Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it really means a lot. Thank you.

Note: I've taken liberties with time. I know. But I can't hold this plot up any longer. I've borrowed the show's teleportation devices to stop this story stagnating. Thanks for understanding.

Chapter Thirty-Six: Hearts and Minds

***Warning: Elia's rape is briefly described in this chapter***

A long shaft of sunlight swept across the throne room floor as the double doors opened. The assembled courtiers shuffled aside as though burned, but Tyrion knew they were only making room for the new arrivals. A fanfare of trumpets blared out in a brave show of regality, despite their world crumbling around them. Jon Stark had been proclaimed King of Westeros by the overwhelming majority of the realm, Joffrey had been exposed as a bastard born of incest and still the Lannisters pretended everything was just fine. But Tyrion could hear the echo chamber loud and clear. The voices were all their own.

As he watched the spectacle unfold, a long shadow of a man blocked the light. But he was still too far away for him to make out his features. Then, the trumpets fell silent and Ramsay of House Bolton was announced, Lord of the Dreadfort. On his arm was a young woman, her face obscured by a fine veil of muslin netting. If Lady Roslin's family was anything to go by, he knew she would be no great beauty. Their cousin had married a Frey, Lord Walder was a weasel and his army of children, grandchildren and great grandchildren were not exactly renowned for their looks.

While she was still being escorted inside by Lord Ramsay, Tyrion looked up Jaime who was stood beside him in that famous golden armour. The snowy white cloak of the Kingsguard was neatly arranged over his broad shoulders. "Here we go, little brother."

Tyrion made no reply, but looked towards Joffrey who was seated high above them. Cersei positioned herself behind the throne, her face obscured by the jutting blades. He could well imagine what she looked like right now. If only looks could kill, then Bolton and all his men would never have made it through the door to begin with.

"What's wrong with her face?" Joffrey demanded. "Why is she wearing that veil?"

The king spoke as though the girl were deaf and mute, making Tyrion cringe for her. "I believe it's called maidenly modesty, your grace. A rare sight in these parts, I admit, so not something anyone expects you to be overly familiar with."

He hoped the retort was enough to at least set the poor girl at ease. It was scarcely her fault her father was a rodent and she was being sold to a monster. However, if it had been enough for her, it wasn't enough to stop Ramsay Bolton from reaching over and whipping the veil away. Even Jaime flinched at the rudeness. But the real revelation was the girl beneath. Tyrion almost gasped, Cersei actually did and Joffrey was on his feet within moments, tempted to come and get a second look. But there was no two ways about it: Roslin Frey was beautiful. She looked up demurely through wide blue eyes, her flaxen hair had been arranged around her pale, heart shaped face and her skin was like buttermilk.

Joffrey approached her like a hungry lion. "Oh, she's pretty. That's something, I suppose. Is she really one of Walder Frey's?"

The girl ducked a curtsey, elegant but tremulous. "An honour to meet your grace."

Unexpectedly, it was Tywin who saved the day. He appeared at the foot of the throne and instructed the guards to escort Lady Frey to her new chambers in Maegor's Holdfast. Once she was gone, Lord Bolton ceased to look bored. For the first time, Tyrion noted the bulging, pale blue eyes and the plump lips. Eyes that bulged all the more when Cersei elegantly descended the steps of the throne. She regarded him coolly, looking him up and down with a barely perceptible wrinkle of disgust in her nose. Had their father not been there, Tyrion knew she would have left by now to let Jaime kill the bastard in front of the whole court.

Tywin made the introductions. "Lord Bolton, this is my daughter and the Queen Mother, Cersei of House Lannister. Once the fighting is done, you are to be wed. In return for your loyalty to our house, you are to be given Winterfell and you will be elevated to Warden of the North. The condition is that you abandon this notion of the kings in the north."

Bolton smiled a smile that set Tyrion's nerves on edge. He then bowed low, in a manner almost exaggerated. "My Lady," he addressed Cersei, pressing his fat lips to the back of her delicate hand.

There had never been any great love between him and his sister, but Tyrion's stomach turned at the sight before him. Joffrey sighed heavily, making his presence felt and breaking the scene. For the first time ever, Tyrion was almost grateful to him.

"Good day to you, Lord Bolton." With that, Cersei awarded her new husband one last withering look, then swept from the room toward the stairs. It seemed she had pressing business elsewhere.

It was a week before Tyrion got a knock on the door from Jaime. The armour was gone and the white cloak put away somewhere, meaning he was off duty. Better still, he came bearing wine and a servant bearing a tray of cheeses and biscuits. After a whole day spent working on the books, Tyrion gratefully welcomed them all. Instructing the servant to lay the platters out on the terrace table, he followed them out and hopped on a bench overlooking the bay. At least having extra men around meant they had been able to clear away the skeletal remains of Stannis Baratheon's fleet.

While the servant pottered away with preparing their food and pouring their drinks, Tyrion and Jaime exchanged small talk. More than likely, the servant was spying for someone so it paid to be cautious. But as soon as she was gone, both men turned to each other and leaned in close.

"You are going to do something about Bolton, aren't you brother?" Tyrion asked.

Before replying, Jaime glanced over his shoulder. "How can I with father sniffing around morning and night? We need Bolton's men and Bolton bloody knows it."

"Gods, Jaime, we're fucked anyway," Tyrion retorted. "We are facing the North, the Riverlands, the Vale-"

"Do you think I don't already know all that?" Jaime cut in. "Brother, eat and drink before you put us both off supper."

Although he had suddenly lost his appetite, Tyrion managed to force down a wheat cracker and some soft cheese. It stuck in his throat and he needed a full glass of dry red wine to wash it down.

"I'm sorry, I didn't intend on even talking about that," he said, topping up his glass. "In fact, it was something altogether quite different that I came looking for you a few weeks ago."

Tyrion took a deep drink of the wine for fortification. "Tysha."

Jaime choked on his biscuit. "With everything going on right now you see fit to raise her ghost?"

"I thought you had no wish to discuss the war." Tyrion emphasised his brother's contradiction with a disapproving tut. "Lord Varys tells me that she was not a whore, after all. Apparently, you have full knowledge of this."

Jaime paled, but changed the subject. "Varys seems to have vanished into thin air."

"Subtle," Tyrion flatly replied. "But let's stick with Tysha for now, shall we."

He looked off into the distance, where he could see some kind of wooden fortification being attached to the top of the curtain walls around the Red Keep. X-shaped, they were set apart at regular intervals but he had never seen the likes before. Little silhouettes of men were fixing them in place. He regarded them curiously for a moment, but his mind was still on his long lost love. Even after all these years, those two weeks of happiness left a sweet aftertaste in his mouth.

"Maybe you should speak with father," Jaime said, lowering his voice.

"If she was a whore, why don't you come out and tell me-"

"I've told you a hundred times," Jaime cut in, irritably. But he could not meet Tyrion's eye anymore. "If father has more information, I'm sure he'll give it you. But we all know how he feels about whores. Even now he forced you to give up that other one."

Shae, Tyrion wanted to say. But he could not bring himself to speak her name.

Jaime had closed like a clam and was now on his feet, looking out over the terrace's ornate safety rails. He too seemed to notice their new fortifications. "Had it been up to me … well you know how I feel on this issue. None of us pick who we fall in love with. Then, when we do, we're at the mercy of our hearts. No reasoning can change that."

Tyrion wanted to ask about the Cersei then. It was on the tip of his tongue. How could it possibly sit with Tywin that his own children were carrying on, but he and Tysha were out of line? It was a hypocrisy he had lived with every day since she was cast out of his life as abruptly as she had arrived in it. When Jaime looked back at him, his expression was apologetic.

"Tyrion, what will you do now?"

He was already on his feet. "As you suggested, go and see father."

Jaime sighed heavily. "Then wait, I'll come with you."

His chambers were opposite the Tower of the Hand. He could look out of his dirty windows and see the life he once lived, before his father kicked him out of it. It was a permanent reminder of how far his father had cast him down. Still, he waddled on his stunted legs as fast as he could, down the steps of the turret tower and out into the yard. Jaime slowed his pace so they were walking side by side, but the silence between them was stilted and awkward. A silence broken as Joffrey, flanked by two members of his Kingsguard, careered down the steps of the walls. Almost crashing into Tyrion, he looked at them both grinning wildly with a glint in his eye. Full of nervous excitement, he was breathing raggedly.

"Uncle, remember what you said about winning the hearts and the minds of the people?" he said, bouncing back on his heels. "Well, come and see."

With that, he turned and made for the steps up to the battlements again. Tyrion and Jaime exchanged a look and the taller man shrugged his shoulders.

"This morning I told him he needed to win the trust of the people," Tyrion explained, reluctantly following his nephew.

His own heart sank in dismay at the sight of a trail of blood leading up the sandstone steps. They led to the wooden crosses that faced out over the city. Jaime was frowning, now, increasingly worried.

"Your Grace, what is all this?"

But Joffrey was still grinning maniacally, but happy at least, as he positioned himself in front of one of the new contraptions and began admiring it like it was some kind of work of art. Approaching from behind, Tyrion still had no idea what they were. Ramsay Bolton was nearby, looked puffed up and proud. Roslin Frey was some way off, looking pale and rigid with fear. Tyrion turned from her back to the contraption as he joined Joffrey.

"Who will dare rise against us now, Uncle?" Joffrey demanded, face flushed with excitement. "Tell me now, who of that lot will look upon these and dare gainsay me? Not even you, you odious little toad."

Tyrion was speechless. He looked at the flayed corpses, their skin peeled entirely from their bodies, and tasted the bile hitting the back of his throat. They were on full view of the entire city, even the travellers passing through the bay would witness their new barbarity. Next to him, Jaime stood silent and uncomprehending as he gripped the hilt of his dirk. Nothing. For the first time in his life, Tyrion had no answer, no retort. Meanwhile, Jaime had fixed Lord Bolton in a cold stare.

"You did this?" he said, low and dangerous. "Didn't you?"

Feeling himself being gainsaid so soon after his new trick, Joffrey was quick to the Lord's defence. "We should be thanking Lord Bolton, Uncle. Don't you see?" Even now, he seemed to realise he could not speak to Jaime as he spoke to Tyrion, and calmed himself. "Just think, a month or two from now the entire House Stark will be lined up along these walls. I want Sansa over there, Jon Stark next to her and Robb Stark to the left…"

He indicated all the places his flayed enemies would go, growing more heated again as he became carried away. All the while, Tyrion wished for nothing more than to shove the little bastard off the battlements. Varys had warned him, he remembered, he had warned these two together would unleash cruelty unimagined. Never had Tyrion expected it to be so soon in the making.

"The same fate awaits all your grace's enemies," Bolton promised.

Before Joffrey could reply, Jaime cut in again. "Take them down now!"

"What? Why-"

"Leave them up here and every man, woman and child in this city will welcome Jon Stark with open arms, you foolish little boy. Take them down, now!"

Even Tyrion was taken aback by the harshness of Jaime's words. In response, Joffrey fell silent – the ominous calm before one of his angry storms.

"You don't tell me what to do," he spat, rounding on Jaime. "I am the King and you are my servants! If I give the order, I can have this done to you and don't think I won't!"

Jaime, as ever, was unfazed. "Go on then. Do it."

With that, he turned his back on the King and walked away, pulling Tyrion with him. Back down the steps of the sally port and into the yard, all thought of meeting Tywin forgotten. Beneath his icy exterior, Jaime was in a rage. If they hadn't needed Bolton's men, he'd be dead already. There was a time when Jaime disposed of tyrannical kings, but Tyrion supposed it was different when the king in question was your son.

Bran's voice implored him gently. "Jon, open your eyes." When he did, he found himself back on the Isle of Faces. It was dusk and the torches lit the way to the grand old weirwood in the middle of the island, where he could see another version of himself chasing Arya up the path. He smiled, then looked out over the lake to where Margaery was being helped out of the boat by her father. Moments later, she walked by without seeing him. As he made to follow her, someone else stepped out into the path and blocked his way forward. Startled, he leapt back and looked askance at the man in front of him now. He had dark green skin and wore an antlered helm. Over the green man's shoulder, Margaery and Mace advanced into the distance completely oblivious to the intruder.

"Old Nan used to say you people rode around on elks," he told the green man. "I thought you never existed."

Small talk was not on the green man's agenda. He motioned toward the nearest weirwood tree, a large one with an agonised face carved into the trunk. "Sit and hold the branch."

Knowing he was dreaming his peculiar dreams, he hoped he would wake up as soon as he did it. But when he took the root, it pulled him sharply into the depths of a gushing river. Men and horses crashed all about him churning the bloodied waters into a sickening red foam. His heartbeat quickened at the sight of a corpse floating past him, but he cried out loud at the sight of a huge man in an antlered helm bearing a war hammer. Helpless and paralysed, he watched his father die. Rhaegar's own helm was knocked clean off his head, his breast plate buckling under the force of the impact.

"Lyanna," he breathed her name, blood bubbling from his mouth as he hit the waters.

The river took him, washing him up in a young woman's bed chamber, underneath the actual bed itself. Dazed, he turned to find a little girl of six trembling in fear next to him. She covered her face with her hands and whimpered for "papa". Jon's view was limited, but all around him women screamed and the bed beneath which he hid occasionally jolted. He looked out, his view limited to running feet and items dropped in haste. Struggling to get out, he belly-crawled away from the sobbing girl, only to find himself unable to get anywhere. A moment later, an almighty crash caused him to gasp in fear. On the bed above him an infant wailed piteously, a sound cut off abruptly as it was thrown across the room with such force it's brains were dashed against the opposite wall. The woman screamed again, an endless scream that got inside Jon's skull and shook every nerve in his body until he felt himself screaming along with her. All the while, the bed jolted violently and Jon knew the monster was raping her; her screams rising in pitch the longer it went on.

The little girl hiding beside him curled up tight, rocking back and forth, sobbing loudly.

"Rhaenys," he tried to say. "Rhaenys, I'm your brother. I'll look after you."

The woman's screams cut off suddenly as a sword plunged through her belly, the bloodied point of it cut through the width of the mattress and came out near Jon's ear. Startled, he flinched away from it. What followed was the most terrible silence he had ever experienced. A silence punctuated by two snippets of conversation.

"Under the bed …" said one. "I only take orders from Lord Tywin, ser. He wants them all dead."

Jon couldn't see the other man in the room, but his heart leapt into his throat as the Mountain's face peered under the bed just inches from his own. Rhaenys stopped sobbing, but cried out as a mailed fist gripped her ankle hard, pulling her out into the light. Unable to do anything, Jon screwed his eyes shut and tried to block out his sister's murder. But the next voice that spoke was soft and weak.

"He is the Prince that was promised," said the woman. "That's what Rhaegar said. He is the prince that was promised, but Robert will kill him. You know he will."

His mother's face was etched with pain, her pale white body covered with bloodied bedsheets. A vase of blue roses wilted on a bedside table.

"I need you to promise me, Ned," she pleaded. "Promise me."

Lord Stark cradled her in his arms then. "I promise."

The fear left her eyes, her pain seemed to melt away as she died in his arms. His infant self wailed from a corner of the room, while his adult self felt a hand grip his arm.

"Jon," said Bran. His brother was standing up, able to walk. "That's enough Jon."

Bran pushed him in the chest, sending him reeling backwards but when he hit the floor he woke up in his own bed, gasping for air. As usual, he woke his wife as well. Margaery sat up and wrapped her arms around him, holding him close. She hadn't had a decent night's sleep since she had married him and not for the right reasons.

"Tywin Lannister," he said, tremulously.

"No wonder you're shaking," she replied, lightly. "It's bad enough he exists, never mind having him interrupting your sleep too."

He tried to laugh, but he remembered everything he had seen. His father, Princess Rhaenys and Elia Martell. His own dying mother. Tears welled in his eyes as he repeated the name again.

"It was Tywin Lannister," he choked, pulling himself free of her embrace. His brow creased as he silently implored her to understand. "He gave the order to kill my family."

She said nothing, but pulled him back into her embrace. Shushing him soothingly, she kissed his head and rocked him as if he were a babe. Still he wept, choking and sobbing as he replayed the things he had seen, things he couldn't give voice to. The tears soaked through her cotton night rail, shaming him in his weakness. But Margaery said nothing, continuing to sooth him, rubbing his back in slow circles to settle him again.

"Shush, my darling," she said, punctuating each word with a kiss. "We're going to make it all right. The two of us, I promise you."

She promised him. There had been a lot of promises over the years. Even he was a promise, according to the dream. But he had no idea what that meant. For now, he did not care. All he wanted to do was get the anger and grief out of him.

"Please just hold me." She was anyway, but she hugged him that little bit tighter anyway.

Sam ran as fast as he could. Sadly, that wasn't very fast at all and the others had to stop and wait for him more than once. His lungs felt like two old bellows and sweat was pouring into his eyes. Every sinew in his body ached and protested. But still he ran, urging one foot in front of the other. They had to get back to the docks and cram eight thousand Unsullied, one translator, twenty Dothraki, themselves and three dragons onto what ships the Starks had sent them, then be at sea before the slave masters caught up with them.

He had been massively impressed at first. Dany agreed to pay the army and ships with one of her dragons, took ownership of them and then set the dragon to burning the slaver in question. A deft sleight of hand he did not see coming. What he also hadn't been prepared for was their hasty exit afterwards. Gods alone knew what was in the Unsullied heads at that moment, if anything, as they all pegged it through the streets of Astapor.

But make it he did. Dany, Ser Jorah, Barristan, Belwas and Alysane reached the spot in good time and had already recovered themselves. Even the old man. Meanwhile, he was doubled over, leaning on a low wall and gasping for air.

"Start getting these men onto the ships," Ser Barristan ordered. "We can plan the invasion once we're at sea. Belwas, I am sorry to say old friend, this is where we part ways."

His instructions faded away as Dany approached Sam and patted his back. "Are you all right, Sam?"

Once he had recovered enough to reply, he did. "Just fine, my lady. Just fine."

"You don't look it," she answered, smiling. "Here, take some water."

Sam gulped it down gratefully, then wiped his mouth as he handed the flask back. It was cool enough to revive him rather nicely, so he straightened up and made for the ship Balerion. The ships all round them bore the sigil of House Manderly, others from the Iron Fleet had the Kraken on them and even the Mallisters were among them. Their voyages to Astapor must have taken months, sailing all around southern Westeros before being able to set sail across the Narrow Sea.

Before he could board Balerion, however, Dany took his arm and stopped him. "This is it, Sam."

"What?"

"This is it," she repeated. "I'm going home and it's thanks to you."

Her lilac eyes filled with tears of happiness as she looked up at Balerion's sails. Sam followed the line of her sight and nodded. "The longer we tarry here the longer it will take. Come, my lady, let us both go home."

He offered her his arm and together they walked up the gangplank and onto the ship. It would be the best part of a day before they were ready to sail, but it still felt like they were getting somewhere. First, however, he penned a note to Jon. They were on their way home.

Tyrion took the steps two at a time. Breathless and aching all over, he cursed whoever built the Tower of the Hand. But he could no longer delay this confrontation with his father. The arrival of the Boltons and the Freys should have been a lifeline to them. But the Boltons were teaching Joffrey to flay their enemies, the Freys were furious about the treatment of poor Roslin and the alliances were breaking down before their very eyes.

All the while, he had Varys' offer running through his head. Sanctuary. Casterly Rock. This Prince of Pisswater Bend couldn't possibly be worse than Joffrey. Then, of course, there was Jon Stark. A nice lad, from his own memory of his time in Winterfell. The brother was an ass, but the brother wasn't the king he needed to worry about. Jon would also be very keen to hear of Aegon's existence.

By the time he made it to the top of the stairs, he was aching all over. He paused to catch his breath, then stumped his aching feet over to the door, only to have his path blocked by halberd bearing guards.

"Lord Tywin is not to be disturbed."

Tyrion craned his neck to look up into the stony faced man's eyes. "I am Tyrion, son of Tywin-"

"We know who you are, my lord. Lord Tywin is not to be disturbed."

Tyrion's gaze dropped to his feet as he drew a deep breath to compose himself. Very well, have it your way, he thought to himself.

He looked back up and arranged his face into an expression of earnestness. "Either you stand aside or I have a word with my nephew and Lord Bolton."

The two guards paled, looking at each other in deep uncertainty. After a tense pause, their arms shot back to their sides and opened the door.

"Thank you," he said. "And fear not, I'll make sure my lord father understands that I gave you no choice."

With that, he stepped into the chambers of the Hand. The outer chamber was empty. A stack of papers lay on the desk, the chain of hands coiled around a hook on the wall. Passing through the empty office, he entered the narrow connecting corridor to the bedchamber, where his father had probably taken an early night. The door was closed, but he could see a soft yellow glow of candlelight emanating from the gap beneath. Relieved, he knocked on the door and pushed it open.

"Forgive me father, for this cannot wait," he called out.

He stopped dead on the threshold as two figures shot out of the bed as though it had bitten their bare arses. Tywin snatched up a pillow to hide his modesty.

"Tyrion, what are you doing here?" he demanded. "Get out, now!"

But it was too late for that. Tyrion had already seen Shae laying naked beside him.

Thanks again for reading. Reviews would be lovely, if you have a minute.

Next time: Jon and the army march on King's Landing. Dany lands in Westeros. Robb takes the Westerlands. The shit hits the fan north of the wall.