Read. Enjoy. Review. (The reading and enjoying are for you, the reviews are for me!)
I own Lenora Baratheon, nothing more.

So this chapter took a turn I wasn't expecting, particularly in the Lenora department. According to my outline a certain interaction in her point of view was supposed to turn out vastly different. But even though the character in question is a little shit (especially at this point of the story) I love him. And so as my brain was running a hundred miles per hour and my fingers were typing faster than my eyes could keep up and I look up and this was completely not what I had intended to write.
And surprisingly ... I liked it better than what I had planned.
I hope you guys do too.

Chapter Fifty-Seven: Revenge

Lenora

Lenora did not like the Dreadfort. It took them almost a week to ride from White Harbor to the Dreadfort, and the entire time Roose Bolton had kept Lenora hidden away in her wheelhouse, out of sight of any northern small folk who may have reported her location to either her mother or the small bands of Robb's supporters who were still roaming the land.

He only let her out of the wheelhouse twice a day, always during the night, to stretch her legs and relieve herself. Always heavily guarded.

Roose Bolton was less kind than Robb had been, even on his best days. Where Robb had always allowed her the illusion of freedom, Bolton made sure that she knew that she had nothing that even resembled the word. The new Warden of the North dictated everything about her life while they traveled north. What she ate, when she ate, who she spoke to, what she wore, when she was allowed out, who guarded her. Everything.

For a moment, just before their arrival at the Dreadfort she had thought that perhaps she might like living in a stronghold again. That perhaps she would be given some small amount of freedom. She had looked forward to it, in fact.

But with her first glance at the Dreadfort she knew that she was wrong. No amount of freedom, illusion or otherwise, would make her comfortable in this place. Nothing could make her like it. As the wheelhouse came to a stop and the door opened she knew that she had been a fool for thinking that she might feel anything but distrust and unease for this place.

"My Lady," Roose called out in his soft, silky voice, catching her attention. He was standing outside the wheelhouse, his hand extended to her, waiting to hand her out of the carriage.

She glanced at Lady Walda, wondering if the larger woman would take her husband's hand. She was, after all, Lady Dreadfort. The woman, not much older than Lenora herself, smiled kindly at her, "After you, Princess," she told her kindly, reminding Lenora in three words of her place. It did not matter that Walda Frey was Lady Dreadfort, Lenora was a princess of the realm, she would always be handed out of the wheelhouse first.

She misliked the sweet tone to Lady Walda's voice. The girl was a fool to be happy here.

But perhaps she was as much a fool to keep Lord Bolton waiting. She was entirely at his disposal after all. He had murdered her husband, acted against her family's wishes, and kidnapped her to bring her here. No one knew where she was, though she was sure they might be able to guess, if someone wanted to rescue her they would have to cross through hundreds of leagues of war torn land. Roose Bolton could do whatever he wanted with her and no one would stop him.

No one but her.

And while Lenora believed that she could protect herself, she did not necessarily see the need to provoke her traitor of a guardian unless she absolutely must.

So quickly she stood from her seat and placed her left hand in Roose's allowing him to hand her down from the carriage. She had gathered her skirts in her right hand so as not to trip on the steps. But as her eyes caught sight of the castle in front of her she must have dropped some because as she stared in wide-eyed wonder at the castle in front of her she stepped on the hem of her skirts and started to fall toward the ground.

Roose's hand moved from holding her left hand to grasping her left elbow. Another set of hands touched her on the right, grasping her right elbow and a hand on her low back to help guide her off the step and onto the ground.

"Careful, Princess," she heard a voice on her right. "We wouldn't want to scratch up your beautiful face."

The voice sent chills up and down her spine. It had the same soft, quiet quality of Roose Bolton's, but it was more nasal, more of a sneer than a whisper. She turned her head toward the voice and was met with a mess of dark brown curls sitting above a pair of eyes just as pale as his father's, pale skin, smooth cheeks, a playful smirk resting on his thin lips.

This was Ramsay Snow, Roose Bolton's bastard son.

A bastard who thought highly enough of himself to touch a princess without her permission. She had never seen a man so brazen or stupid in her life.

She could hear the smirk in Roose's voice as he spoke from her left, "This is my son, Ramsay," he told her, making the introduction.

Ramsay's hand slid from her elbow to her hand as he lifted it to his lips so that he could press a kiss against the back of her hand. Lenora tried not to shudder at the contact. But she did quickly pull her hand out of his grasp. And with a quick step forward she managed to rid herself from being touched by either Bolton man.

She turned then, holding her hands out to her sides as her eyes landed on Roose, "Very well, Lord Bolton." she told him. "You have me here, what now?"

Roose smiled at her, almost kindly, "What now, my Lady?" he asked her. He shook his head, "Nothing for now. You will have free reign of the castle," he gestured to the fortress in front of her. "You will be given your own chambers and will be allowed to wander the grounds and the Godswood. Your only boundary will be the castle walls. This will be your home for the foreseeable future. I wish it to feel like one."

Lenora raised her eyebrows at his speech as she glanced at the castle in front of her. She couldn't imagine ever feeling at home in this place. It was too dark, too foreboding. Lord Bolton turned away from her now so as to hand his wife from the wheelhouse, allowing her a moment alone to take in her new surroundings.

First she turned toward the walls that were to be her boundary markers, they were tall, thick, strong. They were topped with triangular merlons that looked to her like sharp teeth, waiting to snag and tear at anyone who tried to make an escape. The walls of the fortress itself were just as thick, just as strong; they were made of a dark stone that almost made them look black.

Ramsay moved through the snowy courtyard so quietly that she did not hear him. She did not notice him until she caught sight of him in her peripheral vision. "Shall I show you to your chambers, Princess?" he asked her in his silky, sneering voice.

She would have rathered be shown to her chambers by anyone else, but she was not yet ready to anger her captors that much. It was better to pretend to be meek, and mild, and well mannered. She might not be able to fool Roose Bolton, but perhaps she could fool his son. She dropped her gaze from his pale face and nodded, silently agreeing to his offer.

The man grinned at her and held out his arm to her. He meant, not simply to show her to her chambers, but to parade her through the fortress. She did not want to touch him anymore than she had wanted him touching her when she first exited the wheelhouse, but she did not want to test his patience either.

At least not yet.

So, with a deep shuddering breath, she closed her eyes and placed her hand on his arm so that he could lead her into the castle.

He led her through the great hall. It was a massive room, with high vaulted ceilings. She glanced up at them, this place was not nearly as clean nor well cared for as Winterfell. The wooden rafters looked black from the smoke. The room was poorly lit, and smokey. The only light came from rows of torches that lined the walls. As if he could sense her gaze on the torches, Ramsay brought her down the side of the great hall, rather than the middle aisle, he walked her right past the torches.

When she saw what held them up she gasped and took a step back, away from the wall. Ramsay chuckled, low and dark, in his throat. The torches seemed to be held by skeletal human hands. Ramsay led her closer to the torches though that was the last thing she wanted. "Holdovers," he told her. "From the old Red Kings. They used to dip the hands of their enemies in silver once they had died. They used them to hang their torches. We still do."

Lenora was reminded of a rumor she had heard once. Whispers that the Boltons kept torture chambers underneath their castle, that there was a special room where they hung the flayed skin of their enemies. It was said that even some of the old Kings of Winter had been tortured there.

She shivered, wondering whose hands she was looking at now.

Ramsay seemed to enjoy her fear, to feed off of it, even. She would not give him the satisfaction. She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders, "I would like to see my chambers now," she told him, her gaze dropping from the morbid sconce on the wall to the rush covered floor beneath her feet. She did not say please. It was not a request, but an order.

Ramsay bowed his head, "Of course, Princess," he told her, quickly leading her away. "And once you're settled in, I have a surprise for you."

"A surprise?" Lenora asked, arching one of her eyebrows. She was not sure that she was going to enjoy this surprise.

Ramsay smirked at her and nodded, "Yes," he told her. "You're not our only guest here, we have another staying with us. Someone you might recognize."

She wondered, her breath catching in her throat, if they had Jaime.

...

He let her wait for almost two hours before he came to get her and escort her into the great hall so that she could see his surprise.

He gave her a place of honor on the dais in front of the fire. And then he clapped his hands and from the end of the great hall a shadow moved, a man slowly walking up the center aisle, coming when called.

It wasn't Jaime, that much she could tell. The man was too small, too short. But besides the discovery that the Boltons did not have her uncle Jaime she did not know anything else of the man slowly walking toward her.

She did not know him. She watched him through narrowed eyes, she could not imagine a world where she would even pretend to know this shaking, dirty, smelly, pathetic man before her.

The man came to a stop, his eyes darting up to her face. She did not know him, but she had the feeling that he knew her, it was all in the quick drop of his gaze the moment he saw her face. Ramsay glanced between the two of them, his pale eyes sparkling, a smirk on his face. "Don't you know him, Princess?" he asked her, his tone teasing. "Don't you recognize him?"

She stared at Ramsay, wondering why he got so much joy out of this dirty creature. She silently shook her head. She did not know him. She was sure of it.

Ramsay smirked at her a moment longer before he turned to the man in front of them, "Reek," he ordered, addressing the man. Lenora's head snapped up at the name, she could not imagine a man so cruel who would make a man answer to that name. "Reek," Ramsay said again, smirking around the name. "Tell the princess Lenora who you were, before you came to the Dreadfort with me."

The man whimpered and shook his head. He did not open his mouth, his gaze darted toward Ramsay, silently pleading with him not to make him tell Lenora who he was.

"Now Reek," Ramsay chided him, his tone was light, still playful, but there was the hint of something darker underneath, a threat that Lenora did not yet understand. "Where are your manners?" Ramsay scolded him. "You know the Lady, and the Lady knows you, but she is at a distinct disadvantage. You know how the two of you know each other, she does not recognize you. It's unfair. Tell her who you used to be."

The man whimpered again, but this time he did not shake his head. His gaze turned from Ramsay to his own feet, he would not look Lenora in the eye. "I used to be called Theon Greyjoy," he stuttered out, swallowing thickly in between his words, coming to a halt before saying his name, as if it was hard for him to say it. "I was the only son and heir of Balon Greyjoy, King of the Iron Islands."

Standing beside her Ramsay laughed, a dark glee coloring his tone. "And who are you now?" he asked.

The man whimpered, "No one," he told them. "Nothing. I am Reek. I am son to no one. Heir to no one. I belong to House Bolton." He glanced up at Ramsay, as if to see if his answer had pleased the bastard. Ramsay smirked at him and nodded. Theon's whimpers quickly subsided into silence.

Lenora felt bile and disgust rising in her throat. She had spent so many months hating Theon Greyjoy for his betrayal. Hating him for what he had done to Robb, what he had done to the boys. She had spent weeks thinking of what she would do to him if she ever saw him again.

But now, with this poor creature standing before her, so clearly broken, so clearly afraid. She couldn't hate him. She could feel nothing but pity. The bile that she tried to swallow down, the disgust in her throat was for Ramsay, who seemed to take such joy in what he had turned the once proud, lively man into.

She rose from her chair without thinking, "What did you do to him?" she gasped as she rushed down from the dais, to get a closer look at the man who had once been her husband's closest friend. Ramsay laughed in answer. Theon whimpered and tried to step away from her, but he had not been ordered to leave the hall yet, he was more afraid of Ramsay's anger than he was of Lenora's disdain. In a few steps she was standing in front of him, her hands reaching up to cup his cheeks, holding his face still even as he tried to pull out of her grasp. "Theon," she whispered, ducking her head and trying to make eye contact with him. "Theon, what did he do to you?"

"No!" the man yelled out, he tried to jerk away from her, but she held strong. He dropped to the ground, whimpering and shaking his head, pulling her down to her knees with him. "I am Reek!" he yelled. "I am Reek! I am Reek! I am Reek! I am Reek!" He continued to repeat that, over and over again - first yelling, then whimpering, then finally whispering the words. "I am Reek! I am Reek! I am Reek!"

She was still holding his cheeks. She could feel his jaw clench underneath her fingers. She could see the tears sliding down his cheeks, leaving clean streaks through the dirt that covered his face before coming to land on the back of her hands. She did not drop her hands as she turned to level a glare in Ramsay's direction, "What did you do to him?" she asked again, her teeth clenched.

"I trained him," Ramsay told her, his voice full of pride. "He was a slow learner, but he learned."

Lenora turned back toward Theon, her gaze landing momentarily on one of the Bolton banners hanging from the walls. "You flayed him," she whispered, sure that at any moment she was going to vomit.

There was no shame in Ramsay's voice when he answered her, "I peeled a few bits," he told her. "I removed a few others."

"That's against the law," Lenora told him, turning away from Theon who was still whispering I am Reek to glare at Ramsay again. "Robb forbade the torture of prisoners!"

"And Robb Stark is dead," Ramsay told her, his pale gaze flitting over toward Theon and glinting with glee. Theon tensed underneath her hands. "Oh Reek," he chuckled. "That's right. Robb Stark is dead. Sorry, I know that he was like a brother to you, but my father put a knife through his heart." He paused, his gaze darting toward Lenora, "How do you feel about that?"

Theon was quiet for a moment, whimpering. Then he shook his head and dropped his gaze. It was Lenora who spoke up against Ramsay, "Look at you," she growled, standing up and turning toward Ramsay, using her skirts to shield Theon from his view. "You should be in chains. You should be beheaded."

Ramsay shook his head, "Surely you know that it was for you, Princess," he told her. "And for King Robb, and for the boys. Revenge for what he had done to Winterfell, revenge for killing Bran and Rickon," Theon whimpered behind her. "Revenge for betraying his king."

Lenora arched an eyebrow at him, "Revenge?" she asked, echoing him. "And what will happen to you and your father for what you have done?" she asked him. "You're a Snow, Ramsay, you're from the north. Surely you know that the north remembers. You think they will forgive and forget this?"

Ramsay's pale eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched. He did not like being reminded of his bastard status. "Reek," he growled. Lenora did not need to look to know that Theon had stood up behind her. She could hear him scramble to his feet. "It seems that you are distasteful to the princess. It seems that your presence disgusts her. So you will be her escort while she is here at the Dreadfort. You will go with her everywhere." He paused, smirking at Lenora. "Now, bring her back to her chambers. I imagine, the princess is tired. She's had a long journey after all."

Theon whimpered and she felt a soft tug on her sleeve, "Come, my Lady," he requested. "I must bring you back to your chambers now."

Lenora cast one last glare at Ramsay before she allowed Theon to guide her from the hall. There would be revenge for this, she knew it. There would be revenge for what the Boltons had done to Robb.

She would get it herself if she had to.

-.-.-.-.-

Jaime

They met on an abandoned pavilion by the sea, at the bottom of a cliff. It was not a sheer overhang like many of the cliffs around the Red Keep. When Jaime looked up from where he stood all he could see was a rocky protrusion, an overhang that would block them from view from anyone at the top of the cliff. The crashing of the ocean waves beside him would do well to cover any noise from their practice. Jaime did not know Tyrion's man, Bronn, but he had chosen the place well.

It was heartening.

The last thing he needed was for people to witness his shame.

The man was late. The old Jaime would have minded, he would have been impatient, he would have left. But Jaime was not the same man he had been the last time he was in King's Landing. He hadn't only lost his hand. He had also lost much of his pride. And his drive. As he stood, looking out at the sea he realized that his motivation for fighting had changed.

When he was a young boy he had wanted to learn to be the best because he was proud.

Once Joffrey had named him Commander of the Kingsguard it had been to protect his son.

But now he wanted, he needed, to be the best so that he could travel north and bring Lenora back where she belonged.

His father would not do a thing to help Lenora until the war was officially won. But Jaime worried. He worried about what might happen to her while she was under Roose Bolton's care. He worried that waiting until the end of the war might be too long. He worried that by the time she was rescued there would be nothing left to save.

He was pulled away from his thoughts by the sound of footsteps. He turned to see a strong, wild looking man making his way down the narrow, broken steps toward him. The man was covered in scars, that was a good sign, to be that scarred and still alive meant that he had been in many battles and won them all.

"My brother tells me that you can keep your mouth shut," Jaime announced by way of greeting. "That's an unusual talent for a sellsword."

"He tells me that you shit gold," the sellsword countered back. "Just like your father."

Jaime's jaw clenched at that. He wished to be nothing like his father. He glanced around their location as he reached into the pocket of his doublet, "Is this place safe?" he asked as he threw a bag of gold at the sellsword, payment for the lesson. Will anyone see us? Will anyone know that I'm a failure? was what he meant to ask.

Opening the back to inspect the contents the sellsword leaned back, squinting up at the sky, "There's this knight," he drawled out. "Can't think of his name, he's got thunderbolts on his shield?"

Jaime nodded, he knew the knight the man was speaking of. One from a lesser House. Jaime had never bothered to speak to him, let alone learn his name. It seemed that Bronn the sellsword felt the same way about the man. "Yeah?" he asked.

Bronn nodded, "Right here is where I fuck his wife," he informed Jaime, no shame what-so-ever. "She's a screamer, that one. If they don't hear her, they won't hear us."

Jaime was both disgusted and heartened by this response. He turned around and lifted his sword from where he had left it, leaning against a rock. It felt awkward in his left hand, clumsy, but the Valyrian steel was lighter than normal steel, he was able to hold it. Behind him Bronn let out a low, impressed whistle.

"I've never seen Valyrian steel up close before," he told Jaime. He nodded toward the sword in his hand. "She's a beauty." He glanced away, out toward the ocean as he said the next words, as if he knew that Jaime would not want him watching his face when he said them. "There's just one problem. If you fight with an edged blade then I'll have to. And if I fight with an edged blade then I'll have no one left to pay me."

He unwrapped the bundle he had carried down the stairs with him and pulled out two dulled blades. Holding one in his right hand he dropped the one in his left on the ground, leaving it there for Jaime to pick up.

Jaime glared at the sword as he walked over toward it, "I haven't used a sparring sword since I was nine," he grumbled. All the same, he left his sword on the oil cloth and bent down to pick up the dull sword that Bronn had left for him. He was caught by surprise a moment later when the flat side of Bronn's sword smacked down on the back of his left hand, causing him to drop the sword before he had even gotten a good grip on the thing. He turned, glaring at the sellsword.

"Bold warrior you are," he scoffed to hide his embarrassment, he picked up the sword again. "Attacking a man when his guard's down."

"Best time to attack a man," Bronn answered, swinging his sword up before bringing it down toward Jaime. Jaime threw the sword up to block the swing, it felt awkward in his left hand, but got the job done. He took a step away from Bronn, a slight retreat. "Besides," Bronn added, advancing on him again, "your guard should never be down."

The instruction was so similar to something that Jaime had once told Lenora while they were practicing together that it floored him. He realized, for the first time, that he needed a sparring sword, he was like a child. As much as he hated to admit it, he probably had the skill with a blade that his niece had had when she was five years old.

Bronn used his distraction to swing again.

The sword wobbled through the air as he swung at Bronn's blade, knocking it away from him. He did not want to be pinned against the rocks, he spun so that he was facing Bronn's back, a moment later the sellsword spun too, mimicking his movements. Bronn advanced again, once again Jaime was on the retreat, but at least he had the entire length of the stone pavilion.

The swords clashed together, Jaime's grip had been wrong, the force of Bronn's strike traveled up the blade and to his left arm. It hurt. Jaime could not remember the last time his arm had been sore from a sword fight.

"Watch yourself," Bronn warned. Jaime turned to ensure that he was not going to trip over any rocks. There was nothing near him. Before he could look up Bronn had rushed forward and shoved his left shoulder, sending him spiraling toward the the rocky wall of the cliff.

Jaime threw out his golden right hand to stop the fall and pushed himself off the wall so that he could turn to glare at the sellsword, "If I still had my right hand," he growled.

"Plan on growing it back?" Bronn asked, teasing, before he lunged forward.

Their blades met again and again and again as they moved the length of the pavilion. Jaime was always on the retreat. For a moment he was pleased that he was able to meet each of the sellsword's strikes, but then he realized that Bronn was probably going easy on him, moving slower than he usually would. Jaime wondered if Lenora had ever felt as insulted as he did now while they practiced together. At least he had never mocked her the way Bronn was doing now.

On their next run across the pavilion Bronn did not give him a warning before he shoved him, this time toward the ocean. Jaime stumbled one, two, three steps before he was able to brace himself against a small rock to stop him from falling head first into the water.

That was the last thing he needed; to be beaten, embarrassed, and wet.

He turned to face Bronn again, "Come on then," he growled, this time he advanced, swinging first.

They fought like this for almost an hour. By the time Bronn finally lowered his sword Jaime's left arm was shaking and he was covered with sweat. He did not want to be the first to give up though, so he waited until Bronn lowered his sword before he dropped his to the ground.

"No," Bronn told him, shaking his head, "you're not done yet, pick it back up."

"Are we going to keep sparring?" Jaime asked, he didn't want to admit how sore he was. How much he just wanted to rest.

"No," Bronn told him. "You're going to run through your guards. You're a knight, you should know them all, this should be easy for you."

Jaime shook his head, still breathing unevenly. He was faced with a dilemma: admit to being tired and sore, or admit that he did not want to run the drill because he knew his guards would be sloppy, incorrect, and weak with his left hand. One was an embarrassment, the other a failure. "I can't," he settled on.

"Can't?" Bronn echoed. "Or won't?"

"I'm tired," Jaime told him. "We'll run guards next time." After I've gotten a chance to practice on my own, he thought.

"You'll run guards now," Bronn told him, not letting him off the hook.

Jaime sighed, but he did not try to fight again. He bent, picked up his sword, and then slowly, clumsily, unsteadily ran through all the guards just as he had once made Lenora do every day at Casterly Rock.

Guard of the woman, boar's tooth, window guard, half iron gate, front guard, left short guard, tail guard, left guard of the woman, full iron gate, left two horn, long point, left window, short guard, left front guard, two horn guard, left long guard.

If he had thought his arm was shaking after sparring with Bronn he had been wrong. It was nothing compared to now. His arm was shaking so much now that the blade was visibly shaking. Bronn watched him for a moment and then he nodded, "Again."

"Again?" Jaime asked, surprised. He had barely made it through the drill without dropping his sword and Bronn wanted him to do it again.

The sellsword nodded, "You can hold a sword," he told him, "that much is obvious. But your left arm is weak and your instincts are backward. You need to run it again. And again. And again. Build up strength in your left arm, forget the way you've fought your entire life. Learn new instincts, left handed instincts." He paused for a moment and then he nodded, "Again."

Jaime sighed, but did as ordered.

At the end of the drill Bronn nodded, a wicked smirk on his lips, "Again."

...

He did not wait to be announced. He did not want to give his father warning, he did not want to give him a chance to come up with a lie or an explanation. And to be honest he was too angry to wait. Angry wasn't even the right word. He was furious.

His father looked up from the book he had been reading when Jaime slammed his way into the solar. The elder Lannister raised his eyebrows, surprised. Of the three children he had in King's Landing Jaime was no doubt the least likely to come storming into his chambers unannounced. And yet, here he was.

"Jaime," he greeted, closing his book. "I must say that I am -"

"Surprised?" Jaime cut in, he didn't want to hear his father's voice any more than he had to. But at the same time, he needed to hear his father admit to what he had done. "Trust me, Father, you are no more surprised than I was when I learned that Robb Stark and his mother were murdered at a wedding." He paused, waiting for Tywin to say something, the older man said nothing, so he continued. "Apparently the Freys and the Boltons took it upon themselves to murder their own king."

Tywin did not look ashamed. He shrugged his shoulders, "The boy may have had a crown, but he was no king. He was fool enough to think that the crown on his head made him safe. That it made him powerful."

Jaime shook his head, as much as he had hated the boy when he was his prisoner, Jaime could not listen to his father gloat about his death now. "You never met him, I did. That man was no fool. He knew the crown didn't make him safe. He wore it a lot more wearily than Joffrey does now. He thought that his army and his men made him safe. He had never lost a battle, and yet for some reason his men turned on him anyway."

Tywin still did not react.

"You defeated him," Jaime added, finally admitting that he knew. He and Tyrion had gotten drunk during their midday meal and Tyrion had finally told him everything. The entire truth of Robb Stark's messy end. He laughed when he noticed his father raise his eyebrows, unable to hide his surprise. "You think I would believe that Walder Frey was brave enough to act on his own?" he asked. "You're a bigger fool than you thought Robb Stark if you think that." He shook his head, "Robb Stark had never lost a battle. You were afraid. You weren't sure if you could beat him on the field. And so you beat him in a wedding hall." He shook his head, "In front of Len."

If the mention of Lenora did anything to make Tywin feel some sort of shame the old man did not let on. His eyebrows dropped, his jaw twitched, his eyes narrowed as he looked at Jaime. "You disapprove." It was not a question. Tywin Lannister was not an oblivious man, Jaime had made it quite clear that he disapproved of his father's actions.

"I understand that you must win by any means," Jaime told him. "But to slaughter the man at a wedding. In front of -"

"Explain to me," Tywin interrupted, his voice hard, "why it is more noble to kill ten thousand men in battle than a dozen at dinner."

Jaime laughed, a sound full of bitterness and disdain, "So that's why you did it?" he asked. "To save lives?"

"I did it to bring an end to this war," his father answered. "I did it for our family."

Jaime chuckled again and shook his head, "Our family?" he asked. "Who exactly, Father? For your daughter who had her own husband killed? For your eldest son, a cripple and an embarrassment? For your youngest son, who you barely look at though all he does is beg for your approval? For your grandson who wanted to serve a dead rival's head to the man's sister or his own sister? For your two youngest grandchildren, who you barely look at? Or was it for Lenora, who thanks to you got to stand in the hall and watch while her husband was killed by his own men?" He took a deep breath, "Really, I can see how much this has helped our family."

Tywin stood up from his seat, his fists resting on the table in front of him, for the first time in his life Jaime learned what it was to be on the receiving end of one of Tywin Lannister's glares. "I did it for the Lannister name," Tywin told him. "For our legacy. Your legacy." The look he leveled Jaime with was one full of disdain, "If you want to write a song for the dead Starks, go ahead, write one. When we get Lenora back, comfort her and swear you had nothing to do with this. But I am on this earth for a little while longer and I will do everything I can to protect the Lannister name."

Jaime shook his head, "The North will never forget," he warned his father.

"Good," Tywin told him with a nod. "Let them remember what happens when they march on the south."

Jaime glared at him and shook his head, "I see," he agreed. Then without another word, without another glance he turned on his heel and stormed out of the chamber.

-.-.-.-.-

Tyrion

She would never understand. He knew that much, knew it in the very core of his being. She had been angry when he had married Sansa, but she had allowed herself to hope that first morning when she had changed the bedding and realized that he had not slept with Sansa. And every morning after that, every morning the sheets were still clean she hoped some more.

Shae loved Sansa, and she had been grateful to him for taking care of the girl. For watching over her without forcing himself on her. Her anger had soon faded. From time to time her jealousy appeared, when she watched Tyrion and Sansa in public in a way that she and Tyrion could never be. But she still loved him, she still came to his bed.

She still believed that they would be together forever.

And now, he was going to catch her completely off guard and send her away. She would not understand. She would not go willingly. She would never understand that he was doing this for her own wellbeing, that he was trying to protect her. That he was trying to keep her safe.

As much as it would hurt him to hurt her, he couldn't be gentle with her. If he was gentle she would believe him still in love with her and she would refuse to go. He would have to be cruel.

She hadn't even entered his chambers yet and he already hated himself.

She didn't knock when she entered, she never did. He was going to miss that about her. He did not turn from the window when she walked in, he didn't want to look at her. He knew that one look at her happy, smiling face and he might second guess himself, he might decide that he could keep her in King's Landing, that he could keep her safe. "Don't," he ordered, turning only slightly so that he could make sure she stopped walking toward him.

Her smile faltered, only for a moment, but then it was back in full force as she sat down on his desk, "You want me on the desk?" she asked, her voice brimming with confidence. He still didn't look at her as he walked away from the desk, trying to put as much space as possible between them. He heard the rustle of her skirts as she stood up, he could picture her brows furrowed in confusion and worry as she watched him. "What is wrong, my lion?" she asked him, for the first time her voice didn't sound confident.

She was afraid.

"Don't!" Tyrion ordered as she took a step toward him. He turned, finally looking in her direction, though his gaze was trained on her feet rather than her face. "Don't call me that."

"What should I call you?" she asked, still unsure of herself, still worried.

"I'm afraid our friendship can't continue," he told her. There was no use avoiding it or drawing the conversation out. He was going to hurt her no matter what. There was no avoiding that. He shouldn't stall.

Her brows smoothed out, the worry was gone. She was no longer concerned, if he looked up he would have been able to see a light pink blush tinting her tanned cheeks. She was starting to become angry. "Our friendship?" she echoed.

He turned away from her, toward the window. He couldn't even look at her shoes, they were too tempting. "There's a ship out in the harbor bound for Pentos," he told her, speaking to his curtains. "You'll have your own cabin, of course. And across the Narrow Sea, a house, servants."

Her voice cracked, "What is this?" she asked.

"I'm a married man," he told his dresser. "My wife has suffered a great deal." This time when he turned to look at her his gaze found her face, to drive home his point, "As you well know." He looked away again. That look had been necessary, to remind Shae of how much Sansa Stark meant to her, but it had been dangerous. She looked as if she were about to cry and all Tyrion wanted to do was run across the chamber to her, hold her, tell her he was an idiot and that he would love her forever. But he couldn't do that. Shae must be kept safe. "I don't want her to suffer any more on my account. I must uphold my vows."

The almost tears were gone from Shae's eyes as she walked forward. She was smiling at him again. They had had this conversation quite a few times, she thought she would win again. She underestimated his resolve to keep her safe. She moved closer to him. "She doesn't want you," she told him, not apologizing for how much that might hurt Tyrion. "You don't want her."

"I have to do right by her," Tyrion cut in, speaking over her. "By our children." He hoped that his mention of children would make Shae realize that he was serious. That it would make her realize that at some point he would have to bed Sansa, that she would bear him children with the Lannister name while Shae would never be able to do that for him.

She studied him for a moment, her head cocked to the side. "What are you so afraid of?" she asked him.

"I'm not afraid of anything," Tyrion countered.

"You are," she argued.

He shook his head, he was afraid. He was terrified of losing her, he was terrified of his father or his sister using her against him. He still could not look at her as she gave voice to all of his fears, as she assured him that they would face anything that came at them together and that they would win. She was not going to go easily, he realized. He had not hurt her enough. He was going to have to hurt her even more.

She reached out for his shoulders, trying to touch him, "It's like you said," she begged him to remember, "I am yours and you are mine."

"You're a whore!" he yelled, the word tearing out of his throat, ripping his heart out with it. He had never called her that before, he had refused to let her call herself that. He lifted his gaze to her face, if he was going to take back everything he had ever told her he should look her in the eye while he did it. She was staring at him, her dark eyes filled with pain. The hands that had been reaching for his shoulders stilled, hanging in the air between them for a moment before they dropped to her sides. He swallowed the apology he wanted to give her, he couldn't take his words back. And truthfully he didn't want to. This was the only way to make her leave.

"Sansa is fit to bear my children and you are not. I can't have children with a whore. I can't be in love with a whore. How many men have you been with? Five hundred? Five thousand?" He shook his head and looked away from her. He couldn't take the pain and anger swirling together in her dark eyes.

"And how many whores have you been with?" she bit out.

Tyrion did not answer, "I have enjoyed my time with all of them. And I have enjoyed my time with you most of all," he addressed the belt tied around her waist, it was the closest he could come to looking her in the eye. "But now that time is over."

He marched past her, ignoring the impulse to grab her hand. He opened the door to his chamber and nodded to Bronn who entered. Then he marched back toward his desk, the very desk she had offered to fuck him on only a few minutes previously. She was crying, he could hear it. Her back was turned to him, so he was able to look at her. Her shoulders shook with her sobs. He looked down at his hands, he shouldn't have looked. He could feel his resolve crumbling.

"You will have a comfortable life in Pentos," he told his desk. "Bronn will escort you to the ship."

The loyal sellsword moved forward and placed a gentle hand on Shae's shoulder, meaning to escort her from the chamber. She wailed as she threw his hand away from her with one hand and slapped Bronn's cheek with the other. And then, without a single last look at Tyrion she fled from the room.

When Tyrion looked up Bronn was staring at him, his left cheek was red, his eyes were sympathetic. Tyrion shrugged his shoulders, unsure of what to say. Bronn nodded, the shorter man did not need to say anything. "I'll see her safely on the ship," he assured him. "You have a wedding to prepare for."

Author's Note:

So I'm not going to lie. Given what we know Shae did to Tyrion, I have never felt bad for her in that scene. But my heart has always broken for Tyrion. So Tyrion's part was really hard for me to write.
And the only thing I could do to keep it even somewhat bearable was to add some humor to it. Which is why for most of the difficult conversation Tyrion is addressing various pieces of bedroom furniture.
Anyway, it amused me. And I hope that it amused some of you as well.
Thank you for coming by and reading. Thank you in advance for the wonderful reviews you're about to leave me. And as always, the BIGGEST thank you to those of you who reviewed the last chapter.
You're heroes. And rockstars. And wonderful human beings.
And this update is for you.

magclot23: Yay! I'm happy I'm back too! I'm sorry I had you waiting so long. That had never, EVER been my intention. But I am so glad that you stuck around. Unfortunately ... it's going to be a while before Robb and Lenora are reunited. But it'll be good when it happens. I promise you that.

BrittStar1199: Your feeling is 100% right, my friend. I had to save Sansa from that fate. I couldn't do that to her. She's just a baby!

HPuni101: You're so welcome for updating! I'm so glad that you enjoyed the last chapter and I hope you loved this update as well!

Melmela: Oh sweet friend! I'm so glad that I have you (mentally) jumping for joy! I'm so sorry you were tired, hopefully you're more awake for this chapter! And I am happy to write for you guys again!

LokiLova: You honestly have no idea how happy I was to update again (and this one too!) Hopefully the writer's block is gone (knock on wood) this chapter came a bit easier than the last. I'm glad you're happy about Robb.
As for your question ... will Lenora hear of his return before she sees him again ... probably not. Half the kingdom wants him dead right now, the other half doesn't even know where Lenora is so there'd be no way to reach her with the news. And unfortunately for Freys ... anyone who sees him turns up dead.
So it's going to be a pretty well kept secret ... for now.

janaoliver: I'm so glad that you're happy I'm back! I'm happy to be back! And hopefully I will not leave you guys alone for this long again! I hope you enjoyed this chapter. As for Robb and Lenora, it won't be toooo long before the reunite again, you know ... just thirty or so chapters ... bahahaha (not going to tell you if that's the truth of it or not!)

Guest1995: It was hard. Because I wanted to write, but nothing was flowing right (at least not for the GoT universe. I had plenty of words for Les Mis). And then pair that with knowing that you guys were waiting for me and I was disappointing all of you. And Lenora was without Robb all alone with the Boltons and if I didn't come back that's where she would be stuck. Forever. It was a pain in the ass. And the more days that went by the more of a pain in the ass it became and the more of a pain it was the less I wanted to write. And it was this whole repeating, chicken and egg scenario that sucked.
But I think I'm back! And there will definitely be more GoT fan-fic goodness on the way (hopefully as evidenced by this chapter). Thank you so much for your review! And your encouragement.

DannyBlack70: I've missed this story. And I've missed you! (In a totally non-creepy, internet stranger kind of way ...) Anyway, I'm so glad you enjoyed the last chapter and I hope that you enjoyed this one as well. As for Grey Wind, of course he's with Lenora. Robb before he spent some time dead, would have wanted it that way. And I imagine in a few chapters or so there might be a flashback or memory where Robb remembers sending Grey Wind after her (hint hint).
As for Jaime, of course he's going North. Poor Myrcella gets no love from me. Mostly because with the exception of giving us Bronn's rendition of The Dornishman's Wife that trip to Dorne was a complete waste of time. And I refuse to acknowledge it.

RHatch89: Thank you dear! I hope you enjoyed this chapter as well!

darkhairedgirl121: Yay! I'm glad I updated then! And I'm super glad that I didn't make you wait as long for this update. Enjoy.

12D3 Gorillaz: It is Lord Stoneheart. Though ... his heart's not going to be as stoney because the person he loves most in the world is still out there somewhere. So he's not going to be a completely stone cold mother f*cker. At least not forever.
As for Len and Ramsay ... you'll just have to wait and see.
But we all know what Roose seems to want.
Regardless of what happens between Ramsay and Lenora ... I promise there will be no rape. I will never write a rape scene. Can't do it. Dub-con ... maybe? But never rape. And I find it very unbelievable that Lenora would ever give dubious consent to the likes of Ramsay Bolton.

darkwolf76: Damn it Tyrion is right! Lenora does need help. As for Cersei doing something stupid, there are plenty of stupid things she does in the future. Though, taking a glance at my outline you might not be grateful for it when it happens. As it is, if you can't tell by the last sentence of this chapter ... she's going to be a little distracted soon. What with how weddings always seem to end up in murder in this universe. I am glad my writing makes you care though, I won't apologize for it, it's good to hear that.
I love Jaime and Tyrion bonding scenes. They're honestly my favorite. They're brothers and they love each other more than like almost anything in the world. And they don't get enough screen time together (or page time) and I hate it. So I'm trying to remedy it here. As for your hope for them both going North together with Bronn ... They'll both end up in the North, perhaps not together, the North is kind of big after all.
You're welcome for the Hound and Arya. I love the two of them together, I do a happy dance every time I think about them. So of course there's going to be quite a bit of it in this story (especially knowing that they're going to meet up again this season and that he's no longer on her list).
You've guessed it ... Roose wants to marry Lenora to Ramsay. And unfortunately for Lenora, things are going to get a bit worse before they even start to look like they might get better. (You'll see in the next chapter ... I wrote it this morning). And don't worry, somewhere down the line, she's going to kick some Bolton ass, perhaps with the help of a northern bastard that I actually like. (read: love.)
Thank you! It's good to be back. I hope you enjoyed this chapter as much as the last.
And don't worry about the language... as long as it's praise I don't mind cuss words. My own mother says that I cuss like a sailor, though I don't know how she would know that because she has never been around sailors and I try not to cuss in from of her...

That's all I've got for this afternoon!
Thank you guys so much for sticking with me! You're beautiful!
Until next time,
Chloe Jane.