Dorne they speak the Common Tongue. Like the Dornish food and Dornish law, Dornish speech was spiced with the flavours of the Rhoyne, but a man could comprehend it.

"Dorne, yes, Dorne for me," he decided. He crawled into his bunk, clutching that thought like a child with a doll.

Sleep had never come easily to Tyrion Lannister. Aboard that ship it seldom came at all, though from time to time he managed to drink sufficient wine to pass out for a while. At least he did not dream. He had dreamed enough for one small life. And of such follies: love, justice, friendship, glory. As well dream of being tall…

He found a fresh skin of wine sucked at it as if it were a woman's breast. The sour red ran down his chin and soaked through his soiled tunic, the same one he had been wearing in his cell. The deck was swaying beneath his feet, and when he tried to rise it lifted sideways and smashed him hard against a bulkhead. A storm, he realized, or else he was even drunker than he knew? He retched the wine up and lay in it for a while, wondering if the ship would sink…

The wind howled outside and around about then, the darkness gulped him down…

When he stirred again, his head felt like to burst and the ship was spinning round in dizzy circles, though the captain was insisting that they'd come to port. Tyrion told him to be quiet and kicked feebly as a huge bald sailor tucked him under one arm and carried him squirming to the hold, where Varys awaited him.

In his daze, he heard men shouting, and the growl of a large dog… it sounded like…

His stunted legs were sore, and soon hurt so badly that he forgot the hammering in his head.

The stranger were speaking in a tongue he did not know.

"A drunken dwarf," one of them said, in the Common Tongue of Westeros.

"A rotting sea cow, more like." Tyrion's mouth was full of blood. He spat it at the man's feet.

"You're an insolent little lion," the man named with a scoff. "Careful with that tongue of yours, it'll get you killed."

"I've been told," Tyrion frowned, his vision blurry and his head hammering.

"Are you hungry, little lion? Weary?"

"Thirsty." Tyrion struggled to his knees. "And filthy…"

The stranger sniffed. "A bath first, perhaps; but quickly – the King will want to see this…"

"The King?" Tyrion didn't voice that, nodding and finding himself dizzy.

They made good on the promised bath, though was given a bag for his head.

No sooner did Tyrion lower himself into the hot water of a tub and close his eyes than he was fast asleep.

The room he woke in was dim, but there were bars of yellow sunlight showing between the slats of the shutters. Tyrion waddled to awkwardly climb the window seat and fling the shutters open to see where Varys and the gods had sent him. The sky was grey, but for the rays of sun that broke through the clouds…

"Not Dorne," Tyrion muttered to himself. "Too cold…"

The air smelt of sulphur and salt… an island with choppy seas all around…

The walls were lined with statues of hellhounds and manticores and dragons of fused black stone…

"Shit," Tyrion cursed as his brain began to sober and reality sank in.

Only one place in Westeros smelt of sulphur and had a castle of fused black stone.

Varys entered his chambers dressed in rich red and black velvets with soft slippers and a softer smile.

"Still drinking I see my Lord," the Spider seemed disappointed in him.

Tyrion replied by pouring himself a glass from the nearby tug.

"Why are we here?" Tyrion emptied his glass. "Jaime said the Free Cities…"

"Ser Jaime needn't have known our destination," Vary didn't seem nearly as concerned as the dwarf was.

"I doubt that," he snarled. "The Baratheon girl is likely to burn me, surely; is she not?"

Varys looked at him oddly.

"Forgive me," he said. "I forget, you were locked away…"

Tyrion's mis-matched eyes narrowed in suspicion as he poured another glass.

"In your absence at court events transpired to see the Redwyne Fleet sunk to the bottom of Blackwater Bay."

Tyrion Lannister stopped pouring and glanced down at the red liquor in his glass.

"Strong stuff," he chuckled. "I could've sworn you just said the Redwyne Fleet was sunk…"

"Indeed, it was," Varys hummed his agreement.

"I'll be damned…"

"Perhaps," Varys frowned at the thought. "It would be a terrible waste though; wouldn't you agree Lord Tyrion?"

"Lord of Tits and Wine," he answered with a scoff. "Nothing much else I'm afraid… but who fucked our Redwyne friends, pray tell?"

"House Stark," Varys answered with a smile.

"Piss off," Tyrion scowled. "The Stark's cou-"

"It appears that Prince Willam's tall tales of a fleet were not merely tales…"

The Stark Prince hadn't been wholly full of shit then? That was a first, no doubt about it.

"So," Tyrion supposed. "What no-"

The knock at the door answered for him.

"It's time," A man in a grey cloak and steel plate spoke, with several other men at his back.

"You know," Tyrion waddled over to the doorway. "It's only polite to introduce yourself to guests in West-"

"Now," the Greycloak barked at them with a growl.

The growl came from the man's side, it appeared, as a wolf about head-height with Tyrion bared its fangs.

"Shit!" Tyrion stumbled at the sudden appearance.

How in the hells had he missed that!?

"Give us a moment," Vary asked politely.

The Greycloak merely huffed and stood idle in the doorway.

"I must change!" Tyrion declared, throwing his cup of wine across the room.

He donned a fresh shirt and decided that Grey and Black simply weren't his colours…

"Behave yourself," Varys whispered as they walked through the black-stone halls of Dragonstone.

"You wound me, Varys, when do I not!?"

Tyrion smiled innocently, but the spider didn't seem amused in the slightest.

If he didn't know better Tyrion might have thought he'd seen a flash of fear in the man's eyes… but he dismissed the notion…

They were escorted towards the Stone Drum, which served as the central keep of Dragonstone. Tyrion had read books descripting the fortress of the ancient Targaryens, but none of them did it any real justice. It was named for the booming and rumbling sounds that sang through the halls during storms, it was said, but Tyrion heard little.

The Great Hall itself was carved in the shape of a huge dragon lying on its belly; with heavy red doors set in the beast's mouth…

Tyrion Lannister walked through those doors with his head held as high as he could muster.

"If I'm to die," he vowed. "I'll not go meekly…"

He didn't know what fated awaited him, in truth.

If it were Ned Stark or his son, then Tyrion would rest comfortably in the knowledge that their blind honour would keep him very much alive. Willam Stark had proven anything but honourable though, hadn't he? The Prince had lied and jumped at the opportunity to win his sisters favour… or merely to stall…

"Me and Jaime ruined that plan," he thought happily, but wisely kept it to himself.

It would have worked, Tyrion supposed, if not for Jaime coming to save him… twice now…

Men made their plans and the gods so often laughed, cutting away what strings held such plans together.

"Varys the Spider," a loud booming voice echoed through the hall as they entered, in what could only be called a harsh tongue.

The next part he at least understood. It was hard to mistake one's own name, regardless of the tongue used.

"Tyrion Lannister," the herald announced with a notably colder tone. "Son of Tywin of the House Lannister..."

The hall was full to bursting with men and women – mostly armed and armoured – it was more of a massive war council than courtly.

Greys and whites and blacks and silvers were chief among them, with the odd dark blue and green and the gold-and-black of the Baratheon Stag alongside the azure of House Velaryon. The Lords of the Narrow Sea had come to see little old him, it seemed. Celtigar, Sunglass, Bar Emmon and Massey were all present too…

Tyrion's eyes lingered on the guards that lined the great hall as he waddled past them.

Greycloaks – he'd seen their like before with Prince Willam – though these wore fancier engraved silver plate.

At every other Greycloak's side sat wolves of differing heights and colours, all watching him with scarily intelligent eyes.

Tyrion's eyes locked onto the 'King' they'd been talking about since his arrival. The sight didn't disappoint.

He was tall – well over six foot – with trimmed stubble on a strong jaw and ice-cold eyes, so light grey that they almost appeared silver in the torchlight; he watched their arrival like a wolf stalking some prey. "Kneel," a shorter and far younger Stark by the King's side demanded of him suddenly.

The King was sat atop Dragonstone's black-stone fused throne, looking down at him.

Varys knelt before the man and his eyes glanced to bid Tyrion do the same.

"Your Grace," instead he bowed low. "A pleasure – such a lovely island you-"

"Spider," the King's voice was grim as he looked over them both with contempt.

This is, Tyrion decided in silence, what the old Kings of Winter must have looked like…

"King Rodrik Stark," Varys named him and dipped his head politely. "Our thanks, for this audience."

"I don't know what your game is," the King stared at them with a stony mask. "I don't care neither, but tell me; what madness made you think you could sneak past my blockade? I'd think the little ships we allowed to run back to home would have sung their tune well enough, or were they all mutes?"

Varys smiled a thin smile in reply. He shook his head.

"It was never my intention to bypass Your Grace…"

King Rodrik leant forward on the throne of Dragonlords.

"You and I share a common interest," Vary continued, peaking Tyrion's interest.

"Is that why you bring me this… creature? As a gift?"

Tyrion frowned. "This creatures name is-"

"Lannister," the younger Stark cut in. "We know your name."

"Then you are aware that-"

"You'll speak when spoken to," the King told him. "If you know what's good for you; or not, it matters little."

Tyrion did not like the sound of that at all. This king of Winter spoke andal as if it left some foul taste on his tongue.

"You hate Lannisters," he decided he had in fact been spoken to. "I underst-"

"An ally Your Grace," Varys interrupted quickly, earning a frown from the dwarf.

The was a few scoffed mutters of laughter from the northern lords from each side of the hall.

"I confess," King Rodrik looked at them both briefly. "I do not know how it is you Westerosi handle your enemies Lord of Whispers – but where I come from, we do not make friends with them – least of all those who slay our kinsmen in cold blood…"

"Lord Tyrion is-"

"A Lannister," the King spat the name like it was a curse.

"I thought that together we might-"

"You thought wrong," King Rodrik declared. "Very wrong…"

"I hated my father!" Tyrion stepped forward and was met with the tip of a spear to his neck.

King Rodrik raised one hand and the steel was removed.

Tyrion felt a slight trickle of blood run down his neck.

"You hate my family," he said. "I understand – believe me – I agree with it; they're cunts!"

"A man who turns so easily on his own kin is not one to be trusted," the objection came from the side of the hall.

He was a handsome and thin, with silver-gold hair and grey-green eyes. Tyrion knew him to be one of his sister's pets.

"Lord Waters speaks well," the King agreed, nodding to the man with his sea-blue silk tunic.

"Waters would turn on his own family as easily, were he Me…"

"Never," Aurane denied, with one protective hand on his young nephew's shoulder.

Monterys Velaryon was the Lord of the Tides at barely seven years of age, but still taller than Tyrion.

The boy's violet eyes burnt into the dwarf as shouts of less than friendly tones came from the ranks of Celtigar and Sunglass.

King Rodrik only had to raise his hand to silence them all without a word.

"They're afraid of him," Tyrion thought with worry. That wasn't a good sign…

"I repeat myself Lord Varys," the King's eyes narrowed. "Your purpose, besides bringing us this blood-traitor?"

Now that was a term Tyrion neither knew nor liked the sound of… at all…

"I have friends in Essos," Varys explained, seeming to shuffle an inch or two away from Tyrion.

"How nice for you," King Rodrik seemed to be losing patience. "Get to the point, my Lord, we have a Kingdom to burn…"

The look of worry that flashed over Varys's face at that would've been priceless to Tyrion at any other moment.

"The Realm needn't suffer for the sins of House Lannister," the Spider all but begged his case.

"Needn't it?" King Rodrik raised a brow. "Again, for the last time my lord, why are you standing in my hall?"

His hall? "Where's the Baratheon girl?" Tyrion thought, his mismatched eyes looking around; finding no sight of her.

These Northmen had even less patience for southern politics than their Westerosi cousins, it seemed…

Rodrik Stark waited impatiently for the spider to spin his web.

"It is-"

Varys passed, glancing around.

"-a matter for private, Your Grace…"

"Is that so," the King leant back in his throne.

"What about the dwarf, Uncle?"

King Rodrik's eyes looked at Tyrion Lannister and cut like valyrian steel.

"I have a name," Tyrion insisted. "Might I know yours?"

"My nephew," the King revealed. "Prince Brandon Stark."

"I am Tyrion," the dwarf bowed with all the grace he could muster.

"What you are is a Lannister," Prince Brandon replied coldly.

"And that is enough," his Kingly Uncle agreed. "The law is clear."

"What law is this, Your Grace?" Varys pried carefully, with a worried look.

"I'd like to know too," Tyrion was frowning. "I've been accused of so much lately, so what is it now?"

"In accordance with the old ways, a blood debt has been called; to be paid in full – such is the way of things."

Tyrion scowled at that.

"I've done nothing to you!"

"Oh?" Rodrik actually smiled at him then.

Tyrion honestly preferred it when the man was a blank cold emotionless wall…

Prince Brandon had walked off to the side and behind the throne for some unexplained reason.

When the boy returned, he walked with a face Tyrion at least knew in passing – that of Cregan Snow – though the man looked somehow even grumpier than he remembered, and he boasted some new scars by the looks of him. "Did you or did not you organize the defence of King's Landing against Stannis Baratheon?"

"I-"

"Don't bother," Cregan Snow told him.

"Ser!" King Rodrik called on his guest to speak.

Tyrion could've sworn he knew the young knight they brought forth.

His face was a ruin of burnt flesh, with only small tuffs of brown hair and sad liquid gold eyes…

"By the damn gods," Tyrion swore aloud.

Ser Loras Tyrell was a ruin of the man he once was.

"Sieges are terribly dangerous business," the King declared uncaringly. "Ser Loras was brave – outright heroic even – this much has earned him our respect, would that we'd not arrived then he might well have taken the fortress. I do wonder if he'd pay the price though if he'd know the magnitude of it…"

The Knight of Flowers said nothing in reply, his head hung low, all his pride had seemingly been burnt away.

"Tell us Ser," Rodrik asked the Burnt Flower. "This creature, did he fight against my brother?"

"He did," the Knight replied, his voice course and harsh from disuse.

"Well then," the King leant back in his throne. "There we have it, your proof; as if it were ever needed."

"That-" Tyrion was growing angry. "I was merely defending my family! It wasn't-"

"-personal?" Prince Brandon finished for him

"Blood is Blood," King Rodrik declared and stood up from his throne.

All the Greycloaks stood at attention and slammed the buts of their spears onto the black marble floor.

"My kin," the King began, one hand resting on the silvery sword at his hip. "My lords, friends, allies, I ask you! What is the price of defiance!?"

The Greycloaks slammed the butts of their spears into floor once more than yelled "Death" in unison.

Prince Brandon asked, "what is the price for blood!?"

The Greycloaks slammed their spears and yelled "Death!"

Prince Cregan asked, "and the name of death!?"

In unison, the Greycloaks yelled "Winter!"

The wolves came, all snarling, fangs bared.

"I'm told that House Lannister always pays it's debts," the King spoke from atop his throne.

The wolves pawed closer as the dwarf backed away and yelled "You can't do this!"

"Your Grace," Varys moved to defend the dwarf. "This is-"

The steel of Cregan's sword was at the Spider's neck in a flash.

"Your debts will be paid in blood," King Rodrik declared as the wolves moved in all around.

Their eyes found him, or rather his scent. Sol – darting from beside Prince Brandon – began to growl first as the others picked up the chorus of snarls and snapping fangs. They padded toward the little man, from the right and from the left and from behind and all around they came like shadows from every corner.

Tyrion stumbled backwards… and a great large wolf came out of the shadows behind him, snarling…

The dwarf recoiled as another wolf lunged at him, ripping at his arm and drawing blood.

"Arghh!" Tyrion cursed, trying to hit away the snarling maws that circled around him.

He reeled, unsteady on his feet as another snapped at his arm, teeth ripping and tearing at flesh.

"N- No! Stop! STOP! STO- ARGHHH!"

Another of the wolves darted in and grabbed his leg, teeth sinking and ripping.

Varys watched in horror as the dwarf as set upon by fangs and claw, ripping and snarling, it reeked of blood and wine.

King Rodrik walked slowly down the steps of the dragon throne with one hand resting on the pommel of his sword.

Cregan released the blade from Varys's throat with a swift flick of his wrist.

"Now then," the King looked to Varys, paying no mind to the bloody mess on the marble floor.

"I-" Varys gulped. "I thought-"

"You thought wrong," Rodrik repeated himself once more.

"Come along Lord Varys," Cregan Snow bid him towards one of the side doors.

"You wished for a private audience," Rodrik explained. "Or, has that changed, Spider?"

"No," Varys regained control of his composure.

"Excellent," Rodrik's smile was a hollow thing indeed.

Varys heard the young Prince Brandon order "clean this up" as they left the hall.

Tyrion Lannister was dead. Things were not going at all how Varys had planned… not at all… but things were not yet lost…

Up they went, climbing the turnpike stair in single file. The walls were rough dark stone, cool to the touch. The light of the torches went before them and their shadows marched beside them, on walls lined with arrow slits and shafts of shun that broke through in the dying light of day.

At the very top of the Stone Drum, within the great round room called the Chamber of the Painted Table, there was a massive slab of wood carved and painted in the shape of Westeros as it had been in the time of Aegon the Conqueror. An iron brazier stood burning, its coals glowing a ruddy orange. Four tall and pointed windows looked out to north, south, east, and west. The figure of a woman – one leg crossed over the other – was sat on the northern window frame.

Behind her was the sky and the setting sun. Varys could hear the wind moving, and fainter, the sounds of the sea.

Rodrik Stark's hand brushed across the table as he entered the room, with Cregan and Varys right behind him.

"The business with the dwarf," the King opened with, his eyes darting to the Spider. "You have thoughts…"

It was unexpected – brutal even – but no matter now.

"I would be the last to miss a Lannister, Your Grace…"

"But you have thoughts regardless, do you not? Now's the time to voice them. I won't ask again."

Varys frowned, recalling the dwarf's screams. It would have been kinder to let his sister chop off his head…

"It was-"

Varys had no wish to anger them.

"-harsh, by our standards… Your Grace…"

Rodrik hummed at that, tapping at King's Landing on the wooden table.

"Was it a greater or lesser evil for the dwarf to burn my brother's men with fire?"

"I could not say," Varys admitted, his eyes low. "I have seen men burn in my time; it is… not a pretty sight…"

"War is rarely pretty," Rodrik frowned genuinely.

"They've started this," Cregan added. "We are ending it."

"I wish you luck Your Grace," the Spider decided, bowing his bow respectfully.

"I'd rather not rely on luck. Tell me, you had reason beyond the dwarf to come here – what was it?"

Varys paused to weigh his words carefully. He felt tested, but that was nothing new.

"All I do, I do for the realm," he told the King of Winter. "For the people…"

"A great many men have claimed that." Rodrik paused. "I've told myself it too, Spider; but it's never that simple, is it?"

"I am no stranger to the reality of necessity, Your Grace…"

"Careful," Rodrik warned him. "A man can drown in shades of grey…"

A gust of wind blew through the widows and Varys shivered from it.

His eyes lingered on the woman in the window, smiling at him eerily.

"Are you cold my lord?" The King asked plainly.

"I shall survive," Varys smiled thinly. "I trust..."

"You've little to fear from myself," the King assured him.

"I should hope not Your Grace, it was my belief that we could help each other…"

Rodrik sat at the head of the great wooden table and waited for the spider's explanation.

"Queen Cersei has done good work in the capital," he filled the silence as Cregan Snow eyed him from his corner of the room. "She has alienated Highgarden and Casterly Rock, empowered the Faith against her own son and even begins to sow mistrust in the heart of her own once beloved brother…"

"There's a point to all this I wager," Cregan spoke up from the side.

Varys only nodded to the bastard Prince.

"Westeros has suffered, Your Grace; but you are not the only ones that wish House Lannister to pay their debts…"

"I fear another has beat you to this pitch Lord Varys…"

The spider shifted on his feet at that. Who could have-

"Celtigar and the others spoke to me at length of a certain girl, far in the east, with three dragons?"

"Daenerys Targaryen is on the far edge of the world," Varys argued quickly. "I speak of a closer dragon, with a better claim…"

Prince Brandon entered the room and shut the door behind him, with his wolf Sol at his side – the beasts maw crimson with blood.

"Speak then," King Rodrik bid the spider. "Tell me everything, Lord Varys, you have my attention…"

"Aegon Targaryen," he named the dragon. "The son and heir of Rhaegar Targaryen, a good lad raised to rule his people well as is his duty – to bring peace to the seven kingdoms and justice for the wronged. With the Golden Company at his back, and with your support, the Lannister's days would be numbered…"

"A mummer's dragon," the woman in the window spoke, her voice sweet as honey. "Washed up and red with rust..."

"Prince Aegon died," Cregan vaguely recalled the story. "The Mountain crushed him against a wall, I heard?"

"No," Varys denied with a shake of his head. "A ruse. The babe was swapped…"

"What proof have you?" Prince Brandon walked past the spider with his wolf watching him.

"He is with Jon Connington," Vary explained. "The man was Rhaegar's closest friend; he can see the boy's father in him…"

"A man's heart can convince him of a great many things that aren't true," Rodrik argued his doubts.

"Although," Cregan scoffed. "What do we care either way, truly? If it ends the Lannisters…"

"House Martell will fight for Aegon," the Spider insisted. "Prince Oberyn rides with your brother to Dorne as we speak to-"

The King stared at him blankly. "What did you just say?"

"Willam?" Prince Brandon glared. "Prince Willam? Liar…"

Sol growled fiercely at the eunuch; his white fur splattered red with dwarf blood.

Varys halted, confused, the man blinked and spoke "They travel for Dorne, to my knowledge…"

"My brother lives?" the King's eyes flashed to the woman in the window, as if she'd have answers.

"I-" Varys shook his head. "Forgive me, there must be some confusion. What have you heard?"

"He fought in your Trial by Combat," Rodrik had stood and pushed over his chair in the process.

"All the smallfolk spoke of it," Cregan argued, frowning. "He fought against Jaime Lannister…"

"Lord Manderly sent us a raven," Brandon's knuckles were white around the handle of his sword.

"I see, most unfortunate," Lord Varys shifted nervously as Sol paced back and forth in the room.

"A fools hope," the King of Winter muttered. "Ser Loras spun a tale too, but the boy would say anything to halt the pain…"

"You tortured him?" Varys pried a little, worry on his voice. House Tyrell would not soon forget Ser Loras.

Rodrik shook his head in denial. "If he spoke, we dulled his suffering; nothing more…"

"What of Will," Cregan slammed his hands on the wooden table and demanded to know.

"Prince Willam indeed volunteered himself as the crowns champion-"

Very publicly too, one supposed; word spread like wildfire that the Prince was the crowns champion.

"And then the champion died," Varys thought quietly. It was meant to be Stark, but he never showed up.

"Why would he fight for the Lannisters?" Prince Brandon was still scowling as his wolf paced back and forth impatiently.

"I know not," Varys admitted. "My best guess – the Queen sought him as an ally and the Prince played at mummer…"

Rodrik sighed and felt a headache coming along with it all. These answers only led to more questions.

"Find him," the King of Winter demanded of seemingly the air, his eyes downcast at the conqueror's table.

"He heads for Dorne," Varys said helpfully. "I could try-"

"As you wish," the woman in the window winked playfully at the king.

Varys moved to ask the strange woman's name only for his eyes to widen in fright.

She tilted backwards and fell, vanishing from view to what was undoubtedly her death.

"Fucking show off," Prince Cregan muttered in his corner.

Varys looked dumbstruck. None of the Stark's seemed concerned.

"Ignore her," Prince Brandon insisted, scowling at the confused spider.

"Now then," King Rodrik demanded. "All rumours have some grain of truth or reason to them. You will tell us everything."

"I- It was the Prince's companion who fought in his stead," Vary revealed, noticing a raven flying in the distance. "Aedan Greystark…"

The sea roared, waves thundered against the rocky shore and exploded in high geysers amidst the boulders. A raven flapped their wings, chasing the salty wind. Indescribably happy, the raven dived, caught up with a flock of their companions in the sky, brushing the crests of the waves, soaring into the sky again, shedding water droplets as they glided, tossed by the gale whistling through her pinfeathers; the raven's dove through the air and over a vast and endless ocean…

"Stark! Stark! Stark! STARK! STARK!"

He could hear voices, muffled in the dark.

"Stark!" The cry of the ravens ceased. He could still feel the wet splash of the breakers, but the sea was no longer below. Or it was – but it was a sea of grass, an endless plateau stretching as far as the horizon… frozen to ice and then covered in a blanket of snow so deep that it seemed to cover the world…

The sky suddenly grew dark, shadows swirled around him.

A long column of figures slowly marched across the frozen land.

He heard murmurs, talking over each other, mingling into an incomprehensible chorus.

A woman stood nearby with her back turned to him. The wind was blowing her hair about.

The indistinct figures continued past in a long, unending column. Passing him, they turned their heads. He couldn't find words to speak with them, watching the listless, peaceful faces and their dead, unseeing eyes. He did not know all of the faces, did not recognise them, except for some that he knew…

Cedric and Eric Frost's eyes watched him as they passed, like glinting sapphires in the dark, behind them rode Ivar and all the others.

Elssa halted atop her white stallion, with her face turned away from him.

"What is this?" he whispered, but she heard him clearly. "Where am I!?"

Elssa turned. Her eyes were blue, then black, then amber as a trickle of blood ran down, across her palm and onto her wrists.

"They're in the gynvael," she said calmly, frowning as she bled onto the snows at her feet.

The sky grew even darker, then, a moment later, it flared with the sharp blinding green glare. The world froze in the silence and stillness. He took a step, wanting to make sure he could, only to stop next to Elssa and see that both of them stood now on the edge of a bottomless chasm where reddish smoke, glowing as though it was lit from behind, was swirling. The flash of another blast of green light suddenly revealed a long, red winding staircase leading into the depths of the abyss.

"It has to be this way," Elssa said in a shaky voice. "There is no other. Only this. Down the stairs. It has to be this way because…"

"Why," he asked her. "Tell me, Elly..."

"Aenye haern am dhu," she told him, her sapphire eyes sparkling.

"I-" he tried to reach her and take her hand. "I don't understand…"

"An gynvael am fhean aiesin…"

It was not old, or new, or even imperial…

He'd never heard this tongue before. Never.

He turned fast away from the abyss; her voice called on the wind…

"I was frightened," Elssa told him, the light in her eyes fading. "I'm still frightened. It's not ended, it will never end…"

"I don't und-"

"Willam!"

The other voice was Ashlyn's… calling him away…

"No!" Elssa's face turned rigid and squeezed tight. "No, no, I don't want to! D- Don't touch me!"

Her face suddenly changed, hardened; her voice became metallic, cold and hostile, resounding with threatening, cruel mockery.

"You have come all this way," Elssa spoke, though the voice was not as he membered her. "All the way here? You have come too far…"

"You're not really her," Willam Stark snarled at the ghost of a woman he'd loved.

Elssa Frost's skin turned pale and blue and cracked like ice when she smiled.

"Black blood, blue blood, old blood," the creature sang, its voice a harmony of cold and winter.

"For the love I know you bare your mother…"

"I have the door my Prince."

"I'm glad… glad I…"

"You shall swear!"

"I- I'm sorry, Will…"

He sank to his knees with a groan.

Reality shattered, swinging open, a long, endless dark leading to nowhere. To emptiness…

"You're wrong," the creature sneered. "You've mistaken the stars reflected on a lake for the heavens."

"W- What do you… want…"

The creature tilted its head to him.

Its lips moved, but its eyes were dead and vacant.

"I'll show you," it reached out, placing an icy hand atop his head.

He was blinded by the sun, a dead horse to his side, and a great bloodied warhammer in his hand…

A man armoured in plate steel charged forward to strike him down. Without thought, brought the hammer up and crushed the chest of his foe with great ease. Looking around the distance was blurred, with only those close in focus. Another foe charged him. The knights strikes came swift, the man was skilled, but Willam seemed to know every move he'd make as if he'd fought the battle before and won it a hundred times. In what seemed like moments the knight was dead, his great-helm crushed…

"They have meddled in mortal affairs before," the voice cracked and taunted and sneered.

He found himself falling to his knees, pierced by several blades. His hammer fell to the mud and splintered like driftwood.

"They were fools," the voice seemed to scoff as if it wholly superior. "They remain fools. The pact is broken – the promise forgotten!"

He saw a woman with long brown hair, kissing a man with hair that shun silver in the rays of moonlight breaking through a canopy of weirwood trees.

"Winter is Coming," another voice rang in his skull, far louder than the others, as he saw a shade with raven black hair and steel grey eyes sitting upon a monstrosity of spikes and jagged edges and twisted metal. At the feet of the great throne stood seven faceless sentinels that drew steel against him in unison.

"Father," a smaller voice greeted him from the dark as the throne of twisted metal melted away from reality.

He looked down to his side to see. The girl was snow-white haired, looking up at him with sorrow and silver eyes.

The world disappeared, dissolved, and in its place appeared a still calm sea of crystal blue under a sunny sky,

Ravens flew in clear skies once more and the creature was nowhere to be seen.

"Fly," said another voice on the wind. "Fly higher!"

Suddenly he was souring on wings of snow-and-silver.

The sun was warm, the world below seeming small.

A voice called to him.

It was familiar…

"Willam?"

"S- Sister?"

He knew her. Lyarra…

"Wake up," she said, all sweetness and innocence in her tone.

He'd never been one for doing as he was told, but in this? In this he listened…

My Note(s): I'd like to take a moment to pause and laugh hysterically at everyone that stopped reading because I'd "killed Willam" when all the hints otherwise were very much there for everyone :) and in fact, I thought I was being too damn obvious! Cookies to those few of you who guessed correctly and picked up on the numerous hints throughout the last chapters. I've been going crazy not being able to say anything least I spoil it for those that hadn't figured it out! Thank fuck I can say shit now!

We'll explore it more later. The next chapter is 'The Lone Wolf' and is very much a Willam chapter where you'll learn all the finer details of what happened and why. At this stage if you don't want to wait however, I suggest going back to re-read Chapter 44 to piece together the puzzle. I assure you; all the hints were always there :) including more fairly subtle hints throughout the chapters to follow. Just go back and read stuff again and you'll probably hit yourself for not catching on to it.

Oh and I rather brutally fed Tyrion to the wolves. I like Tyrion as a character in the books, but it just felt right to really drive home Rodrik's resolve.

TrentBttl: Thanks for reviewing :) I agree about the Jon subject – having him be super-eager for the Iron Throne has never sat well with me – especially with his character being far happier/confident/having family in the Starks; he's no real reason to desire the throne that isn't just outright selfish in nature. That may change in time.

246vili: I did wonder if it would confuse people, but if you read it then I think it's quickly obvious what's happening – it's indeed a "catch up" chapter of sorts for King's Landing events that I didn't want to merely skip over/only mention in passing. It was perhaps a 'filler' chapter but none the less an important chapter too.

Mister LaGuardia: It's bold of you to assume they have Ashlyn and Suko captive :) as for Jaime's redemption, I'm actually a very big fan of his character, but Willam isn't likely to ever forgive or forget; even if things aren't technically even Jaime's fault. The Kingslayers story is always destined to be a sorrowful thing in my opinion.

Asharzal: Cersei was always power hungry and fairly delusional. Tyrion isn't wrong about her: she's a liar and a manipulative whore who never really loved Jaime like he loved her. A subtle thing I noticed when re-reading some chapters is how when Cersei recalls one meeting between them – she gets the small details wrong – but Jaime remembers it all. I don't like Cersei, might be biased because I've loved women that were just as manipulative and selfish as she is to Jaime. I feel for the guy haha.