Game of Thrones and all related characters are the property of George R. R. Martin, Bantom House publishing, and HBO entertainment. The Lost Regiment series and its characters are likewise the property of William R. Forstchen and ROC publishing. No money is being made from their use in this work of fanfiction so please don't sue. It would be a waste of time and money.

TYWIN

When this manse was built, Tywin Lannister did not know. Likely it had been sometime during the reign of Maegor the Cruel or the regency of Jaehaerys I. It's first known owner was Rego Draz, who purchased it shortly after Jaehaerys made the merchant from Pentos his Master of Coin; after Draz was murdered by a mob of ignorant smallfolk in the year 59 A.C. during the Winter of the Shivers the manse had changed hands several times and finally was acquired by Tyland Lannister during the reign of Aegon II and remained in the hands of House Lannister ever since. Most of the time the manse was merely kept livable with a skeleton staff of servants, yet whenever a member of House Lannister came to the capitol this was where they'd reside. During his own latter years as Hand of the King, after Tywin had sent his wife Joanna away from court, he would secretly arrange for her to come here, away from the lecherous eyes of the Mad King.

And now the disgusting monster who took his beloved Joanna from him was sitting across the table from him.

With the iron will the Lord of Casterly Rock prided himself in, Tywin kept his face impassive. As much as it pained him to admit it, he needed Tyrion; his shriveled dwarf of a son knew things that could greatly add to the benefit House Lannister, which Tywin prized above all else.

After the last of their dinner had been eaten, Tyrion took out a strange looking paper wrapped tube. "The Yankees have found a very interesting use for sourleaf," he said, "one I've quite come to enjoy, especially after eating." Tyrion bit of one end, lit the other with the aid of a candle, placed it in his mouth. He then inhaled and blew out smoke as if he were a dragon. "Much more pleasant and less disgusting than chewing it."

Tywin's nostrils twitched; he found the odor quite disagreeable. These strangers brought with them powerful weapons and a ship that can move without sails or oars, he mused. I shouldn't be surprised that they bring new vices with them. Or that my youngest spawn would pick them up.

After a few more puffs, Tyrion looked Tywin squarely in the eye. "Is something the matter with you, Father? We've eaten and drank and you haven't said one word to insult me or comment on my faults. Are you getting senile?"

In no mood for japes, Tywin got right to the point. "Tyrion, the reason I summoned you here to dinner is to discuss these new companions of yours and their arts."

"Oh?" Tyrion leaned in closer. "If you want to know how the powder that powers their weapons is made, I'm afraid I don't have the faintest notion. I'm not allowed in the mill where they make it and whenever they discuss it where I, Maester Jaims, or any other Westerossi can hear, they use a language different than their own."

So, they're not total fools then, Tywin thought. "No, I wish to discuss other matters about them." Too many lords, he sadly knew, saw the Yankees' weapons and only thought of the power it could give them. Fools. If these rifles and cannons were to be distributed among the Lords and the houses sworn to them, none would gain any advantage over their rivals-the rivals would have them too. "Like the other arts of theirs you have seen, such as the ship that moves with steam. And what you know about these bluecoats-what manner of men they are, how they think and organize themselves."

"Well, if you want to know-," and Tyrion telling his father about things he had seen, the various projects the Yankee companies were pursuing and new things he had seen but hadn't fully understood.

Tywin listened intently. Two that piqued his interest was the sawmill that one company under Captain-Houston, was that his name? - that could have possibilities, although the Westerlands were not rich in timber – and this printing press. Strange, it seemed to Tywin, that among the Yankees even their lowliest common soldiers knew how to read and write, and some seemed as educated as any maester.

And Tywin was finding this conversation far less excruciating than the one he'd had last evening. Cersei and his grandchildren had come for a private dinner to discuss their journey and the newcomers-and both his daughter and elder grandson disappointed him. Cersei had ranted about the supposed arrogance of the Yankees, how they refused to kneel before Robert and by extension herself, and how Robert had even allowed Joffrey to be humiliated by their one-armed leader saying that about the Crown Prince. And Joffrey had been even worse, throwing an angry tantrum about how Keane needed to have his remaining arm removed-preferably without milk of the poppy.

In a manner that would have done a Bolton proud, Tywin verbally flayed both of them. He had heard of the incident involving the Stark girls and their direwolves, and how Ser Barristan had witnessed Joffrey slashing the Yankee woman's hand. Joffrey claimed he thought she was trying to assassinate him. Foolishness; Tywin had to remind his grandson that although he was a Baratheon he was also of the blood of House Lannister; a lion does not whimper when bitten by a wolf. And that woman was healer, he should have realized she was trying to help him according to her vocation.

And Cersei. She had a chance to forge a link with the Yankees herself through their woman and learn. But no, she had to throw a fit when her darling boy got bitten. And the way she complained about their refusal to kneel made Tywin want to take a belt to her backside. Perhaps I should have done that when she was a girl, and not have that scullery maid's daughter take the lashes for her. The Yankees were foreigners with different customs, and they had something valuable to offer the great houses of the Realm. For now, it would be best to humor them; even that fat oaf Robert could see the wisdom in that. If the bluecoats proved troublesome later, they could then be dealt with.

I must be cursed. Cersei looked like the regal image of a queen, yet she had the temperament of a spoiled little girl. Jamie was a skilled swordsman and looked the epitome of a knight and Lord, yet he foolishly clung to his Kingsguard vows, his sole ambition to be a glorified bodyguard. And Joffrey, who seemed the model of a gallant prince and heir to the throne, was a coddled brat. Tyrion, Tywin's deformed dwarf of a son, however, had made himself useful in this pivotal moment and had ingratiated himself with these strangers, learning their language and about them, and was now providing Tywin with useful information. Tywin's sister Genna had once told him that Tyrion was more Tywin's son than Jamie. Tywin hadn't spoken to her for a year; now he was beginning to realize she was right. The comelier my progeny are to look at, the more stupid they are.

Refocusing his attention, Tywin listened intently as Tyrion described one project proposed by Cromwell, the captain of the ship that moved on steam. Cromwell wished to convert it into something called an ironclad, which would be armored with iron plates thick enough to withstand fire from cannons-and itself bristling with cannons of its own, cannons bigger and more powerful than the kind that moved on wheels. Keane had rejected that proposal, and Tywin could see why; such an undertaking would require vast wealth and resources.

House Lannister had vast wealth and resources.

And with such a ship under his House's command, the Ironborn would never dare to attack Lannisport again. But it was more than this ship. Of all the arts and knowledge these strangers possessed, Tywin could see that it was these steam engines that held the most potential. And the ones to know the most about them had to be Cromwell and the sailors under his command

And if he read what Tyrion described of Cromwell correctly, the captain and the one-armed leader strongly disliked each other. That could be useful; Tywin decided he would need to arrange a personal meeting with this captain.

"That is good to hear," he finally told Tyrion. He next poured reached for a pitcher of wine and poured into his son's goblet. "You have done well, Tyrion."

The brows over Tyrion's mismatched eyes raised, and the burning sourleaf bundle almost fell from his jaw. "Something must be wrong with my hearing," he finally said. "Did you just complement me?"

"Don't expect it again anytime soon," Tywin replied. "These strangers, they bring a new age with them. And it's more than just their weapons. These other arts they have, the houses that learn them will thrive and prosper. Those that don't will diminish and wither into obscurity. I do not intend to have House Lannister among the latter. That is why I need you."

Tyrion only a smirked. "So, you want me to spy on them for you."

"Not quite." Tywin peered close into his shriveled son's mismatched eyes. "Learn what you can about them, yes, without arousing their suspicion. Report to me what you learn, yes. I will be remaining in the capitol for several weeks after the tourney; our House's interests in King's Landing need tending to." Many thought the wealth of House Lannister came solely from the gold mines Casterly Rock had been built on. That was a major part of it, true, but not all. Many prosperous trading houses and businesses throughout the Seven Kingdoms, save the Iron Islands, owed their financial backing to House Lannister. Those that thrived gave the Lord of Casterly Rock a good share of their profits; those that didn't Tywin cut of the flow of gold. Not only did this practice significantly add to the coffers in Casterly Rock, but it also gave Tywin eyes and ears into the doings of the Seven Kingdoms. "While I am here, I want you to report to me what you learn of their various arts. But do not, and I repeat, do NOT try to learn how their powder is made." He'd already managed to acquire a copy of the list of the things the Yankees had requested for the setup of their operation through contacts he still had in the Red Keep. The Yankees had included among the things they requested large amounts of charcoal and sulfur; given the combustible nature of both, it was simple enough to assume they were components in the powder. He's already sent a raven to Casterly Rock for Maester Rowen to begin experimenting with both, as well as to investigate into the powders used by charlatans and mountebanks claiming to be wizards used to throw into flames to create bright flashes. He included instructions to take utmost care-Rowen was a good maester and Tywin had no desire for him to accidentally blow himself up. "That will only make them suspicious, and I do not want that. I want them to trust you, so they will be free with their tongues. Do this task well, and you will be rewarded as you deserve." Tywin held up a hand. "I will not make you heir to Casterly Rock." The people of the Westerlands would never accept his twisted shriveled dwarf of a son as their liege lord and Warden. But there were other possibilities. Overseeing House Lannisters business interests in King's Landing would be a task Tyrion could be well suited for. Possibly, be Tyrion really performed well, Tywin might even grant him lordship over Tarbeck Hall to start a cadet branch of House Lannister, if he could find a suitable bride-and if Tyrion's children wouldn't inherit his deformities.

Tywin summoned the servants, telling them the meal was over. He dismissed Tyrion, then went up to his own quarters.

He did not go to sleep right away. He spent the next couple of hours formulating his plans. He would still try to get Jamie out of the Kingsguard, yet if that were not possible, have Tommen designated his heir instead and send him to Casterly Rock. Perhaps he should arrange for Myrcella to be sent to Genma; his sister would be able to raise Myrcella to be a woman of sense and not the vain creature her mother was. Tywin believed in making plans; he had restored House Lannister to its proper place after the disastrous lordship of his father, not least by planning and knowing when to adapt his plans as the circumstances changed.

This very day had confirmed to him what he thought when the raven brought that message from Winterfell. These strangers were bringing a new age with them, one where the houses that learned their arts would prosper and thrive. while those that did not would dwindle and fall into nothing. And Tywin did not intend for House Lannister to be among the latter.

EDDARD

Ned and Robert broke their fast on black bread and boiled goose eggs and fish fried up with onions and bacon, at a trestle table by the river's edge. Ned had just talked the King out of trying to participate in the melee scheduled later today-mainly by convincing his friend that he was too fat for his armor. The king's melancholy melted away with the morning mist, and before long Robert was eating an orange and waxing fond about a morning at the Eyrie when they had been boys. " . . . had given Jon a barrel of oranges, remember? Only the things had gone rotten, so I flung mine across the table and hit Dacks right in the nose. You remember Redfort's pock-faced squire? He tossed one back at me, and before Jon could so much as fart, there were oranges flying across the High Hall in every direction." He laughed uproariously, and even Ned smiled, remembering.

This was the boy he had grown up with, he thought; this was the Robert Baratheon he'd known and loved. If he could prove that the Lannisters were behind the attack on Bran, prove that they had murdered Jon Arryn, this man would listen. Then Cersei would fall, and the Kingslayer with her, and if Lord Tywin dared to rouse the west, Robert would smash him as he had smashed Rhaegar Targaryen on the Trident. He could see it all so clearly.

That breakfast tasted better than anything Eddard Stark had eaten in a long time, and afterward his smiles came easier and more often, until a page came up the table. Standing right behind him was a young Yankee. "Lord Hand, this Yankee wishes to speak with you."

"Very well." Ned arose from his seat and looked at the young man. To his relief it was not Jon. He had been most careful to make sure Jon was never up close where Robert could look closely at the boy.

"What is it, Private?" he asked, seeing the soldier had neither chevron on his sleeve nor straps on his shoulders.

The Yankee, a slender youth about an age with Jon or Robb and wearing wire framed lenses like Keane and Weiss, gave him their peculiar salute. "Lord Stark," he said, his command of the Common Tongue fluent for someone who learned the language in only a matter of months, "I was sent by Colonel Keane; he wishes to discuss with you about that matter you spoke of two nights ago. In private. With no one to overhear."

Ned looked back at Robert. "Go, go Ned," His Grace said with a laugh. "I'll finish the fine breakfast myself."

Ned nodded and looked back at the Yankee. "Tell him to meet me at the Sisters' Tent." No place on the tourney grounds could be more isolated than where those killed by accident were prepared for burial.

As Ned suspected, the people were giving the Sisters' Tent a wide berth; thankfully no-one besides Ser Hugh had been killed yesterday. Even his death was one too many, Ned thought grimly. War should not be a game.

Keane arrived shortly afterward, the young soldier who acted as his messenger. Nodding to each other, they entered the pavilion.

The tent was empty, save for Ser Hugh's body which relieved Eddard. Not even Varys the Spider could use a corpse for a spy.

He turned back to Keane, and the boy who entered the tent with them. "I thought this meeting was supposed to be private."

"It is," said Keane; the one-armed man's voice was barely above a whisper. "But I brought Private Bill Webster here because I discussed what you told me about the Crowns financial state with him. His father is a banker, and he learned the trade from childhood. He already handles most of our regiment's finances."

"I'm in Company A with Jon," the young man said. "He's a friend."

"And he's learned to read and write your language, as well as any of us." added Keane. "He's learned your symbols for numbers as well."

The young bluecoat removed his cap-for someone so young his hair was very thin-and rubbed his forehead. "You discussed with the colonel the state of the Crown's finances-how extravagant tourneys and balls held during Robert's reign have driven the royal treasury into bankruptcy. My education has included learning the history of finance. Tell me, has King Robert engaged in any massive building projects during his reign?"

"None that I am aware of."

"And the only war he fought was the Greyjoy rebellion, and that one ended quickly?" Ned nodded. "And there haven't been any droughts or plagues or famines during that time?" Ned shook his head. In truth, according to Maester Luwin, the summer that occupied most of Robert's reign so far had been one of the most prosperous in recorded history.

"From what I've studied, it's these things I've mentioned, not events like this," the nearly bald youth waved his around the tent, "that put a drain on a government's finances." He looked Ned squarely in the eyes. "I know it's a lot to ask, but I'd like to have a look at the ledgers."

Ned pondered that for a moment. It certainly wouldn't hurt for this lad to look at them. If he could find anything that could help the Crown's finances would certainly be good although he had his doubts. The lad had just learned the common tongue after all, and the treasury's ledgers would likely be even more ponderous than the history of the lineages Ned himself was reading as he investigated Jon Arryn's death.

Finally, he nodded. "I'll speak with Lord Baelish." Ned wouldn't mention that it was a Yankee who wanted to see them; the Master of Coin had no need to know that, and he'd be more willing to hand the ledgers over if he thought they were for Ned's eyes. Littlefinger probably thinks I'm too stupid to make any sense of them.

As they made their way out of the tent onto the tourney grounds, out of curiosity Ned asked, "Could your men Ferguson and Mina invent a breastplate stretcher?"

Ned walked with the king to the jousting field. He had promised to watch the final tilts with Sansa; Septa Mordane was ill today, and his daughter was determined not to miss the end of the jousting. As he saw Robert to his place, he noted that Cersei Lannister had chosen not to appear; the place beside the king was empty. That too gave Ned cause to hope.

He also noted the Yankee officers and the lady Kathleen were in their seats, minus Pat O'Donald and the others who tendded the cannons. Ned had heard about the incident at the brotherl, and how O'Donalds man had killed someone. It had seemed the young bluecoat acted in self-defense and the man he killed was a known criminal; Ned hoped the young Yankee would get off easily enough.

He shouldered his way to where his daughter was seated and found her as the horns blew for the day's first joust. Sansa was so engrossed she scarcely seemed to notice his arrival. Loras Tyrell was the first rider to appear. The third son of House Tyrell had done very well in yesterdays jousting, Ned had heard having unhorsed several knights and now was to challenge Ser Jamie Lannister. A murmur ran through the crowd, and he heard Sansa's fervent whisper, "Oh, he's so beautiful." Ser Loras Tyrell was slender as a reed, dressed in a suit of fabulous silver armor polished to a blinding sheen and filigreed with twining black vines and tiny blue forget-me-nots. The commons realized in the same instant as Ned that the blue of the flowers came from sapphires; a gasp went up from a thousand throats. Across the boy's shoulders his cloak hung heavy. It was woven of forget-me-nots, real ones, hundreds of fresh blooms sewn to a heavy woolen cape. His courser was as slim as her rider, a beautiful grey mare, built for speed. Ser Gregor's huge stallion trumpeted as he caught her scent. The boy from Highgarden did something with his legs, and his horse pranced sideways, nimble as a dancer. "A hundred golden dragons on the Kingslayer," Littlefinger announced loudly as the Queen's twin entered the lists, riding an elegant blood bay destrier. The horse wore a blanket of gilded ringmail, and Jaime glittered from head to heel. Even his lance was fashioned from the golden wood of the Summer Isles.

"Done," Lord Renly shouted back, he had been in the lists yesterday but was unhorsed, by whom Ned did not know. The Knight of the Flowers dropped his visor and took up his position. Ser Jaime tossed a kiss to some woman in the commons, gently lowered his visor, and rode to the end of the lists. Both men couched their lances. Sansa was watching it all moist-eyed and eager. The hastily erected gallery trembled as the horses broke into a gallop. The Hound leaned forward as he rode, his lance rock steady, but Jaime shifted his seat deftly in the instant before impact. Ser Loras's point was turned harmlessly against the golden shield with the lion blazon, while his own hit square. Wood shattered, and the Knight of the Flowers reeled, fighting to keep his seat. Sansa gasped. A ragged cheer went up from the commons. "I wonder how I ought spend your money," Littlefinger called down to Lord Renly. Ser Loras just managed to stay in his saddle. He jerked his mare around hard and rode back to the lists for the second pass. Jaime Lannister tossed down his broken lance and snatched up a fresh one, jesting with his squire. Loras Tyrell spurred forward at a hard gallop. Lannister rode to meet him. This time, when Jaime shifted his seat, Ser Loras shifted with him. Both lances exploded, and by the time the splinters had settled, a riderless blood bay was trotting off in search of grass while Ser Jaime Lannister rolled in the dirt, golden and dented. Sansa said, "I knew Ser Loras would win."

Littlefinger overheard. "If you know who's going to win the second match, speak up now before Lord Renly plucks me clean," he called to her. Ned smiled. "A pity the Imp is not here with us," Lord Renly said. "I should have won twice as much." Jaime Lannister was back on his feet, but his ornate lion helmet had been twisted around and dented in his fall, and now he could not get it off. The commons were hooting and pointing, the lords and ladies were trying to stifle their chuckles, and failing, and over it all Ned could hear King Robert laughing, louder than anyone. Finally, they had to lead the Lion of Lannister off to a blacksmith, blind and stumbling.

Ser Gregor Clegane was next position at the head of the lists. He was huge, the biggest man that Eddard Stark had ever seen. Robert Baratheon and his brothers were all big men, as was the Hound, and back at Winterfell there was a simpleminded stableboy named Hodor who dwarfed them all, but the knight they called the Mountain That Rides would have towered over Hodor. He was well over seven feet tall, closer to eight, with massive shoulders and arms thick as the trunks of small trees. His destrier seemed like a pony in between his armored legs, and the lance he carried looked as small as a broom handle. Unlike his brother, Ser Gregor did not live at court. He was a solitary man who seldom left his own lands, but for wars and tourneys. He had been with Lord Tywin when King's Landing fell, a new-made knight of seventeen years, even then distinguished by his size and his implacable ferocity. Some said it had been Gregor who'd dashed the skull of the infant prince Aegon Targaryen against a wall, and whispered that afterward he had raped the mother, the Dornish princess Elia, before putting her to the sword. These things were not said in Gregor's hearing. Ned Stark could not recall ever speaking to the man, though Gregor had ridden with them during Balon Greyjoy's rebellion, one knight among thousands. He watched him with disquiet. Ned seldom put much stock in gossip, but the things said of Ser Gregor were more than ominous. He was soon to be married for the third time, and one heard dark whispering about the deaths of his first two wives. It was said that his keep was a grim place where servants disappeared unaccountably and even the dogs were afraid to enter the hall. And there had been a sister who had died young under queer circumstances, and the fire that had disfigured his brother, and the hunting accident that had killed their father. Gregor had inherited the keep, the gold, and the family estates. His younger brother Sandor had left the same day to take service with the Lannisters as a sworn sword, and it was said that he had never returned, not even to visit.

Both knights rode up to the spectator stands and raised their visors; this was to be the final Champion's Tilt. Ser Gregor bowed his head but said nothing.

Loras Tyrell gazed out at stands, towards the Yankee officers' seats, then at Ned and Sansa. "I look out among the throngs," he said with his lighthearted voice, "And I see two especially lovely maids- the Lord Hand's daughter and betrothed of our Prince Joffrey Lady Sansa Stark, and the Yankee woman Kathleen O'Reilly. Would it be presumptious of me, if I were to ask for the favor of both Ladies?"

A wave of laughter swept through the crowd. Both Sansa and the lady Kathleen stood up. "I gladly grant it to you, Ser Knight," the Yankee woman said. "May you triumph in all your jousts to come."

"And I grant mine as well." Sansa's voice, which Ned expected to crack from nervousness, inteadly rang with a commanding and regal air he had never seen in her before.

After she sat down, however, Sansa clutched at his arm. "Father don't let Ser Gregor hurt him," she said. Ned saw she was wearing the rose that Ser Loras had given her yesterday. Jory had told him about that as well.

"These are tourney lances," he told his daughter. "They make them to splinter on impact, so no one is hurt." Yet he remembered the dead boy in the cart with his cloak of crescent moons, and the words were raw in his throat.

Ser Gregor was having trouble controlling his horse. The stallion was screaming and pawing the ground, shaking his head. The Mountain kicked at the animal savagely with an armored boot. The horse reared and almost threw him. The Knight of Flowers saluted the king, rode to the far end of the list, and couched his lance, ready. Ser Gregor brought his animal to the line, fighting with the reins. And suddenly it began. The Mountain's stallion broke in a hard gallop, plunging forward wildly, while the mare charged as smooth as a flow of silk. Ser Gregor wrenched his shield into position, juggled with his lance, and all the while fought to hold his unruly mount on a straight line, and suddenly Loras Tyrell was on him, placing the point of his lance just there, and in an eye blink the Mountain was falling. He was so huge that he took his horse down with him in a tangle of steel and flesh. Ned heard applause, cheers, whistles, shocked gasps, excited muttering. The Knight of Flowers was reined up at the end of the lists. His lance was not even broken. His sapphires winked in the sun as he raised his visor, smiling. The commons went mad for him. In the middle of the field, Ser Gregor Clegane disentangled himself and came boiling to his feet. He wrenched off his helm and slammed it down onto the ground. His face was dark with fury and his hair fell into his eyes. "My sword," he shouted to his squire, and the boy ran it out to him. By then his stallion was back on its feet as well. Gregor Clegane killed the horse with a single blow of such ferocity that it half severed the animal's neck. Cheers turned to shrieks in a heartbeat. The stallion went to its knees, screaming as it died. By then Gregor was striding down the lists toward Ser Loras Tyrell, his bloody sword clutched in his fist. "Stop him!" Ned shouted, but his words were lost in the roar. Everyone else was yelling as well, and Sansa was crying. It all happened so fast. The Knight of Flowers was shouting for his own sword as Ser Gregor knocked his squire aside and made a grab for the reins of his horse. The mare scented blood and reared. Loras Tyrell kept his seat, but barely. Ser Gregor swung his sword, a savage two-handed blow that took the boy in the chest and knocked him from the saddle. The courser dashed away in panic as Ser Loras lay stunned in the dirt.

But as Gregor lifted his sword for the killing blow, a loud CRACK! filled the air. Ser Gregor's sword went flying from his hands and lay in the ground, the blade broken two thirds of the way down. The shrieks stopped, and all eyes turned to the Yankee common soldiers' seats, where the man called Schuder was standing, smoke coming from the end of his fire-rod.

The man with the shield shaped chevrons on his sleeve said not a word but worked the mechanism of his weapon; Jon had told Ned that it was called a Sharps carbine, and that it could be loaded and fired twice as fast as the other fire-rods.

Schuder next shouted at the Mountain in his own language. Tyrion the Imp stood up and said in a voice so loud for a person so small, "He say that Ser Loras unhorsed you, and you can either accept your defeat like a man or let us find out if that skull behind your ugly face is thick enough to stop a bullet."

The tension hung in the air, the big hulk of a knight glaring at the Yankee. Schuder did not flinch, but simply spat brown sourleaf juice out of his mouth and glared back. Finally, Ser Gregor turned around and petulantly walked off.

A quiet sense of relief filled the grounds as Ser Loras, with the help of his squire, got to his feet. The knight of the Flowers walked over to the Yankee seats and motioned for Schuder to come down to the grounds. Doing so, Schuder stood next to Ser Loras with Tyrion Lannister behind him.

Ser Loras bowed to the bluecoat. "Friend Yankee, I would like to hear your name."

"I am Hans Schuder," the grizzled looking Yankee said in the common tongue, the effort he was putting into his words evident under a thick guttural accent. "My title is Sergeant Major."

"Well, Sergeant-Major Hans Schuder," Ser Loras said, "I owe you my life." He next gripped the Yankee's wrist and raised it above their heads. The Champion's Purse is yours!"

Applause roared through the crowd, then hushed as Schuder spoke again, this time in the Yankee language. "He says that he and the other common soldiers," the Imp translated. "are going to the best tavern in the capitol, and he is buying drinks for everyone. And he wants you, and whatever friend you have to join them!"

Ser Loras tossed his head back in laughter. "I gladly accept, Goodman Schuder. Although I must warn you the Champion's Purse will be a lot slimmer after a night of drinking with me and my friends!"

CATELYN

For the past week, the travelers had been thick as flies upon the kingsroad; knights and freeriders, singers with their harps and drums, heavy wagons laden with hops or corn or casks of honey, traders and craftsmen and whores, and all of them moving south. All of them were headed for the Yankee's Tourney, yet the rains had frustrated their plans.

Catelyn well understood their frustrations. The rains in the Riverlands were far gentler than in the North but they were frequent in a long summer and regularly turned the Kingsroad into thick mud porridge, nearly impossible to travel

Catelyn and Eager Snow had arrived at this inn at the crossroads, just three days prior, soaking wet. It was one that she hstayed at frequently as a girl when she traveled with her father. She still remembered the innkeep, a fat woman named Masha Heddle who chewed sourleaf night and day and seemed to have an endless supply of smiles and sweet cakes for the children. The sweet cakes had been soaked with honey, rich and heavy on the tongue, but how Catelyn had dreaded those smiles. The sourleaf had stained Masha's teeth a dark red, and made her smile a bloody horror.

Masha Heddle was fatter and greyer than Catelyn remembered, still chewing her sourleaf, but she had given them only the most cursory of looks, with nary a hint of her ghastly red smile. "Two rooms at the top of the stair, that's all there is," she added, chewing all the while. "They're under the bell tower, you won't be missing meals, though there's some thinks it too noisy. Can't be helped. We're full up, or near as makes no matter. It's those rooms or the road."

It was those rooms, low, dusty garrets at the top of a cramped narrow staircase. "Leave your boots down here," Masha had told them after she'd taken their coin. "The boy will clean them. I won't have you tracking mud up my stairs. Mind the bell. Those who come late to meals don't eat." There had no smiles, and no mention of sweet cakes.

When the supper bell rang, the sound was deafening. Catelyn had changed into dry clothes. She sat by the window, watching rain run down the pane. The glass was milky and full of bubbles, and a wet dusk was falling outside. Catelyn could just make out the muddy crossing where the two great roads met. As she ate, Cat was pondering what to do next.

The crossroads gave her pause. If they turned west from here, it was an easy ride down to Riverrun. Her father had always given her wise counsel when she needed it most, and she yearned to talk to him, to warn him of the gathering storm. If Winterfell needed to brace for war, how much more so Riverrun, so much closer to King's Landing, with the power of Casterly Rock looming to the west like a shadow. If only her father had been stronger, she might have chanced it, but Hoster Tully had been bedridden these past two years, and Catelyn was loath to tax him now.

The eastern road was wilder and more dangerous, climbing through rocky foothills and thick forests into the Mountains of the Moon, past high passes and deep chasms to the Vale of Arryn and the stony Fingers beyond. Above the Vale, the Eyrie stood high and impregnable, its towers reaching for the sky. There she would find her sister . . . and, perhaps, some of the answers Ned sought. Surely Lysa knew more than she had dared to put in her letter. She might have the very proof that Ned needed to bring the Lannisters to ruin, and if it came to war, they would need the Arryns and the eastern lords who owed them service.

Yet the mountain road was perilous. Shadowcats prowled those passes, rock slides were common, and the mountain clans were lawless brigands, descending from the heights to rob and kill and melting away like snow whenever the knights rode out from the Vale in search of them. Even Jon Arryn, as great a lord as any the Eyrie had ever known, had always traveled in strength when he crossed the mountains. Catelyn's only strength was one bastard guardsman.

No, it would be straight for Winterfell they'd head. She'd been away from her sons for too long, and each day she spent away from them pulled at her heart. Especiially Bran. Was he awake, was he even alive?

Trying to turn from her dark musings, she glanced at her guard. Eager snow had been a good traveling companion, never once complaining about their ordeal and offering a sympathetic ear whenever she vented her frustrations. Few men would have made a better co-traveler; Ser Rodrik's rust in him was well placed. There was something familiar about him too, something that she couldn't quite place.

She reached across their small table and touched his hand. "Thank you."

He looked at her, puzzled. "For what, mi'lady?"

"For coming with me and putting up with me, An anxious mother doesn't make the best traveling partner."

"I was just doin' me duty, mi'lady."

"Nevertheless, I want to thank you. You are a good man, Eager Snow, even if-." She stopped suddenly, not wanting to offend him.

Yet Eager Snow was not offended in the least. "That I am a bastard?" His chuckle put Catelyn at ease. "I was born in the winter village brothel; my mother was a whore. I AM a bastard, and you CAN say it, mi'lady."

Danerys

Her brother was dead.

Dani stared at the corpse with the molten gold on its head. In the months since her wedding, as they traveled to Vaes Dothrak, Viserys had grown more eratic and irritable as Khal Drogo had given no sign of paying the 'bride price' that Viserys demanded-and Dani realized how weak and pitiful her brother truly was. Until finally, this very night, Viserys had burst into the tent, and threatened to cut open the unborn child from Dani's belly. Drogo then said through Danerys that he would give Viserys 'a golden crown' and had his men hold the last son of House Targaryon, while he poured molten gold on Viserys's head. Drogo had enven said as he poured the gold, "A crown for a king."

Dani just looked down at the corpse. He was no dragon, she thought as she shook her head. Fire cannot kill a dragon.

End of Chapter Thirteen

Alright, again, sorry or the long update. And I know, this does seem like the last two wer just 'filler,' but I wanted to show what both Cat and Dani were up to.

I need to address some things mentioned by anonymous reviewers. Gunpowder does NOT exist in the world of Ice and Fire; GRRM himself has confirmed this. The powders use by Melissandre and others to create bright flashes to add to the showiness of their 'spells' seem more like ground up magnesium, or some other form of flash powder, which is not the same. And as for medieval armor being able to stop bullets-a lot depends, like the type of gun, quality of armor, distance. Early in Japan's Boshin war, certain units wore breastplates that could stop bullets from a matchlock teppo but had to discarded when both sides started using imported rifle muskets-some of which were probably surplus from the American Civil War. The needle-guns used in the Franco-Prussian War, which had similar ballistics, pierced Napoleonic-style Cuirasses, which could stand up to smoothbore muskets. These breastplates were thicker and heavier than those used in the Late Middle Ages, which the armor used by Westerossi would be like. So, it is highly unlikely that a Westerossi knight's armor would provide adequate protection against Civil War era rifle muskets, at least under most battlefield circumstances.

In the upcoming chapters, things really begin to heat up. After the tourney, Jon gets to experience his first real combat with the 35th, the exiles learn more about what their new life entails. At the tavern, a 'misunderstanding' between Vincent and Ser Loras starts that will really lead to trouble down the road. And for Bill Webster looking at the treasury's ledgers-well, there's this one fan theory about what really caused the crown's financial straits I rather like.