"Gods this is comfortable..." I all but moaned with a small smile as I plopped my perfect, pert little arse onto the bed within the guest chambers which I'd been given for the night.

Starfall was one hell of a castle. Beyond its looks which were right out of a fantasy novel, and by that I mean the happy kind not the incest packed grimderp that normally characterized Westeros, it was also exceptionally well appointed.

Now, I'd admit that part of these feelings might arise from having gone without any creature comforts for the better part of a year, though I'd like to think that was mitigated by the fact that I was also well used to the comforts of modern life. Several of which I found myself lacking in the extreme.

First, flush toilets. Something I'd have to rig up a design for post haste because good fucking god did privy's suck. They smelled like... well... rancid shit.

A solution to this was already in mind. Let's see... No indoor plumbing so maybe a small cistern which could be filled for a half-a-dozen flushes. A balanced lever which could be weighted in a way to balance it so when released it will fall back into its default position. And of course a U-bend. Could use lead pipe without complaint for ease of maintenance and manufacture because frankly you don't expect anyone to drink out of the fucking commode.

"Wylla," I said after a moment, calling over the peasant girl who now seemed to be taking the dual role as my son's wet nurse and my personal servant/minion, "Get me my book and pencil."

"Yes, m'lady," she replied as she rushed over with the aforementioned items.

I took the materials with a wide smile as I felt myself overcome by a wave of creativity. It took about five minutes to complete my rough sketch of a primitive gravity fed flush toilet and decided to move onto another modern comfort that I both missed and could reasonably invent. The shower.

I smiled to myself. Let's see. Easiest way to do it would be one with solar heating. Considering this was Dorne, the easiest way to heat it would be solar Maybe a black terracotta vessel that could be placed on a roof and fed via gravity. Could easily adapt a pull system to control the flow, and a simple sprinkler head is far from complicated. General camp shower done medieval. Simple, fast, comfortable way to keep clean without all the bother of calling a bath.

Hm. Maybe add some polished copper sheeting to serve as a primitive solar oven to improve its ability to heat. Hell, could actually spin something like that off into another invention. I bet the Sandy Dornish would love solar ovens!

While I doubted I would invent the internet any time soon, there were countless ways that I could add just subtle improvements that could help the nobility and common folk both.

Speaking of common folk I looked up to where Wylla was readying her own bedding. As my servant she'd be sleeping in my quarters, ready to do my will or feed my son at a moment's notice.

I frowned as I realized something. Outside when I actually needed something from her I'd barely even noticed she was there, which actually, was pretty normal. To most nobles they were one step removed from being just another piece of furniture. And I'd to my own disgust fallen into that pattern.

She'd done a great deal for me so far and I'd never even thanked her. On one hand I knew that was just the way things were... but... No. Just no. That... I wasn't that person.

I'd always been bit of an ass, I'd freely admit it. I'm blunt, opinionated, foul mouthed, and I can hold one hell of a grudge, but at the same time... I like to be nice to people and show basic respect. Not only because it's polite, ironic I know, but because sometimes a simply thank you can mean the world to someone.

People liked to be thanked. It's in our nature as human beings to seek appreciation. It makes us happy. And saying thank you takes nothing away from the speaker, but raises the mood of the receiver. There's no reason not to. It's why I also liked to even congratulate others on their petty victories.

Most nobles treated their servants like part of the furniture, and while I realized I'd have to maintain some level of noble detachment in public, in private I could be as respectful as I like. Not only would it be a simple human nicety but the more ruthless part of me, the she wolf daughter of a Lord Paramount, realized that it would be a fast way to get the loyalty of the servants. And happy, loyal servants are helpful servants who don't stab you in the back.

"Wylla," I said after a moment of thought, "Thank you."

The young woman froze and turned back to me. "M'lady?"

"You've done much for me and I'd like to take this moment to thank you for your efforts. You've served me well and I believe in giving recognition where it is due."

She smiled. It was a very pretty smile. She wasn't as classically beautiful as... we... me, but she was a pretty lass. Full lips, a button nose, and a soft heart shaped face, set with a pair of wide, expressive eyes brown eyes. With her wide hips, full breasts, and short stature was the stereotypical cute farmer's daughter.

All in all I'd rate her an easy seven. Maybe an eight if she cleaned up a bit. All in all, a fine looking woman. Given a chance, and the serendipitous return of my penis, I'd have happily screwed her silly.

A fact which brought with it a grim realization. She was only a year, maybe two older than Lyanna. Maybe not even that considering the fact that teenage girls could develop at vastly different rates. Hell, I'd had a neighbor growing up who was hit by the puberty fairy so hard, that at 12 she looked like she was old enough vote.

To be a Nursemaid a woman had to be lactating. To be lactating a woman needs to have been pregnant. If she was a young mother, by all rights she should be with her child. And if she was a young wife, even if her child had died as was all too common in this shit-fuck cesspit of a world, she should by all rights be with her husband. And then there was the fact that I'd remembered hearing that a woman named Wylla was both wet nurse to Jon Snow and Edric Dayne which meant she never returned home after leaving the Tower of Joy.

All in all, this painted a very grim picture. One that had implications that I found fucking infuriating... and one that I just might be able to help with.

"Y-you're welcome m'lady," she said after a moment having been someone lost for words, not that I minded given that I'd been a little distracted by my own thoughts.

I nodded to her in turn. "Wylla, you serve me but I do not know you. I would like to ask you a couple questions."

She paused for a moment and then nodded. "Y-yes, m'lady."

"How is it that you became a Nursemaid," I asked calmly.

He face went pale for a second and she bowed her head. "M'lady I..."

"If you are uncomfortable answering, then let me know and I will forget I even asked. There will be no repercussions. I just wish to know."

"I-I was a whore," she replied with sadly. "They found me in the tavern... I had milk in my breasts and no reputable women were willing to put down their babes so..."

"Did you leave your child behind?" I asked, "Because if so I can have it fetched."

She shook her head, "No, m'lady... my babe... he was taken from me."

I frowned and my "Take. Explain."

"His father... he was Ser Artur Skyl..." she replied sadly.

House Skyl, a bastard house of and sworn to House Manwoody of Kingsgrave. A name I knew because in a desperate attempt to have some form of human contact, Lyanna had convinced Arthur Dayne to teach her the fine points of Dornish heraldry.

But it made sense. Knight sires a bastard on a prostitute, takes the child. Old story, sad story. But considering the fucked up structure of the laws in Westeros there was really nothing I could...

"When he found out I had a babe, he took him from me and cast me out..."

My jaw clenched.

Wait.

Cast her out?

"I was a servant," she continued, seemingly ignoring what I said. At this point she was just talking. As sad as it sounds, I had a feeling no one ever just... listened to her before and being given a chance to tell her story she just wanted to release if only so she didn't have to bottle it up all that pain.

"One night he... I caught his eye, m'lady, and he decided to bed me. I said no but he told me it was an honor to share a knight's bed. I said I wanted to save myself but he... he grabbed me... and he tore my dress and... and..."

As her voice began to break with sobs I pulled her into a tight hug. "Let it out. Let it out Wylla," I said as she began to cry into my shoulder.

I held her for a long while, letting her cry into my shoulder. I petted her hair, I held her tight, I said comforting words and have her not just my sympathy but my understanding for I too knew what it was like to be in that place. To be violated and forced to bare the child of a monster.

And I sure as hell didn't cry with her.

Really.

Something got in my eyes.

That's my story and I'm fucking sticking to it.

So fuck you.

Funerals suck.

I never liked them. Neither did Lyanna for that matter. Yet here the fuck I was, looking at the fetid corpse of a man I fucking hated utterly under the false pretense of mourning his not quite timely enough death.

Oh, the things we do for and the lengths we go to comfort the fucking in-laws, I grossed to myself.

Arthur himself, he was a testament to the undertakers arts. I had to give the Silent Sisters due credit. They were very, very good at what they did, doubly so considering they were working with a literally medieval level of technology. They'd managed to salvage the body the best they could, and while it was obvious they'd gone to some liberties to reconstruct his appearance, he looked almost like a man and not the Walking Dead reject we'd dumped off on them the morning prior.

His face was covered with painted linen to give it an illusion of life, and not having been infested with maggots, while there were two clay discs painted like eyes over the empty sockets. A standard Southron tradition common to most peoples who worshiped the Andal gods. In the north it was more simple. We didn't do all these attempts at false preservation to make it look good. You just put a damned funerary shroud over top the body.

The only thing worse than the viewing of course was the ritual. Spells, Smells, and Bells. In my past life, I'd read that phrase used a couple times to describe Catholics, but they didn't have anything over the bloody Andals.

The smell of the incense was overwhelming, this I could understand. You have to cover over the stench of the body, but by the Gods of the Forest, the concoction they use was simply monstrous. In the North, it was common to use a single incense made from wild herbs and tree sap. It was simple, mellow, and did the job.

This shit on the other hand seemed to be a mix perfectly crafted to ensure that the cure was only a hair less pungent than the disease. Lyanna was never one for fancy scents, but I could tell at least half of whatever the hell it was they were burning probably originated east of Slaver's Bay and probably had a per-ounce cost higher than some precious metals.

Leave it to the Seven to make a funeral smell pretentious.

The chanting thankfully was the least of it. While the actual content was completely inane, you could simply glaze over. Stop paying attention and it would become just another piece of the background noise. Given some time to let your mind wander off and you might even be able to catch a quick nap and hopefully sleep through the bulk of it. Or at least you could if it wasn't for the fucking bells.

By the fucking gods! It's like they perfectly timed each damn ring so you'd be just on the cusp of falling asleep and escaping this pain in the arse, and then... DING! You jump out of your damned skin and have to spend a moment reorienting yourself while at the same time trying to disguise the fact that you find everything just so agonizingly dull.

The clergy of the Faith of the Seven were a bunch of closet sadists. Fact. There's simply no other good explanation for this besides a cleverly disguised desire to spread suffering to all folk both great and small.

Jesus H. Titty-Fucking Christ! I swear to the fucking Gods! If this nightmare doesn't end soon, Robert's first son by me will be named Theon in the hopes that the boy lives up to the example of his goddamned namesake and puts every fucking Septon and Septa in the seven fucking kingdoms to the fucking sword!

Almost in response to my profane oath, the chanting stopped and for a moment I felt the very real need to rush out of the damnable sept, and give the Heart Tree of the Godswood a hug and a kiss on its big woody lips in thanks.

Of course, as expected, then the Septon stepped forward and dashed my dreams...

"And now we shall remember the fallen, that he may never die in our hearts..."

Seven fucking hells.

Slowly, with unshed tears in his eyes, Lord Andrew stood and began to speak, at great length, about his brother and what a wonderful man he was.

It made my stomach churn as I to tear up. No. Just no! Just fucking no! No! No!

I took a deep breath, clenched my fists, and closed my eyes. I did not need to hear this. Not after what he'd been party to! No! Just... No!

Breath in. Breath out. Let it pass through you and about you. Do not listen. Pay no attention. Think of something else.

Yes. Something else.

Like what to do with the realm once I become queen.

On all the forums I used to go to they loved to talk about fucking canals!

I'll think about canals! Or rather how utterly unfeasible they are!

If I could only tell them the tale of Walton the Witless.

He was King of the North about 600 years ago. He was obsessed with public works and saw himself as the second coming of Brandon the Builder. He was completely obsessed with the idea of "slitting the throat" by building a canal across the Neck.

He almost bankrupted the realm, lead thousands of workers to their deaths, alienated House Reed to the point that it took three generations and a marriage before they forgave us, and most unforgivably, his excesses weakened the realm enough that Tommen Teague was able to push his northern borders beyond the Cape of Eagles.

Now, while this might just sound like the standard comings and goings of pre-unification Westeros politics, one of the many men that King Tommen decided to reward with lands was a trumped up merchant who decided that he'd make his fortunes by building himself a bridge...

That's right, boys and girls. Walton the Witless's greatest sin was the fact that his incompetence is the reason that House Frey is 'a thing'.

So, yeah. Fuck canals. They only lead to weasels and tears...

"Lyanna..." Ned whispered in my ear, ripping me from my thoughts.

I jumped and my eyes opened. Uncomfortably I found myself as the center of attention.

Howland, Eddard, and the bulk of House Dayne, they were all looking at me.

I blinked and grimaced as I felt a chill go down my spine. I'd been doing my best to ignore what was being said but had noticed a silence that began a moment ago.

Oh. No.

Just... No. They really couldn't be expecting me to...

"Lady Lyanna," The septon asked with a hint of smug self-importance in his voice, "Is there anything you'd like to say?"

I was so going to have this motherfucker killed when I became queen.

I gritted my teeth and looked at the others. While Lord Andrew seemed tense, and was giving the septon a dirty look, and Lady Ashara had taken a slight ashen cast, there was now a sense of expectation that was firmly focused on yours truly.

I don't want to offend the in laws. But I couldn't force myself to lie and say something nice about the fucker. And even worse, I was being put on the spot.

I had to say something, and I had to do it fast.

SHIT! FUCK!

I took a deep breath and stood up. Fuck it. I'd be honest... but not too honest.

"I never met the good and honorable man about whom all of you have been speaking," I said after a moment of thought. "I only knew him as one of my jailors, for by the time I met him his time in the Kingsguard had broken him of it."

I took a deep breath. Great. It was fucking this up. "Listen. I... I... This isn't the time or the place to describe what was done to me, but understand that while I cannot help but hate him for his part in it in the end... Unlike Whent and Hightower, I saw shame in his eyes. The Mad King and his lunatic son... they destroyed all that they touched. They took one of the finest men in the realm and perverted his oath to make him party in deeds that... that just boggle the mind."

I bit my lip. "It is our place to serve, not to judge. That's what Hightower told him again and again, day after day. I was bound by chains iron. He was bound by chains of duty. He was my jailor, but in a way he was also my fellow inmate. He was the Sword of Morning, a man charged to be the paragon of chivalry and the Aerys and his son forced him to break every oath of knighthood. They polluted and corrupted and destroyed everything they touch! Because they broke him, just like they broke me. It's what they do! And..."

I rubbed my face.

My hand came back wet.

"I'm crying," I muttered to myself with a hollow chuckle, "Why am I crying..."

I shook my head and took a deep breath, "Just... just remember him as the man you knew, not the man I knew. Because by the time I met him... death was a release..."

I stood in place for a long moment struggling to find something else to say but I honestly couldn't. I couldn't summon the will or even the energy to go on.

"I can't say anything more I... please... just..." I could barely stand. I was feeling faint I...

Swayed slightly and found myself in Eddard's embrace.

I smiled tiredly.

Good old Ned. Reliable old Ned. His timing isn't always the best, and he can be a bit thick, but in the end, he's always there when you need him.

I love my brother.