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I own Lenora Baratheon, nothing more.

Aahhh! I hate myself. I've fallen down another rabbit hole again. And what writing I did this week was completely consumed by another fandom. And I'm sorry for that. I'm ten chapters into a completely different story that has nothing to do with GoT and completely seems to have my heart and brain at the moment.
But never fear!
One - I swore to myself that I wouldn't start posting the new story until it was completely finished. Completely. Until all it needed was editing.
Two - the other story is actaully really good if I do say so myself. And I think those of you that read it will really enjoy it.
Three - I have not given up on this one. Though I am going to have to slow down the updates a bit. I'm thinking closer to one update every other week. I know, I hate doing it to you guys. But these chapters are monsters. And I want to continue giving you the best I can, and I can't keep doing that if updating starts to feel like a job.
So have no fear, HHNF will continue, albeit at a slower pace, which might work out in the end ... seeing as there are only seventeen chapters left...
I'm with you guys till the end of the line (hint at the next fandom I'm going to tackle)

Chapter Sixty-Six: Here We Are

Sansa

She could still hear her aunt Lysa's screams. She thought that they were echoing through the halls of the Eyrie, but she knew they were only in her head. She wondered if her aunt's screams would haunt her for the rest of her life. Would she ever be able to close her eyes without hearing them?

Liar! Whore! He is mine!

She wondered what had happened to her aunt to make her so unstable, so jealous. Surely she had not always been like that. Perhaps it happened when Jon Arryn died. Or when she got news of Lord Hoster Tully's death. Or maybe even when she heard about what happened to Catelyn and Robb. Maybe it was the guilt from knowing that if she had allowed the knights of the Vale to fight for Robb her nephew and her sister might still be alive. Sansa did not know.

And now she never would.

When the handmaiden had first sought Sansa out and told her that her aunt wanted to speak with her Sansa had thought that it was about Robin, she was sure of it. There was no way the young, spoiled, coddled boy would not tell his mother that she had slapped him across his face. But Petyr had promised her that he would deal with Lysa. What if Robyn had gotten to her first though? As much as Lysa loved Littlefinger, she would not be able to ignore her son's tears.

Lysa had been standing, still and quiet by the open moon door when Sansa found her in the hall. The door, open, cold air blowing through should have been her first clue that something was wrong. She should have run, hidden, found Petyr and asked him to speak to Lysa with her. But against her better judgement she had walked forward when beckoned.

"It's fascinating what happens to bodies when they hit the rocks from such a height," Lysa had told her, her voice eerily calm. A shiver ran up Sansa's spine. "Sometimes you find a head sitting by itself, intact," Lysa turned slightly, lifting her right hand to brush a loose strand of Sansa's hair behind her ear. "Every hair in place. Blue eyes staring at nothing."

Sansa's heartbeat quickened. She could not ignore this. She could not explain it away. She did not understand why, but she knew that her aunt was threatening her.

Lysa had been so calm when she told Sansa that she knew what she had done. Her aunt barely looked at her, her voice was flat and emotionless. But within seconds her face had contorted with rage, she was screaming and spitting and grabbing at Sansa, at anything she could reach. She grabbed her arm, her dress, the back of her head and pushed her to lean over the opening.

Sansa's hands scrabbled against the smooth stone that encircled the moon door, it served as a barrier except for this one spot, this one hole where she and Lysa stood. Tears sprang to her eyes and she screamed, adding to the noise of Lysa's screams as she begged her aunt to let her go.

Look down! Look down! Look down! Lysa had screamed in her ear, her grip loosening with each scream. Sansa was sure that this was it; after everything she had survived in King's Landing, after all of Petyr's promises that she would be safe with her aunt in the Eyrie - she would die here. She would die today. She could only pray to the Gods that she would die before her body hit the rocks.

And then he was there, calling out to her aunt and quietly ordering the older woman to release her niece. Time seemed to stand still as Petyr bargained with Lysa, begging her to release Sansa. It could have been minutes, it could have been hours, perhaps it was even years that she waited, crying and praying that her aunt would listen to the man behind her. She was so frightened, so terrified that she could not even breathe a sigh of relief when Lysa finally pushed her away from the hole in the floor, shoving her body to the ground.

She wanted to run away. She wanted to get as far from her aunt as possible, but she did not want to draw attention to herself. She worried that if she moved too much, too quickly her aunt would turn on her again and this time Petyr would not be able to save her from the fall.

"My sweet, silly wife," Petyr whispered softly as he walked closer to the distraught Lysa, crying beside the moon door. She wasn't silly, Sansa wanted to yell at him from her place on the floor. She was insane. Petyr gently, carefully pulled Lysa to her feet, "I have only loved one woman my entire life," he told her. "Only one." Lysa thought that he was talking about her, Sansa could see it in her bright smile. But Sansa knew better, Petyr had told her in the courtyard only that morning. "Your sister," Petyr told her and then, with both hands he pushed Lysa's chest and she feel through the wretched moon door.

She was screaming again.

...

For a day Sansa had been inclined to think of Petyr as he hero, her savior. She had no doubt that Lysa would have thrown her through the moon door if he had not come to her rescue. She knew that it would have been her body on the rocks, her bones smashed, her blood. But Petyr had come to save her, just as he had done in King's Landing. It had been a choice for him, between Lysa and Sansa and he had chosen Sansa.

But then, that night she remembered what Littlefinger had told her when Joffrey first put her aside for Margaery Tyrell. We're all liars here, and every one of us better than you. She had known from the first that Littlefinger lied to get what he wanted. Many people had warned her of that. Even Petyr himself. It occurred to her that the choice had not been between Lysa and Sansa, but between Lysa and himself. And Littlefinger had chosen himself. If it would have served him better to allow Lysa to throw Sansa through the moon door he would have done it in an instant, without blinking an eye.

But as it was, it served him better to have Lysa gone. Now Robin would need a new guardian. And naturally people would look to Petyr Baelish, the boy's step-father, the grieving widower. She knew now that she was not safe in the Vale, she never had been. And she had definitely not been safe with Littlefinger. Her mind flashed to the blonde woman knight with Jaime Lannister's sword. She had sworn to protect her and Sansa wondered if perhaps she should have allowed it.

Brienne of Tarth had promised that she would remain at the inn until she heard from Sansa. Would she still be there? Would she keep her word? There was only one way to find out, and Sansa was sure that under the cover of darkness she might be able to escape the Eyrie without Littlefinger noticing.

But fear stopped her. If there was one thing she had learned from Cersei in King's Landing it was that the easiest way to be safe was to know everyone's secrets. To know them and to be able to use them against the person. Littlefinger knew that as well. And between the two of them Sansa had been studying at the feet of the masters for almost two years. Petyr was being questioned by the High Lords of the Vale. She should not leave until she used it to her advantage.

She would wait until they asked to speak to her. She knew they would.

She would tell them her version of the events. And she would show Petyr Baelish that, perhaps, he had taught her too well.

"I'm sorry, Lord Baelish," she whispered to him, tears in her eyes as she fiddled with her hands nervously. She knew he would be nervous, worried about what she would tell the council. She also knew that the two lords and the lady who sat before her would be hanging on her every word. "But I have to tell the truth." She turned back to the council. "I'll tell you everything."

"Please Elaine, leave nothing out," the lady had ordered.

She wouldn't.

She told them who she was, who she really was. And when it seemed that they might not believe her she looked to Lord Royce, they had met once at Winterfell. She told him the circumstances of their meeting and she could see it in the old man's eyes. He believed her, he didn't want to, but he believed her. "Lord Baelish has told many lies," she told the council. "All to protect me. Since my father was executed I was a hostage in King's Landing. A plaything for Joffrey to torture or Queen Cersei to torment. They beat me, they tortured me, they married me to the Imp," tears sprang to her eyes at that. A part of her hated using Tyrion like this, but there was no turning back now. "I had no friends in the entire city, except one." She turned to look at Petyr. "He saved me."

At least that last part was not a lie.

She told them her tale, allowing her tears to fall down her cheeks without check. She was calm at first, almost as emotionless as her aunt Lysa had been that day in front of the moon door. She told them how Petyr had smuggled her from King's Landing and brought her to the Vale so that she could live safely with her aunt. She told them that Lysa loved Petyr, that she had always loved Petyr, and that she had told her niece as much. There was truth to all of those statements. But then came the lies. She told them that Lysa had seen Lord Baelish kiss her cheek. She told them that the innocent kiss between an uncle and his niece by marriage had sent her aunt into a jealous rage. She cried harder, her voice got louder, more hysterical as she told them that aunt Lysa screamed and called her a whore, threatened to throw her from the moon door. She stared at them through her tears, willing each in the council to feel her fear. Then she told them how Petyr had tried to calm Lysa down, but that her aunt would not listen, could not listen.

"She struck him. She said she didn't want to live in this world anymore. He tried to reason with her, promised her that she was the only one he had ever loved, but she stepped through those doors -"

She stood, shaking her head violently, as if she could no longer talk. As if the memory was too fresh, too hard for her to think about. The lady stood, comforting her and promising her that it was not her fault. They believed her.

She was not as bad of a liar as Littlefinger had thought.

He was watching her when she opened her eyes. He seemed weary. He knew that he had met his match.

Now that he knew that. She could leave.

And that night, after dark had fallen, she did.

...

"Why do you carry the Kingslayer's sword?" Sansa asked as she sat down across the table from Brienne. The woman looked up from her breakfast, her blue eyes wide and getting wider when she recognized who sat before her.

"Lady Sansa?" she asked, as if she could not believe that Sansa was truly there.

"Why do you carry the Kingslayer's sword?" Sansa asked again. "You ask me to trust you while you carry a Lannister's sword in your hands. I need to know why?"

"Ser Jaime -" Brienne started.

"The Kingslayer," Sansa interrupted.

Brienne winced and shook her head, "Ser Jaime," she corrected softly, "he made a promise to your mother when she released him from the dungeons at Riverrun. He promised her that in exchange for his freedom he would go to King's Landing and he would find you and your sister and return you to your mother."

Sansa shook her head, she didn't want to believe it, but the knight's blue eyes were so sincere that it was almost impossible to deny what she was saying. "But the Lannisters killed my mother," she whispered.

Brienne's blue eyes fell to the table in front of them and Sansa knew, she could feel how sorry the knight was for that. "But not Ser Jaime," she promised. "He was angry when we returned to King's Landing and his father would not let him return you. He was angrier when he found out about what happened at the Twins. He wanted to fulfill his promise to Lady Stark."

"Then why did Littlefinger steal me from the capitol?" Sansa asked. "Why not him?"

Brienne looked up at her again, "Ser Jaime is in no place to be fighting at the moment, my lady," she told Sansa. Of course, Sansa realized, his hand. Brienne continued once she was sure that Sansa understood what she meant. "But he sent me after you, to find you and bring you to wherever you would be safe. I cannot return you to your mother. But I will keep you safe, as she would have wished."

"But why do you have his sword?" Sansa asked again.

"He gave it to me, my lady," Brienne told her. "Lord Tywin had your lord father's great sword melted down. They used the steel to make a sword for Joffrey and one for Ser Jaime. He gave it to me so that I might use your father's sword to protect you."

Sansa stared at her with wide eyes, "That's Ice?" she whispered, nodding toward the sword belt that sat on the bench beside Brienne. The woman nodded silently. "May I see it?"

Without saying a word Brienne unsheathed the sword and laid on the table between them. Sansa's eyes darted over the sword, taking in the way the lights danced off the folds in the steel. There was red folded into the sword now, but she could still recognize the dark steel she had seen so often during her childhood. Hesitantly, as if the sword would bite her she reached out and ran a finger along the flat side of the blade. She closed her eyes as the steel cooled her skin.

This was the closest she had felt to her father since the day Joffrey took his head.

With her hand still on the blade and her eyes closed she asked Brienne where they would go now. "That is up to you, my lady," Brienne told her softly. "I serve you."

It was a strange feeling, to have the decision be up to her. She had been brought to King's Landing. She had been forced to stay there. Littlefinger had taken her to the Vale. This was the first time someone was letting her choose. I want to go home. She glanced up at Brienne, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. "Where do you think we should go?" she asked.

Brienne smiled at her, soft and gentle. "To the Wall perhaps?" she asked. "You have a brother there."

"Jon," Sansa whispered with a nod. She was suddenly filled with a longing to see the bastard half brother she had always looked down on. He was all she had left. "I would like that very much."

She stood from her seat, ready to leave right then. Brienne laughed, "Sit my lady," she commanded gently. "Break your fast, we must wait for Pod."

"Pod?" Sansa asked, the name bringing back memories from King's Landing. "Podrick Payne?"

Brienne nodded, "Ser Jaime asked me to bring him with me, my lady," she told her. "He was not safe in the capitol. And he's a good lad. A bit clumsy, but well meaning."

Sansa smiled, she remembered that from when she had watched him with Tyrion. "We are truly a wonder, Lady Brienne," she told the woman. "A stark, a woman knight carrying a Lannister sword, and Lord Tyrion's squire, traveling to the Wall."

Brienne smiled at her, "You'll be safe with us, my lady," she promised.

And Sansa knew that she could believe her.

-.-.-.-.-

Lenora

From afar Winterfell looked the same to her. If she closed her eyes and ignored Lady Walda she could almost imagine that the last horrible year had not happened. She could almost imagine that she was seeing Winterfell for the first time. That she was arriving to meet her betrothed and that when she was handed out of the wheel house it would be to the Starks lined up in front of their keep, smiling and ready to greet the royal family.

If that were the case her father would still be alive. And Ned Stark. Her uncle Renly. Catelyn. Robb. There had been so much death in such a small time. And the only one she could not bring herself to regret was her brother's. The only regret she felt when she thought of Joffrey's death was that she had not been the one to kill him. Her heart tightened at the thought that if she and her family had never come north, if Robert had not asked Ned to be his Hand none of this would have happened. Both of their families would have been alive and whole.

But would you give up Robb for that? a voice sneered at the back of her head.

She wanted to say yes, the Gods knew how much she wanted to say yes. But the answer was no. No matter how much death and destruction the Seven Kingdoms had faced since the last time she was in Winterfell, she would welcome it again. If only for the short few happy months she spent with Robb.

She wasn't certain, but she thought that made her just as bad as the rest of them. If not, perhaps worse.

"How does it feel to be returned home to Winterfell, my lady?" Lady Walda asked her, watching her carefully. Lenora wanted to punch her, she was sure the Frey woman had meant to be friendly. But she was so stupid. She was as large a fool as she was a woman if she thought that this was anything close to a happy homecoming for Lenora.

She glanced out the window, the walls were getting closer now. The closer they got the more she noticed. Some of the walls were charred black, much like Harrenhal. For all the work Roose Bolton's men had done to the keep, it was still obvious that someone had set it to the torch. "Winterfell was never truly my home," she whispered, never taking her eyes off the keep.

"But it was meant to be," Lady Walda told her. "You were meant to be the Lady of Winterfell and Wardeness of the North."

She sounded so happy, so hopeful. It set Lenora's teeth on edge. "And I was meant to spend my days married to Robb Stark," she growled, finally turning from the keep to glare at the large woman. "That proposal turned out well, did it not?"

Walda looked as though she wanted to say something, she seemed to be biting her tongue. Lenora sighed, perhaps if they had still been at the Dreadfort she might have been more sympathetic to the woman. She might have been kinder, more forgiving. But she could not do that here. She could not do it in the shadow of Robb's family house. She could not lie and be proper, not to the Boltons.

"Besides," she bit out. "This is your home now, is it not? Are you not married to the current Lord of Winterfell?" It hurt to say, it felt as if she needed to pull each word from her mouth, painfully, ruthlessly.

Walda's gaze fell to her lap. Lenora had shamed her. The woman's bottom lip began to tremble and her cheeks began to blotch, red. Lenora closed her eyes and took a deep steadying breath. The woman was going to cry. It was hard for her to remember sometimes, but Lord Walder, for all his faults and betrayals had worked hard to keep his daughters and his granddaughters, his innocents as he had called them, safe and hidden from the harsher truths of the world. That fact had never been more obvious than now as she sat across from a crying woman who whimpering out an apology to her. One she did not owe, because the only thing Lady Walda Frey was guilty of was being fat enough to tempt Roose Bolton's greed.

Still, any apology or sympathy toward the woman felt like a betrayal to the northern man she had made her family. And though Lady Walda did not have any of Robb's blood on her hands, she certainly benefitted from his death. Lenora could not forgive or forget that.

"The North remembers," she whispered quietly as they drew closer to the Winterfell

...

Roose waited until well after the sun had set before he arrived in her chambers. By some cruel trick of fate she had been given the chambers that once belonged to Robb. The furs on the bed no longer smelled like him, but his books were there, the first wooden play sword he had ever been given, and even a small chest, barely longer than a book that held every letter she had ever written to him.

That had brought tears to her eyes. She had never thought to keep the letters he had sent her much longer than the amount of time it took her to write one in return. But he had kept every single one. When she had found them in their box, carefully folded and placed in order of how he had received them she had sat down on the seat by his window and read each and every one. Pausing only long enough between letters to fold them back up as carefully as he once had and return them to their box.

Most of the letters had been silly. They were filled with the daily routines and ponderings of a young girl who had spent too much of her life being told that she was important, and that every thought she had was important. She had laughed, in spite of her current circumstances, at how much her younger self had tried to sound important and interesting. As she got older the letters got longer, the facade disappeared. They were no longer two children writing to each other about their days. They were friends, discussing dreams and futures and how they would change the world if given the chance.

In one of her last letters she had written to him about her apprehension and fear when she thought about her approaching travels to Winterfell. She was excited, she could not wait to see Robb and speak to him in person. They had spoken so much about their life together that she wanted nothing more than to get it started right away. But she had also written that Winterfell seemed very far from her family. And all she had heard about the North from other people was how cold and empty it was. She was worried that Winterfell would never feel like a home to her, that it would never feel like her home.

In short, she had written, I worry that no matter how many years I live there. I will always feel like an outsider, alone in a keep that does not love me.

Even though she had thrown his response away she could still remember it. If she closed her eyes she could still picture his messy hand writing scrawled across the page. He promised her that he would do anything and everything he could to make her love the North as much as he did. He promised her they would travel south whenever she felt the least bit homesick for King's Landing. Or Casterly Rock even, I would travel straight into the lion's mouth if that's what you needed. And he had promised her that no matter what he would always be there.

In short, he had written back, echoing her own words, you need not worry about the keep not loving you, because its Lord will.

Lenora sighed, slowly folding up her last letter and putting it in its spot at the back of the chest. "Where are you Robb?" she asked him, her voice a whisper. "You promised you would never leave me alone here. But, where are you?"

In the distance, outside the window, she heard a wolf howl.

She turned toward the window, throwing open the shudders so that she could hear better. It was a silly hope, a vain hope from the young girl she once was, the one who still believed that good men could triumph over bad ones. But for a second she had thought that she recognized that howl.

Just then, a knock sounded on her chamber door. She started, jumping a bit in her seat and quickly shut the lid of the small chest in her hands. She hid the box behind a pillow before she called out to whoever wished to enter that they could come in. She had thought it would be a servant with her supper, or perhaps Miranda to help her undress and get ready for bed, maybe Lady Walda because despite Lenora's harsh attitude in the wheel house she seemed to think Lenora was her friend. She might have even expected Ramsay before she would have thought to expect to see Lord Bolton standing in her doorway.

He smiled at her, but the action did little to comfort her. Some men's faces were made for smiling. Her father's for example. Her uncles Jaime, Tyrion, Renly. Robb's. But Roose Bolton smiled too infrequently for the look to ever seem at home on his face. And it always seemed to her that the man smiled because he felt he ought to rather than out of any true emotion.

And so, she did not return his smile. She barely looked at him. He had allowed his son to beat her in the woods not so very long ago, some of Ramsay's bruises still clung to her skin. He had allowed his son to put her feet in chains so that she could not escape. He had stolen every ability she had to fight. The only armor she had left now was her courtesies and her disdain. She would let him feel all of it now.

"Ah," she greeted him, her gaze on the fireplace to his left. "Lord Bolton. I was wondering when you would come to see me. I would stand, but," she gestured toward her ankles and the chains that still encircled them. "I much prefer sitting these days."

If he was displeased by her attitude or lack of respect the only hint at it was a slight clenching of his jaw. But it was there for just a moment, if she had blinked she would have missed it. "You are quite forgiven, my lady," he told her with a deep inclination of his head. He moved further into the room, glancing around. "I hope these chambers are to your liking." His pale blue eyes fell to the open window behind her and he moved forward, invading her personal space as he reached over and around her to close the shutters, "Not too warm or too cold, I hope," he continued once he had latched the shutters.

"I imagine everything is too cold up here once winter falls," Lenora answered him. She waited until he had stepped away from her before she took a breath and brought her gaze to his face. "I take it that it was not an accident that I was given Robb's own chambers?" she asked him.

Roose inclined his head to her again, "Ramsay thought that it would make you feel most at home here, my lady. To be surrounded by his belongings."

Lenora shook her head, she would not allow him to lie to her, not here in Robb's old rooms. "Your bastard meant to torment me, Lord Bolton," she corrected him. "My comfort has never been one of his priorities. We both know it, so please do not play coy." His jaw clenched again, and this time it remained clenched. He had named Ramsay his true and legitimate heir before they had left the Dreadfort, but Lenora had not accepted it. And she still called Ramsay a bastard every chance she got.

She took a deep breath, she was neither afraid nor intimidated by Roose Bolton's irritation, though perhaps she should have been. "What is your game here, Lord Bolton?" she asked him. "I've been trying since we left the Twins, but I just can't work it out."

Roose smirked as he drew on of the chairs by the fire closer to her window seat. "Why don't you tell me where you get trapped, my lady, and I will try to help you understand?" he suggested as he sat down.

His use of the word trapped did not go unnoticed. Yes, Lenora thought, I am trapped indeed. "At the Twins you told me that if all went according to plan that I would still be the future Lady of Winterfell," she told him. "But it is you, Lord Bolton who currently holds the keep," she would not say that he held the North, she prayed to all the unnamed old gods that none of the stubborn northern lords would ever consent to Roose Bolton being their liege lord, especially after he had killed their king. "And you already have a lady wife, a new Lady of Winterfell. If her father's vast amount of children and grandchildren are anything to go by I can only assume she will bear you many children. You would have no reason to set her aside, especially for a woman who has, to this point, remained unproven in her ability to bear them herself."

Roose smiled again, she did not trust it. In fact, she trusted this smile even less than his first. "You are mistaken, my lady," he told her. "It is not I, you will be marrying."

Ramsay, she thought. That very thought had sent her running from the Dreadfort and now to have it confirmed. She felt her hands start to shake and she clenched her fists to hide it from Bolton. His pale-eyed gaze fell to her hands anyway, he knew. "The Northern Lords will not bend the knee and follow a bastard," she told him. She thought of Jon and she winced, "at least yours."

His voice was calm, but his face was a storm. "Ramsay is no longer a bastard," he told her. "He has been legitimized by your brother. A decree from a dead King is still a decree from a King." He was quiet for a moment, "And they won't bend the knee and follow Ramsay," he told her, his voice softer than the wind moving outside the keep. "They will follow you."

She shook her head. "I am not from the North."

Roose smiled at her and for the first time it almost seemed a real one. "But you claimed it when you fell in love with Robb Stark. And it claimed you when he did the same."

She shook her head again, grasping for anything she could fight this with. She had no weapon, only her mind and her words. "There must always be a Stark in Winterfell," she told him. "The North knows that and they will not look kindly on your son here, legitimized by my bastard brother or not."

Roose's smile widened as he stood from his seat, "You are the Stark of Winterfell now, Lady Lenora."

"I won't do it," she told him, angry at herself when it came out as a yell. She did not want him to think that she was a spoiled child who thought that yelling would get her way. "I won't do it. And you know as well as I that a vow to the Gods made under duress is no true vow."

Roose chuckled, "I don't much care about vows to the Gods, my lady," he told her, his voice as soft as the silk of her southern summer dresses. "I only care about the vows men will hear and follow. And they will believe yours."

-.-.-.-.-

Tyrion

He could hear them, out in the hallway beyond his door. It was a quiet, lonesome place, the black cells beneath the Red Keep and sound traveled. Tyrion imagined that these cells were worse than what Jaime had experienced at Riverrun, they were worse than anything the Lannisters had under Casterly Rock, and far more terrifying than the thought of falling from the sky cells at the Eyrie had been. He could only thank the Gods that he would not be here for long. As Hand of the King his father had told him that his execution would come fast, within a day; the trial and subsequent trial by combat had been embarrassing enough for House Lannister, Tywin did not want to draw this affair out any longer than he had to.

But from the sounds out in the tunnel he imagined he would not live to see his execution. Perhaps Cersei had sent one of her men down to kill him, slow and painful. Maybe having his head cut off would not be satisfying enough for her. It would be like his sister to think death was not enough, to want someone to suffer first.

The struggle ended in the corridor, whoever the victor was moved quietly toward Tyrion's door. He could not hear their footsteps, but he could see the light of the torch in the crack underneath the door. After so many hours of so much darkness, the torch was almost blinding. Tyrion turned away from it and closed his eyes. Quietly the assailant opened the door to his cell and stepped inside.

Tyrion's fist clenched, he could still remember how it felt to hold the war hammer in his hand during the Battle of Blackwater Bay. He wished he had it now. He was not much of a fighter, but he would try if it meant saving his life. Or at least saving himself from suffering. His new visitor did not say a word. "Get on with it, you son of a whore!" Tyrion growled without looking away from the wall he was curled against. He was done being patient.

There was an almost pregnant pause and then, "Is that anyway to speak about our mother?"

Tyrion turned over and sat up so quickly his head spun. It was hard to make his face out, the torch was in front of it, but there was no mistaking that voice. It was his brother. It was Jaime. He was so happy to see his brother that he did not even think to hope this meant escape. "Jaime," he breathed, a whisper as he stood up and moved closer to him. He reached out a trembling hand for his brothers coat, he needed to make sure this was real and not a vision. "What are you doing?"

"What do you think I'm doing?" Jaime asked him before he nodded toward the open cell door. "Follow me." Now Tyrion knew he was dreaming. There was no way that Jaime hoped to free him from King's Landing. Even his brave brother could not be that stupid. He dropped his hand from Jaime's coat and turned away from him, headed back to his spot on the floor so that he could lay down again. Then he felt Jaime's golden hand fall on his shoulder. "Tyrion," his brother whispered, practically begging him to listen.

It was the golden hand that did it. That proved to him that he was not dreaming. In his dreams Jaime always had both hands. He turned back to his brother and felt his face split into a grin. Jaime tried to smile back, it looked scared and worried. It was not a look that he was accustomed to seeing on his brother's face. "What's the plan?" he asked Jaime as he followed his long-legged brother from the cell as quickly as he could.

"There's a galley waiting for you in the bay," Jaime whispered as he led Tyrion through one twisting tunnel into the next. It was dizzying, if given a thousand chances Tyrion was not sure if he would have ever been able to find his way out of the cells on his own.

"Where is it bound?" Tyrion asked, his voice little more than a breath.

"The Free Cities," Jaime told him, his voice emotionless. "At least that is where it is logged to go. You are welcome to tell the captain that you wish to truly sail there, he will bring you."

"But I can go anywhere?" Tyrion asked, hearing the unspoken words in his brother's answer. Jaime hardly looked back at him as he nodded. "To White Harbor?" Tyrion asked, his brows raised.

This time Jaime turned to smile at him, "I was hoping that you would want to sail there," he whispered.

Tyrion smiled, they still did not know where Lenora was. But if he had to guess, he would guess Winterfell. White Harbor would be the closet port city. "Who's helping you?" he asked. He loved his brother, Jaime was brave and good despite what people thought of him; but his brother could not play the game, he was not good at scheming. And this was a scheme.

"Varys," Jaime told him. "You have more friends that you thought."

Tyrion smiled in spite of himself, the Spider and his webs.

They ran together, much too fast for Tyrion's small legs and much too slow for Jaime's long ones until they came to a narrow, twisting set of stairs. Jaime moved forward to place his torch in the wall bracket, it would only light Tyrion's path to end of the first spiral, the rest of his climb would be in darkness. "There's a locked door at the top of the stairs," Jaime told him. "Knock on it twice," he paused, "and twice again. Varys will open it."

And then, because his brother had never been good at goodbyes he stalked past Tyrion and started to leave him. He didn't even look back. Tyrion turned away from the torch to watch after his brother, "I suppose this is goodbye then," he said softly. Even if he found Lenora, even if he somehow managed to help her and send her south. He would not be able to come with her, not while Cersei and their father controlled the boy who sat on the throne.

Jaime paused and turned to look at him for a long moment. And just when Tyrion thought that he was going to turn to leave again Jaime stepped forward, dropping hard to his knees. He wrapped his arms tightly around Tyrion and pulled him into a hug. Tyrion held on just as tightly. He felt his brother's left hand come to his head, his fingers carding through his hair and he swallowed a lump in his throat. They had not hugged like this in many years, not since he was a small child afraid of the monsters under his bed. He wished he could go back to the world where the monsters were under his bed and not in his family.

Jaime pressed a hard kiss to his temple, leaving his lips against Tyrion's skin for a beat longer than necessary before he pulled away. And then, still holding tightly to Tyrion's shoulders he whispered, "Farewell, little brother." And with an affectionate shake to Tyrion's shoulders he let go, stood up, and started to rush away.

"Jaime," Tyrion called out, stopping his brother one last time. He waited until Jaime had turned before he continued. "Thank you. For my life."

Jaime nodded, he looked like he wanted to say something, but then he glanced over Tyrion's head toward the burning torch. "Quickly now," he scolded.

And then he was gone.

Tyrion remained where he was, watching Jaime turn a corner before he turned toward the torch. He took three steps forward, toward freedom. But then he stopped, turning back toward where Jaime had just left him. He could not leave the Red Keep yet, he realized, he had unfinished business with his father.

...

He snuck into the Tower of the Hand using the tunnel that Varys had told him about when he first moved in as Hand of the King and needed a way to sneak out to see Shae without his sister or her spies seeing him. It felt so familiar, so easy, that for the first moment when he saw her laying in the bed he thought that he had been transported back in time. Of course she was there, she had used the same tunnel and trap door that he had used. She was waiting for him.

And if she had laid still he might have left her alive. But her sigh pulled him from the past, and her moaned words of my lion, meant for his father, not for him, drove him over the edge. He strangled her with a necklace he had given her. He cried only once. But apologized three times. Perhaps he should have left her with the Lannister soldier. It certainly would have saved him a great deal of pain.

Then, taking Joffrey's crossbow off the wall he dragged it down the hallways of the tower, looking for his father. Tywin was not the sort of man who would leave a whore in his bed if he meant to be gone long. He was still in the tower.

The door to the Hand's privy was partially open, there was a candle burning inside. Tyrion leveled the crossbow and used the front of it to push the door the rest of the way open. If Tywin was surprised to see him, he barely let on. He did not even get up from the wooden box that covered his chamber pot. "Tyrion," he greeted. "Put down the crossbow."

Tyrion stared at him, the man he had spent his life trying to impress. He felt nothing but a mild curiosity. The rest of the Seven Kingdoms believed the Lannisters shit gold, he wondered what his father's shit looked like. It certainly did not smell like gold. Unbidden, Tyrion's lips turned up a bit at the corners.

"Who released you?" Tywin asked, his voice was harder now. Tyrion did not need to answer him. They both knew Tywin knew the answer. "Your brother, I expect," Tywin answered himself after a minute. "He always had a soft spot for you. You're not saying much, that's unusual." He moved to stand up, but Tyrion took a step forward, his borrowed crossbow trained on Tywin's chest.

It was then that Tywin realized there was a bolt loaded and ready. "So this is how you want to speak to me?" he asked. "Shaming me has always brought you such pleasure -"

"All my life you've wanted me dead," Tyrion interrupted, voicing the thoughts he had held many times. He wondered if Tywin would deny it.

"Yes," Tywin told him, denying nothing. "But you refused to die. I respect that, even admire it. You fight for what's yours." Tyrion's jaw clenched, all his life he had wanted to hear this from his father, but now that he was he could not believe it. The great Tywin Lannister was telling him what he thought Tyrion wanted to hear because his son had a crossbow to his chest. It was silly really, his lies when all Tyrion wanted was the truth.

"I never would have let them execute you," Tywin assured him. "If that's what you're worried about." But he wasn't worried about that. Jaime had made sure they would not execute him. Jaime had saved him. "You're a Lannister," Tywin continued. "And my son. Now, enough of this nonsense."

He started to stand, but Tyrion took another step closer, crossbow still lifted. His father sat back down. "Joffrey, the monster you sentenced me to die for, used this crossbow to torment Sansa Stark once," Tyrion told his father, watching as his father's green eyes darted to the weapon in his hand. "He held it trained on her while he order Ser Meryn Trant to rip her dress off and beat her. That was the only truth from my entire farce of a trial. I saved her from him. I saved King's Landing from Stannis Baratheon. And I am saving myself from you."

Before his father could say another word he pulled the trigger and released the first bolt into his father's chest. He was surprised at his aim. He was even more surprised that the kick back did not send him falling to the ground. He grabbed the second bolt and began to load it. His father grasped the first, tugging feebly on it. Tyrion thought to warn him that pulling it out would only make him bleed faster.

He kept silent.

"You shot me," Tywin whispered, lifting his gaze from the bolt in his chest to Tyrion. He glared, icy and hard. "You are no son of mine."

"I am your son," Tyrion whispered to him. "I have always been your son."

He released the second bolt.

His father slumped against the wall, silent. Tyrion had brought three bolts, but he did not need the last one. Tywin Lannister was dead. He dropped the crossbow as he walked away.

...

He had not been long in the Tower of the Hand. But he did not know if his galley had waited for him. He did not want to try his luck by traveling to the bay to see. And the tunnel underneath the Tower of the Hand, if he walked it all the way to the end, would dump him out in Flea Bottom.

He had no idea how late it was, he only knew it was dark. But perhaps there would be a blacksmith shop that was still open, an apprentice who might sell him a dagger or small sword without asking any questions for the right price.

He had no hopes of getting a horse, but he would need something to protect himself with when he traveled north on foot. His days of having Jaime protect him were far behind him. He wished that he had not sent Pod away.

He found several shops that were still open, the smiths let their apprentices work at night, the cooler evening air made the work more bearable, perhaps. He went to the emptiest one and what he found there was more surprising, more valuable than weapon he could have purchased.

A boy, barely younger than Lenora, but so much taller. So much stronger. And as much the spitting image of Robert Baratheon as she was.

"The Others take me," Tyrion whispered, watching as the boy swung his hammer, easily shaping the steel he was working on.

He had whispered, but the boy must have been as on edge as Tyrion was. It was not difficult to recognize another soul who had spent much of his recent time looking over his shoulder. The boy turned, glaring at Tyrion, his hammer no longer a tool, but a weapon. "You're a Lannister," he said by way of greeting, his eyes narrowing.

"And you're one of Robert's bastards," Tyrion replied.

The boy took a step forward, Tyrion kept his eyes trained on the hammer in his hand. "You're not safe here."

Tyrion's lips quirked into a smirk, he was not safe anywhere. "And neither are you. But here we both are."

Author's Note:

Hello friends! I hope that you enjoyed this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it. Full confession, I've been waiting for this chapter for a while. The scene with Tyrion meeting Gendry was written months ago, just hanging out in my chapter outline until I finally got to this chapter and fit it in. And I'm really happy with how it turned out. I really like the almost symmetry of this chapter.
It starts with Sansa deviating from her plot line on the show, becoming more of her own woman. Realizing everything she has learned since leaving Winterfell and meeting up with Brienne and Pod, two people Jaime Lannister sent to protect her.
It ends with Tyrion deviating from his plot line on the show. Instead of getting on a ship bound for the Free Cities with Varys, he's headed North. With a young man who spent way too much time rowing as far as I'm concerned.
And both groups will probably meet some fun characters along the way.
But I'm done gushing about my own story now. It's time for you to gush! Did you like it? Review! Those reviews will make my work week so much more enjoyable!
As always ... HUGE thank yous to all of your wonderful, kick ass souls who reviewed on the last update. You guys are perfect.

Vulcran: I've got to say, I'm actually kind of going to miss Baelish. I mean he was a scheming bastard and none of GoT would have happened if it weren't for him. But at the same time, he's a scheming bastard and none of GoT would have happened without him. What I love about him is also what I hate about him. And while his farewell from the show was truly fantastic and left me screaming on my couch ... I'm gonna miss him next season.

JaxAndCharlieTeller: You are pretty awesome for rereading the story. Most people do that once the story is finished. I really appreciate that you are rereading while this is still very much an active story.
And thanks, I think? I think it's a compliment that I manage to capture Ramsay's creepiness. It might also just be because my mind is a twisted, evil place ... but I'm going to chalk it up to my talent as a writer. :D

taterbug0491: Oh I'm so sorry friend! If it helps, I want a Robb and Lenora (Lobb? Renora?) reunion too! Unfortunately ... that's still a bit off. But it will be worth it when it comes, I promise. Enjoy.

Vgb: Thank you! I'm glad you enjoyed the last update and I hope that you enjoyed this one too!

Janaoliver: I'm so glad that you're glad I updated! Thank you so much! I hope you enjoyed this chapter and the dose of Lenora you got in it as well!

Someone: Thank you! I'm pretty sure that the Boltons aren't going to lock her up because while they know she's a prisoner Bolton hopes the rest of the North will follow her. They're not going to follow her from a cell.
And Lenora won't learn to keep her mouth shut, it's the only weapon she's got left at the moment.

matrixboy122: I'm happy to be back. No need to worry, updates might come a bit slow, but I can guarantee at least one every other week (if not two like this week) and I promise they will keep coming till the end.

DatMatt: I did! I did deliberately write about Theon taking Ramsay's sword and the satchel. I desperately wanted to play with your emotions! There was that moment of hope when you thought maybe Theon would use the sword against Ramsay, and then that other moment when you thought maybe Ramsay didn't see the decree, maybe Theon saved it. And then both came crumbling down. Because Theon is still Reek. And I giggled while writing it.
I also giggled for a completely different reason while writing about Arya and the Hound. I love the two of them.

RHatch89: You needed reminding about why you hated Ramsay? I guess he's been gone from the show for a while. So I'm happy to have reminded you!

Guest1995: Screw is completely not an offensive word. Do not worry. And yes, screw Ramsay! As for who's going to find Lenora and help her escape? You'll just have to wait and see. Though I imagine, just knowing me, that she's going to do a bit of work. This is very much a the princess saves herself story

ZabuzazGirl: The Hound is going to help her! Yes he is! The question is what will happen to her before he gets there!

HPuni101: Thank you! I'm so glad that you enjoyed the last chapter and I hope that you enjoyed this one as well! Things are looking pretty bad for Lenora, but as they say in Les Mis ... even the darkest night shall end and the sun will rise. We're going to reach a point (sooner rather than later) where things can only go up for her.

bellaphant: Ramsay's kind of growing on me. Roose too. It's strange. I hate them. And I feel super slimy while writing about them. But it's an interesting challenge. And I'm ridiculously happy that I'm getting it right enough that the reviews are so full of Bolton hate. That means I'm doing something right. So that's cool.
Fingers crossed that this story helps redeem Sansa for you. I'm not just in it to redeem Jaime after all, but all the characters I love that seem to get a bit of a bum rap or are dragging their feet in their own redemption arcs on the show.

darkwolf76: Hello friend! Don't worry, I'm more than thrilled to sit back and read your catch up reviews! They're wonderful.
I'm happy you're enjoying the Jaime scenes. They are some of my all time favorites to write. He's just got so much good in him and I'm enjoying playing with it. As for your wish about Tyrion, you appear to have gotten it ... he is indeed heading north, though with a very different character. And yeah ... Jaime and Brienne are going to be on the same side much faster in this story, because I can't take them separated anymore. I won't do it. They need to be friends!
I love what I'm doing with the Hound. He and Arya have always stood out in my mind from the show. They're these two characters that are so much alike and seem to hate each other for it and I adore that. I'm not going to lie, I may or may not have sent fanmail to the show runners asking for a GoT spinoff that was the adventures of Arya and Sandor. I would watch that every day and twice on Sundays. The show runners aren't going to do that so I had to include a lot of it in my own story instead.
And yes, Sansa is finally getting smart. She's with Brienne and Pod now. And while they might be a cute couple, I think I have someone else in mind of her.
No Robb in this chapter, but I promise he will be in one very soon. (Two updates away I think without checking my outline.) And it's roughly ... fourteen chapters until their reunion. So not ... so far away. But not close either. Because I love you guys, but I'm still mean.

And that's all I've got.
Have a fantastic week friends! I'll see you back here soon!
Chloe Jane.