The House in Rose Valley

One Year Ago

Outside the heavy Ironwood doors, the grey afternoon was still and silent. Beyond the walls was weather not common to those that filled the Great Hall of the ancient fortress of House Stark. Past the gates there was no sight of man, animal, tree, or life. The driving snow of the last autumn days fell in slow, gliding sheets that created an obscuring wall of white, that blinded man and beast to all else that moved in the world. For those of the North, it was not uncommon, and one might say that even an outsider might have been captured by the odd beauty and serenity of the sight of pure snow glazing soldier pine. But today, today it made everyone claustrophobic, cutoff, and anxious. One might have thought that the great castle build by the very hands of Brandon the Builder were besieged by the crone himself.

Twenty Thousand men had followed Robb Stark down the Neck to do battle with Tywin and Jaime Lannister in the Riverlands. He had taken all of the North and left behind only the levies of second sons and untrained small folk. They were hardly soldier material for when the Brothers of the Night's Watch fell under attack by Mance Rayder. Though undermanned and overwhelmed, Brandon Stark, The Lord of Winterfell, made the best of his abilities to muster what men were left to ride out to defend the Wall. He had left Ser Rodrik Cassel to lead two-thousand men to fight a hundred thousand Wildlings. However they were all surprised to hear that the Wall had been saved as the mustering began. That out of all the great houses who had received the distress calls, only one had sailed north to save them.

House Lannister.

Led by Tywin Lannister himself, the newly defeated Lords of the West had sailed from the Sunset Sea and smashed "The King Beyond the Wall" scattering his wildlings across the frigged frontiers beyond the known world. Ever since, the young, who remained behind while their fathers and Mothers feasted at the Capital, waited on baited breath for what was to come next. Would their enemy with his superior forces move south to fight them? Or was the old Lion making a gesture of peace?

For weeks Arya Stark had been trying to convince Bran to hang Princess Myrcella, their hostage, by her toes in order to show that the youngest Starks still at Winterfell "were not to be trifled with." Luckily sanity proved to carry the day when both Bran Stark and Maester Luwin rejected the idea, reminding her that her dislike of the beautiful blond and her "Goody-good princess routine" were not grounds for provocation of war with her grandfather. Arya's diplomacy career ended after a round of pushing, shoving, and traded accusations of stupidity between the young siblings.

For months afterward the Lannister army stayed at the Wall, not replying to the ravens sent to Castle Black inquiring intentions. Though subjection of House Lannister was still on fresh ink and Cersei Lannister a personal captive of Eddard Stark himself, the notes sent by Lady Catelyn at Riverrun to her youngest children and the fortress's Maester was to be cautious and prepare for siege. All of this despite her youngest daughter's insistence on meeting the Lion of the Rock on the open field with assurance of victory as long as she led the vanguard. An option once again ignored and slapped down with much pushing and name calling.

It wasn't till a fortnight ago that the first contact from Tywin Lannister arrived at Winterfell. A rider in the night, frozen and cursing the wild country he sailed to, arrived with a message. In the correspondence the Lord of Casterly Rock relayed greetings and intentions of peaceful interaction with the young Lord of Winterfell. Within his message he reported of an incident between a Brother of the Night's Watch and two Clegane men. A trial was to be held and he asked use of Winterfell's great hall to conduct it. It had been an odd request …

Till it read who the man on trial was.

Now the Great Hall was filled to the rafters with Knights and Lords that lined the benches and tables. They talked in hushed tones, old and young eyes flashing across room, table, and to the spots next to one another, all in suspicion. The tension between men was thick and pungent, a wrong move, a wrong word would bring devastation. It was this fear that kept them in line, which kept conversation pleasant but short. Men in black and crimson armor sat in between and next to Lords with supple fur lining to their brown boiled leather surcoats. Their quiet talk was measured and uncomfortable. Lannister officers that accompanied their loyal and intrepid Lords of the Westerlands broke bread with the youngest sons of Northern Lords and their grandfathers who had become too old to go south with their men to fight for Lord Eddard Stark.

Above all of them on the dais was a rigid man, straight backed, and thoughtful. His emerald eyes were sharp and piercing, a perpetual dirk to the throat of every man that they fell on. He sat in complete stillness, as all legendary predators. He had a shock of silver hair that was slicked back and thinned at the top. His whiskers still had a touch of gold mixed with the gray, a distinguished look for a distinguished man even at the edge of the world. Wrapped in the pelt of a great lion he had killed on a honeymoon hunt in the winter of his wedding year, he looked every bit the Lord that commanded respect even from his own enemies seated at his feet.

Tywin Lannister sipped the mulled wine from his challis, sparing not a word to the blind, frail, old man dressed in black next to him. The chain around the Maester's neck seemed heavier than when he first donned it so many years ago. But it had been age that had changed him, not the chain. Maester Aemon sat with his mouth open, greyed pupils lifted toward the ceiling, listening and waiting. He was one of the three judges that sat on the great dais.

"Lord Stark, I understand this will be most hard for you, but I trust that your father has told you of your duty in these matters?" There was a squeak in the old Maester's voice that age had placed there.

The young Lord of Winterfell, who occupied his mother's chair on the dais, snapped big crystal eyes toward the maester. He attempted to brave glancing past the great predatory beside to him, which turned at the question. The boy at only the age of eleven seemed paler than usual under the scrutiny of such a hard man's glance. He tried to speak, but no words came out as he was drawn to the expectant look on Tywin Lannister's solemn face.

"Lord Stark?" The blind old man called once again.

"Maester … Maester Luwin – did - did tell me what I'm supposed to do." He pieced out shakily.

Aemon nodded. "Very good, but I asked if you know what your duty requires of you?" There was a steel firmness behind the kindness in his rusted voice.

Bran was transfixed in the old Lion's stone gargoyle disposition. He gave a hard swallow but nodded.

"I'm supposed to judge who is telling the truth, despite how I feel." He said quietly.

"Yes, that is the short of it."

The boy watched as the old man reached a hand across Tywin Lannister's breast. Seeing the action, the Lord of the West sat back and led Aemon's touch to the small boy's shoulder. There was a strange yet undeniably paternal comfort to the squeeze that he gave Bran's shoulder. The boy looked up at the old man's wandering sightless gaze and gave the tiniest of smiles.

"Don't be afraid, Lord Stark, think of only what's right, and the rest will be easy, will it not, Lord Tywin?"

Turning to Tywin Lannister, the young lord noticed he was being studied carefully. "Yes …" the old lion drew out slowly. "It was once uttered by a man who was deemed wise, that the truth often comes from the mouth of babes … I'm sure Lord Stark will be our guide in this matter." There was not an ounce of emotion in the older man's voice as he spoke.

But before Bran could nod or answer, a man in a feather lined cloak paced forward. He was dressed in black, head to toe. He had a head of blond hair just turning a shade grey in patches. There was a severity to his face and a cruelty in small eyes. The boy felt from looking upon him that he was a bitter and unpleasant man to be around.

"Maester Aemon … we're ready to bring forward the prisoners." Ser Alliser Thorne mounted the first step.

"My Lord?" The Maester turned to acknowledge Lord Tywin.

There was a long moment where both Tywin and Ser Alliser locked eyes. Bran could see that there was a sense of belligerent insolence in the way that the First Ranger challenged the Warden of the West. There was obviously some sort of contention between the hardened man and the grand lord that had roots in the very cause of this Trial. But as he often forgot, Alliser Thorne was human and as such was unable to match will and glare with a man like Tywin Lannister.

"Very well …" Lord Tywin's voice was heavy like a stone and just as bereft of emotion.

"Bring'em in!" Alliser called across the room.

Suddenly the room fell silent and all eyes turned toward the large ironwood doors of the Great Hall. Suddenly Bran was reminded of the conversation that Lord Tywin had with the boy and Maester Luwin that night. And he was conflicted about what to do as the squeaking hinges on the great doors creaked open. If he agrees to Lord Tywin's terms, he'd be able to protect them … but how could he trust a man like Tywin Lannister? A man who had fought Robb on the very fields and river banks that his mother had grew up on. It was at this moment that he wanted his father and mother, to feel their arms around him, telling him that everything would be okay.

The first to enter the Great Hall was a wilding girl. Her wrists were clamped in irons, the chain wrapped around her slim waist. She wore a simple blue dress, like the kind that both Arya and Sansa often wore. Her hair was a flaming red swath of long wild curls that had been brushed out and fell down her back perfectly. Freckles darkened a beautiful pale face of a girl that looked fierce and angry at not only the irons and parade, but maybe the choice of clothing most of all. She was flanked by two men of the Night's Watch, a skinny and lanky boy with dark eyes, and a tall and muscular youth as big as an Aurochs with sandy hair and beard. Bran watched them lead her between tables.

"Ygritte, I hope you were not harmed on your way here?" Maester Aemon addressed the spear wife in front of the three judges.

The girl despite her feral look and rage seemed contained to answer the old man respectfully. "Only me pride … you kneelers and your pretty things … I nearly busted me head tripping over this damn thing." She motioned to her sweeping blue dress.

There was a good natured smirk on the old man's lips. "I'm sure you look quite enchanting in it." He added.

"Fueck you, old man!" She spat as if he had insulted her mother's honor. There was a murmur of humor that lit the room as Pyp and Grenn dragged her to the side where Arya, Myrcella, and Tommen sat guarded by Ser Roddick Cassel and Osha the Wildling. The two women made eye contact and the older gave a nod of passing acquaintance, before they roughly settled Ygritte with her back to them.

Finally they led the main prisoner forward. All eyes in the room fell on him as his companions led him forward. One side, holding onto his arm gingerly, was Dolorous Edd, dressed in black and fur, with a blade at his side. On his other side was Samwell Tarly who nervously toddled with the precession, sweaty faced and trying to ignore the disgusted and humored faces that formed upon site of the ludicrous looking fellow in black.

Wrists cuffed in irons as well as his ankles, with every step his chains rattled and scrapped on the floor as he walked a path he had walked a thousand times as a freed man in the home he was raised in. There were no words from the Lords that filled the hall as they watched the prisoner be brought before the dais. He was weaponless and shamed as he stood to face the sightless gaze of Maester Aemon, the inhuman glare of Lord Tywin Lannister, and the suddenly frightened and emotional eyes of Brandon Stark.

"Lord Commander?"

"Maester Aemon …"

"I trust you were unharmed on the ride?"

"I was treated justly."

"Good."

Tywin Lannister suddenly stood, fixing the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch with an unreadable glare of harsh study.

"You've been brought before this trial to answer for charges of murder, treason, and oath breaking. To which all have only one punishment. Do you deny these charges, Lord Commander?"

Chained, tired, dirty, and utterly unshakable, the gray eyes of Jon Snow did not falter when meeting Tywin Lannister's glare.

"I do."

Now

The brightness of the day was gone, withering down like the fading light of a midnight candle. The clamor of the busy markets and narrow streets of King's Landing fell away. In its wake leaving only the dull ring of psychobabble in the ear of the early evening travelers that wandered the narrow bends and close quarters of the shadowed stones streets. The night's frigid late autumn air smelled of danger, desperation, heart ache, and all of it fumigated with the taste of excrement both animal and otherwise.

King's Landing was a dirty and filthy place, with muddy streets filled with the human waste thrown from windows. At all times of the day, women standing on street corners flashed their tits at passersby hoping to trade a bastard in the belly for your coin. All while their own dirty children ran naked around them. But the cloaked figure found that the closer he came to the Palisades, the less frequent the women looked shambled. The children while still as dirty as a child's fancy were at least dressed. The whore's same sale of a bastard for coin was unspoken in this part of town. A beautiful woman draped in fur lined cloaks and silken dresses, their offer in the flourish of painted lashes, a beguiling smile on red lips as you pass. Even the shops and taverns were well ordered, their patronage catering to a higher class. The Streets were made of stone, clean, well-ordered, and patrolled regularly by squads of City Watchmen. Though thievery was still a problem, like the taverns, the cut throats and brigands were of higher class here. They were hard to make out when they looked and acted just like those they stole from. The danger in this part of town was not stepping into a dark back alley, but in an investment.

The clopping of a freshly shoed charger clattered on the stained cobbles of the palisaded districts near the Kingswood. The hoofs of the horse echoed long and loud as it climbed the steep entrance toward balconied gate house of the secluded area of the capital. Hooded eyes stared out at the bridged divider from the rest of the city. It was tall with clay like stone. The ivy crawled up to the guard stations, sprouting wild flowers that were browned and falling away in the early morning frosts. Under shoe, they were trampled as the cowled figure passed under the raised portcullis. Above he saw the suspicious eyes of Gold Cloaks watching the black clad figure pass from murder holes and barred grating above. The whole time he waited for a golden clad guardsman to stop him, but none did.

It was a dangerous oddity in an already dangerous journey. If they knew who he was, and where he was going, any man might skewer him for the bounty on his head or even just the prospect of a Lordship from a fickle, drunken King. His anxiety was hidden in the shadowed face that passed unseen from the guarded battlement. Even as he led his horse away without a word or a glance over shoulder, he felt the eyes of every armored man on his back. They stared at the innate Pommel of his magic blade strapped to the side of his pack. Every curious mind guessing, wondering if he is who they think he is, even disguised. There was only a moment of safety in his conscious when he disappeared into the night.

The dying day's newly fallen darkness obscured vision as the rider entered the beginning of the guarded district. With a travel worn cloak billowing and snapping behind him, repaired by the tight stitch and skilled hand of a beautiful sister, he trotted on cobble stone into the silent streets of shadowed grandeur. Beyond the gatehouse were empty lots and abandoned market stands, the cloth covers fluttering in the cold breeze, the sights and sounds of congregations of alley cats meowed and hissed at one another, sniffing and pawing for any scrap left behind by vendor, or a stray rat doing the same.

However beyond the market were marvels untold and unseen. The black rider fell into the obscurity in the shadowed faces of great and opulent mansions that lined the district's cobble streets. The grounds and yards were guarded by exotic vegetation and perimeter walls. The young outlaw was drawn to the unique columned supports and domed roofs of ancient architecture of the homes of the very wealthiest denizens of the Seven Kingdoms and beyond. These were the homes of foreign dignitaries and merchants, not born of high birth, and could not claim or maintain a regular apartment in the Red Keep, but were far too rich for the likes of an Inn at the Street of Sisters.

There was an odd silence that was not common place in the city. Even in the Red Keep itself, ever the bustles of the capital rose and echoed off the red walls and hallow halls above it. Some mornings one might even mistake the crowded sounds as being right in the middle of the action, even alone in the yard. But here the silence was dense and suffocating. There was a flicker of paranoia, a curse on his breath the further he traveled the road. He looked down at the ground where his horse's hoofs clopped loud echoes down the street. Readjusting in his saddle and pack that jangled with each movement, he looked about him, passing great and imposing gates of cold rolled steel and the muted faces of the men in armor and pikes that stood behind them. Above their mercenary guards, high, high in their lit opulent windows he saw dark silhouettes watching the street, watching him as he passed. One such was a maiden in corset and small cloth pulling a small child, who was waving to the young man, away from the open window. The crack of the closing shutters spread a hollow thundered down the empty street.

The whole episode only made the traveler more on edge as he continued onward. His dark imagination and the dangerous nature of his situation surfaced upon assessing how alone and exposed he was. He was in a strange city, in a strange land that he did not know. His position and standing was now forfeit, and his own life worth more dead than alive. It only occurred to him now that had someone known where "They" were staying and that he planned to meet them, any cut throat, loyalist, or bounty hunter could be waiting to ambush on these empty streets. His predicament only worsened his state of mind when passing the only other soul out tonight.

He was an old man, with a lazy grey eye, and wispy whiskers. He walked on wobbling stilts, carrying a lit candle on a rod as he clacked his wooden pegs from one street lamp to the other. He seemed busy at first. Cursing, a nightly ritual from the ease in which the foul words escaped his wrinkled lips. But he suddenly grew silent as the cowled figure astride a knightly steed came into sight. The outlaw had watched the man closely as he approached. His one good eye examined the glass case, but flicking back and forth between it and the rider. He noticed that the closer he got, the slower the man on stilts reached for something within his vested robe.

To say that it was intentional or just muscle memory would occupy half the night, when the outlaw drew his Valyrian sword from across his back. With a sweeping slash he cut a stilt in half as easy as a Baratheon sergeant's leg. The old man made a surprised and gasped shout as he fell hard on the stone below. Trotting quickly toward the fallen pile of frail limbs and the bent copper rod, the youth placed his razor sharp magic blade to the sagging throat of the old man. Sensing the real danger he was in, at sword point by the darkly clad imposing figure, the lamp lighter placed his hands up subserviently to the superior swordsmen.

"Forgive me, Ser … Forgive me, me lord … I didn't mean to offend'ya. I'll ugh, I'll speak to them light posts with more respect … from now on." He nodded fervently. The outlaw studied him coldly before moving aside his vest with the flat of the dark blade. His face remained stoic when his search revealed from the man's breast pocket a silken cloth ripped from a gown. The outlaw skewered the cloth and held it in front of the man's face to take.

"Thank you, me lord … I served under the Lord Osgrey during the Ninepenny King Wars. Found me a chest of the "Gold Company's" loot and when I split it with me lads, I bought myself the most expensive woman in Kings Landing … I didn't last long inside her … Gods bless'ya me lord!"

Sheathing his sword, the cloaked figure didn't stay for the whole story as he left the man on the side of the street to mop his brow. When he was far enough away he let out a long and drawn sigh of relief, an old aggression with a new dark voice began eating at him from inside his mind, telling him that it should've been the man and not the whore's cloth that he had skewered. It was only getting stronger, the rage, the hatred … it meant that he was almost there. The dark voice, the weight on his mind and soul, it was like a beacon that drew him toward his destination. He didn't even need to glance at the number at the end of the quiet street. He didn't have to for so many reasons.

The home was more of an estate then a property, a castle built right in the city itself. Tall ivory columns, white washed stone walls of the finest clay mortar, and rounded towers completed the largest and grandest of the mansions of King's Landing. The shadow of the grand home jutted out from the dense tangle of trees behind the perimeter wall.

The gate was already open for him as he wheeled his charger off stone and onto the dirt covered path. He paused only a moment to find a squad of Lannister guardsmen in full armor standing at attention. Their officer, a tall man with a red fur lining on top of his helm, like a lion's mane, stepped forward. He bowed in courtesy.

"My Lord …" He said respectfully. "You've been expected. Just follow the path past the woods." He pointed down the dark trail lit by lanterns hung off tree limbs. The young man nodded and trotted his horse forward as he heard the Lannister soldier's begin to slowly close the gates behind him. When he heard the heavy coils and springs of the lock clank, he knew there was no turning back.

The tall, imposing silhouette of the cowled man in the lantern light was cast against the trees of the mansions grounds. Peering into the night's darkened canopies he saw fireflies dance and shake in the gloomed forest beyond sight. To say that he was not somehow soothed in the quiet and seclusion of the forested area would be a lie. For more than half a year he had seen nothing but the stinking rot of the world's greatest cities, and the kiss and kick of the oceans between them. It seemed like so long ago that he had seen trees and heard the echo of the nightingale and her nocturnal companions. The outlaw felt most at home in these places, surrounded by tree and animal, not enclosed in the stench of rat's nests with the worst human waste of every kind imaginable.

From the undergrowth came a lumbering figure. He was tall, broad, and wild. Even in the shadows his mighty beard touched the center of his chest. The moment the outlaw saw the axe in hand and the other on his back, he drew his sword. The ring of the razor sharp metal on its scabbard alerted the large oaf. With a growl he dropped the tankard of ale in hand and held his steel ready to clash with the rider.

However his ferocity was soon replaced with reason when he saw the familiar glinted reflection of lantern light on the rippling dark steel of the naked Valyrian blade. The barbarian's eyes narrowed as he studied his shadowed opponent.

"Commander, Lord of Night?" The big man asked with alert suspicion, gripping tighter to his double headed battle axe.

The cowled figure tilted his head. Then slowly he sheathed his blade. "Shagga, son of Dolf …" The man greeted the tribesmen. There was a long tense pause between the barbarian and the hedge knight. Then the large brute suddenly let out a low and growled laugh that reminded the outlaw of two bears mating.

"We thought you dead." He said in jovial boisterousness. "The Half-Man told us of your bravery in battle with your golden mate's enemies. We sang songs in your name, and raised many toasts to your honor. Though, your golden mate refused to join us at the war fires." He announced with trouble. "If the need arises, I, Shagga, son of Dolf, shall find you the largest branch in this forest for you to discipline her with." He offered gravely.

The cowled man smirked uncomfortably. "The Queen is not my wife, Shagga, Son of Dolf … but I accept the honor of the tributes given to me by the mighty warriors of the hill tribes." He bowed his head as he urged his charger forward.

The chief of the Stone Crows strode alongside the outlaw's mount as they continued down the path. The Hill Tribesmen seemed troubled. "If this golden queen is not your mate, than why fight for her?" He asked puzzled.

The rider was quiet for a long moment. "She offered me something …" His voice was heavy in thought. Flashes of friends and a lover buried on the side of the King's Road filled his mind and heart. "Something very precious, that I've waited a long time for, Shagga, Son of Dolf." His voice was dark and brooding as he thought of the beautiful golden woman that haunted his every waking hour.

The sound of bears mating broke his concentration. A hard and painful slap to his thigh nearly bruised to the bone. He turned his head in surprise to hear Shagga howl to the night. When he looked up, the barbarian's small dark eyes were alive with masculine approval of the dark brooding figure next to him.

"Then let this night be a glorious one, Commander, Lord of Night. For she is the most beautiful woman I have ever set eyes on." But the tribesmen paused for a moment in horrific reminder. "She is also the most wretched and sinister in the land." A smirk touched a shadowed face as he watched Shagga relive some great, emasculating episode of the recent past involving close quarters with the queen.

After a moment the barbarian seemed to move on. His tone returned to jovial and prideful of his companion. "A greedy man might want her flower for himself, and be poisoned by her unpleasantness for the rest of his life. But a cunning one would only take it for a night and a morning every fortnight and leave her poison and bastards for the greedy man." The chief blustered in howled laughter. "When Timmet, Son of Timmet, claimed you a coward who fought only for a woman's whim, like a dog, I stabbed him in the belly, and cut his cock off and fed it to the goats. I see now that I was right to do so!" He complemented.

The rider stared at the road in stilted bemusement. "That's very comforting." He nodded neutrally at the relay of the brutal murder and mutilation for his misunderstood intentions with Queen Cersei. Moving along he left the joyful barbarian drunk on ale and delight of the assumed motives of his ally. "Shagga, Son of Dolf …" He parted. "If I ever run into Lysa Arryn, might I return the favor your knife has given me?" He called back.

"You'd slay the witch woman, for Shagga, Son of Dolf?"

"Aye …" There was a deep abyss in the shadow's narrowed eyes. "You can count on it." His voice, like his silhouette, was darkened in the deepest of hatred …

And not his own.

There was no preparation for the spectacle and grandeur of the manor that met him when he cleared the lantern lit forest. The path led straight to the stone steps of the mansion itself, looping around a great fountain that had a lovely statue of the maiden Jonquil standing within the pool. There was prepostery to this place that went against the outlaw's sensibilities. He himself had grown up in a grand and ancient bastion of supreme power. But he had ever understood that it was meant for military purposes, a shield to protect those who served their lieges faithfully in times of trouble. But this sleek and enchanting mansion was large and opulent but for the sake of being what it was. It served no other purpose but to bolster and stroke the ego of its owner. And in sight of the prideful home there was an ingrained aversion to this monument to excess and self-importance that went against everything the dark rider believed in.

As he approached the ivory staircase he came upon two figures walking from the other side of the woods. The shorter of the two had an empty bucket in hand while the other seemed to be witling away at a piece of wood when they saw the mounted figure approach. They both stopped and watched as the man halted his steed just feet from the steps. Dismounting with a grunt and a jangle of his pack, the youth slackened his horse's reigns. There was sudden adulation in the emerald eyes of the shorter of the two, spying the pommel of the sword.

"Ser?" a boy called out to the rider. Of the name he looked back. "Ser?" the boy asked again, hope hinging on what the outlaw would do next. The man drew down his hood, freeing his raven curls, and looked out at the young Lad.

"Tommen …" Jon Snow was stiff in his distracted greeting, turning back to tend his horse. Tears welled up in the boys eyes as he dropped his bucket. With a spring in his step the squire ran as fast as he could in the dark toward the hedge knight.

For months the boy had been pacing the floor and quick to temper from those who interacted with him with the ill intention of informing him of the lack of need for his services anymore. There were even those who dared to suggest sending the heir of House Lannister back to Casterly Rock. But the boy fought and flat out refused to leave the city without Jon Snow. Tommen was his squire and his friend. The two of them had been through too many adventures and tragedies. Too many days traveling strange bazars, and seeing mighty colossuses on their great quest to rescue their beautiful golden queen. He would not leave him now, not go to the safety of his mother and … his father's childhood home, his own birthright, when the quest was not complete, not still while his knight needed him.

He might have leapt into Jon Snow's arms, might have wept as any boy had at young Tommen's age after all they've lost together, if it wasn't for dark amused eyes with a dagger in hand that watched them from afar. The boy with moppy golden curls halted just a pace from the waiting outlaw and bit his lip. Turning his head just slightly, he saved face by offering a forearm to his master.

"We were hard up for news of your condition and whereabouts, Ser." He cleared his throat and made his voice seem gruffer and grown up sounding.

There was tired amusement in Jon's eyes looking over his squire's head toward their observer. "I'm alive … for now." He took the boys arm in knightly companionship. They braced their hands for a formal squeeze, before the young knight shook his head at the greeting that didn't seem to fit them. Then, with one foul swoop, he collected his squire and lifted him to a bracing hug. With a joyful laugh that betrayed his age, Tommen embraced his master back.

"Don't they feed you up here?" Jon asked after a shaking the boy playfully mid-air and placing the squire back down. "I'd have a harder time carrying a sack of potatoes." He added mirthfully at the large lit mansion.

"Worse thing about working for nobility, the cunts ration out the food." Their observer announced. There was an ever present swagger in his step, tossing away his witling wood and sheathing his dagger.

"Bronn …" the outlaw gave a nod of greeting to the sell-sword.

"You'd think that with all the gold they got, they'd be able to actually hire a nanny to go with Aegon the Unlikely here when he wants to brush out and feed his pony … or you know, hire someone to do it for him." He complained.

The squire showed his true maternity in the annoyed scowl he leveled the sell-sword. "It's a horse …" He corrected sternly. "And how am I ever going to be a real knight, if I don't know how to care for my own steed?" He shot back in an opening salvo of an argument often started and left unfinished about this time of night.

"I've never met a real knight who could." Bronn raised his eyebrows at the young heir of Casterly Rock.

"When you're lord of your own holdings, you can sit on your ass all day, and have plump women feed you peeled grapes if you want …"

From the doorway leaned a man with a short standing and a golden cup in hand chastised from the open door way. He wore an open leather crimson doublet, his beige linen shirt showing. The scraggly haired dwarf lifted his glass in toast to their newly arrived guest. Though there wasn't as much jovial welcoming as his youngest nephew, buried within Tyrion Lannister's mismatched eyes was a light of relief and true happiness to see that Jon Snow was in fact alive and at his door step. However, their locked gaze of everything left unsaid since they had last departed from each other's company was interrupted.

"Aye and when will that be?" Bronn shot back.

Tyrion took a sip of his wine watching the party climb the steps. "When I no long require your services." He retorted easily. Bronn glared.

"Yeah, and as long as you keep sippin on that, the day'll never come."

"True enough." The buzzed Dwarf looked into his glass. "But remember this, Bronn …" He pointed a stubby finger in front of him. "While my sharp tongue, dastardly good looks, and popularity with the highest born women of virtue in this town might make your gold hard earned, it'll be plenty … and the drinks will always be free." He toasted the sell-sword.

"Can't argue with that." There was a roguish affinity for the Dwarf and the agreed perimeters of the cut-throat's contract.

Jon looked from one man to the other, before letting out a long sigh. "The last time I talked to your father he was in the market for a wife for you. Who would've known your perfect mate was standing right in front of you the whole time?" He said with a weary fatigue in his flat voice.

"Classic Story …" Tommen added.

Both dwarf and sell-sword exchange glances and turned back to the hedge knight and his squire.

"Though we do have much in common …" Tyrion gave serious thought to the revelation for a pause. "I would like, for once, not have to pay for a wife." He took a draft of the wine.

They all turned to Bronn, who opened his mouth to speak, but halted his line of thought. "I like'em pretty." He responded with an impish shrug.

Knight and squire exchanged glance, to which Tommen parroted in acceptance of their companions amicable differences. To this Jon Snow waved off the two men with a growl of weary annoyance, and climbed the remainder of steps. When he reached the top he shed his pack and sword, and dropped both into Tommen's waiting arms. There was an eagerness to please from the young boy when the outlaw motioned him back inside with jerk of his head. Jon rewarded him with a pat on the shoulder as Tommen rushed back inside.

While he leaned against one of the giant columns, waiting for a private word, Tyrion joined him. "I see the rumors of your death …" the dwarf was suddenly cut off by his sell-sword who walked by and took the wine glass from his employer's hand. Wordlessly they watched Bronn swagger inside, taking a draft from the stolen cup. To this Tyrion Lannister grunted in protest and flexed his now empty hand in mourning of what was missing.

"- Were unfounded." He finished with a sigh and tightened face of exasperation. But when he turned back to Jon, he was confronted with an unpleased glare that accompanied the cold breeze that slipped between the forests beyond poetically. The youth had waited till they were alone before he showed his extreme dislike for the way Tyrion had played their business.

The dwarf frowned. "I can't decide who you remind me of more … My father or yours." He spoke seriously. "Either way I don't like it." He said uncomfortably.

Jon sniffed harshly. "Maybe you could've raised the Lion banner from the top of the roof … had an open country ball on the lawn? Or better yet, why not save the expenses and just hang a sign on your gates saying "Queen Cersei sleeps here" why don't you?" He motioned to the grounds of the estate.

Tyrion sighed exasperatedly at his young friend and partner. "Is that sarcasm I detect, bastard?" He asked with amusement. "Because if it's not, I'll have the Burned Men start on the sign right away." He mocked with jubilee. "Wouldn't that be fun, the words might not be right, but I'm sure the decorations they'll put on our sign will just tie everything together, don't you agree?"

"What are you thinking? This excess is the least conspicuous place in all of King's Landing." He was too tired to respond to Tyrion's wit. "You're not exactly hiding the Queen underground, like we agreed." He chastised.

Tyrion smirked. "Years in the most lavished bedrooms and apartments in the whole of Westeros … and without a warning, place my sweet sister in the cheapest, cum stained, room in the Capital? The endless amusement would kill me … if she didn't first." He finished coldly.

"I'm not interested in her comfort. I'm interested in keeping her safe."

"Yes, her, but what of the rest of us, Jon Snow? You'd put us in a cage with a dangerous animal like my sister, with a community privy for the five of us in one room? I'd swear on the old gods and new that Joffery and Lancel were dead in that dungeon tower long before Robert ever got there. How your father survived the last year sleeping in the same bed with her, is beyond me. "

Jon rolled his eyes and shook his head as his partner gave a Cheshire grin at the boy and his attitude. Having his fun for the night, the dwarf cleared his throat and placed a hand on the hedge knight's arm. "Listen Jon …" He chuckled. "There's two things you need to know about the situation." He sighed.

"First, in King's Landing, everyone knows everything, before it happens, after it happens, and as it happens currently. There's no hiding in this city. So no matter where I take my sister someone is going to know. Now would you have liken me to take her to the lowest rent, flea infested, inn in town, because I could've. But then how easier would it have been for an assassin to walk in and poison her bowl of brown? How simple to climb to the roof of the adjacent building and shoot her in her lovely neck with a crossbow bolt through her widow? Or to fuck her bloody with a dagger tied to a stick while they lay in wait in the privy … a tactic known to be used. Or would you like her to be here? Where a skilled man would have to clear a gatehouse and battlement to enter the district, climb a perimeter wall, navigate through a forest infested with Barbarians stricken with the dangerous affliction known as boredom. And finally find a way to penetrate the heavily guarded grounds?"

There was a long and quiet pause between the Lord Commander and Tyrion Lannister, before Jon gave a long defeated sigh.

"The size is a bit much." He bit at the dwarf to save pride.

Tyrion smirked. "You know what they say about small men?" He asked rhetorically. "Plus that brings us to my second point." He added. "Amongst the many morally ambiguous virtues my father instilled in my brother, sister, and I, the most telling is our love of money and the comfort and power it buys. You see, Jon, us Lannisters have a certain standard of living that we're accustom to. And to not eat the finest foods, drink the sweetest of wines, and not live in the grandest of palaces, well it's like a Stark living in Dorne." He explained. "So while you're here I say enjoy every minute, Jon Snow." The dwarf offered lightheartedly.

Jon looked at the monstrosity in detest. "I'd rather sleep in the stables." He grunted in disapproval.

To his claim, Tyrion looked wounded. "The stables? I don't think you appreciate just how much trouble we went through to acquire this from the original owner!" He said with offense to the young knight's disinterest at the marvel.

"I really don't …"

Tyrion turned to the open double doors. "Bronn … tell him just how much trouble it was to get this place away from that Cheese Monger." He called inside.

"A lot."

"And tell him what he said!" Tyrion demanded.

"About you? Me? The price? The offer? Or the situation as a whole?"

The dwarf pointed to the door as if the disembodied voice gave his protests to Jon's minimalist attitude credence. "Just imagine." He nodded emphatically.

"It must have been a terrible ordeal …" Jon replied dryly.

To the sarcastic remark, the dwarf smirked in amusement. It was an emotion that was somewhere between pride and annoyance of the young northern lad. "Has anyone ever told you that you were too much of a Stark for your own good, Jon Snow?" He asked.

"Every fortnight since this adventure began by rich cunts with golden lions on their chests." There was a wirily look cast down to the dwarf in the youth's eyes.

The smirk fell for a beat, before the small man's chest began to shake and a laugh came deep from in. A look of mutual endearment fell on both men's faces in the dark evening before judgment day between two men and a sinful queen.

"You might make it out of this yet, bastard." The dwarf placed an admiring hand on the boy's waist and wandered inside.

The cusp of the early evening sung to the young man's dampened spirit in the solemn tomes of his lonesome feelings and the heavy burden of purpose on the coming sunrise. His grey eyes looked out at the shifting trees, glowing fireflies that danced around their trunks, and finally on the lovely statue of Jonquil in the fountain. The longing and sorrow in her sculpted eyes called out to him. In their gaze, he clutched a scroll of paper with the seal of the Hand of the King in his pocket. The words that his father had spoken to him that afternoon echoed through his mind and heart conjuring the violet eyes and silver hair of the girl he did not know, that was waiting for him a world away. But as the nightingale's song echoed from within the forest, he was drawn away to something else.

To the highest window in the mansion where a single lit candle sat on the sill. There he saw a lean, lovely silhouette languidly brushing her long tresses of beautiful hair as she stared out on the last wisps of light on the horizon. His eyes flicked back between the statue and the silhouette and in that moment Jon Snow knew one thing for certain.

The beautiful woman in the window was not the maiden Jonquil, he was not her Florian, this was not a fairy Tale, and their story would not have a happy end. But after all the things he had done and lost to get here, one thing was for certain …

He was every bit the fool.

Acknowledgements

"The House in Rose Valley" – Phil Cunningham & Randy Edelman