Come the next morning, after I rolled from the canopied feather bed (and wasn't that wonderful, a proper, carefree sleep), I found the kid still slumped in the same position I'd left him the day before.

That teaspoon, in hindsight, was probably overdoing it.

After all, this world's magic felt diluted, decayed – its anemic currents impelled by their own dwindling inertia, and propped by regular infusions of sacrifices. It stood to reason that the locals (relative to the natives of the thoroughly saturated Lands Between) hadn't a lot of real, regular exposure to the stuff; and it wasn't much of a stretch to say were markedly vulnerable to its effects, their resistance nominal at best.

Simply put, using magic on that kid was like coughing on an Indian.

But that still left the question of how to rouse him. Though it took a bit of hemming and hawing, I shortly reckoned the simplest solution was best and divine fiat would patch any holes – crouching beside him, I nudged his shoulder and snapped in his ear, and once or twice flicked him on the forehead.

With a groan, his groggy eyes peeled open, then he rubbed them with his palms as they caught the morning sunlight.

"Come on, wake up."

Blinking through starbursts, he pondered me for a moment, his cloudy slip of a mind attempting to place how, exactly, it recognized me.

"Good morning." I gave him what I believed to be a friendly smile.

His thoughts quickly fell into place – I could tell from how his eyes widened and nostrils flared and mouth wrenched open. He recoiled away from me, gripping onto the back of the lounge, but it seems he'd forgotten that his leg was missing and spilled in a heap onto the silk carpet.

I stood up.

If he wasn't roused before, he certainly was now. Heart beating in his chest, he pawed at his belt, only to find that his axe had, at some point, slipped from its loop. The kid whirled his head around and spotted a vase, reaching out and thrusting it above his head – maybe he figured tossing it at me would buy him some time.

Plucking it from his hands, I sighed. "Oh, calm down."

The kid didn't, of course, and started crawling over to the double doors, presumably in the hopes of making some grand escape. I allowed him a few yards, then flicked my hand, a golden barrier erupting out in front of him – damn useful, that one – and when it finally, emphatically registered that he was trapped, he braced his back against the solidified grace and slid to the floor.

"Are you quite finished?"

He shot me a look as hateful as it was terrified, but otherwise just panted there.

I floated a chair over and sat down, resting the vase by my feet. "Better. I don't suppose you could give me your name?"

" … Eddin."

Dreadful, and positively Westerosi.

"And mine is Marika." I slapped my hands against my thighs. "Now that we've introduced ourselves, let's talk."

His eyes took on an incredulous gleam.

I rolled my own. "Please, if I wanted to hurt you … " A quick look at his stump. " … well, any more, I wouldn't have bothered lugging you here." I leaned forwards. "The way I see it, you're my responsibility."

"Your thrall." Where was this spine yesterday?

Reclining back, I scoffed. "Nothing so gauche." I waved a hand to the side. "I've had enough slaves. Think of yourself as my traveling companion. Follow me around for a couple months – or until I get bored of Casterly Rock – carry some things and hold some doors, and then I'll send you on your merry way."

He straightened. "Why can't I just leave now?"

"Where would you go? Into the loving arms of Tywin Lannister, whose fleet you just burned and city you just razed?" I gave the question time to sink in. "Believe me, compared to the alternatives, my offer is downright generous."

"So I can either die free or live your pet. Want me to beg for treats, too?" he spat.

I snorted. "You don't have to like me, just tolerate me, and be a touch more subtle in your loathing."

The back of his head bumped against the barrier. Eyes narrowed in thought, he closed them and let out a defeated sigh. "Fine."

A satisfied nod, then another look at this stump. "Have to do something about that leg of yours … "

Rising from the chair, I grabbed the vase and knelt by his stump – a smooth, clean cut right above his erstwhile knee – and held it down as he tried inching away. Eyeballing the length of the other leg, I channeled some grace into the vase, and it transformed into a prosthesis. I wobbled it around a bit to check the joints, then lined it up against the stump, and Ed (damned if I call him by that stupid bloody name) winced and hissed as the needles anchored into his flesh.

Stepping back, I gestured for him to get up. "See if it works."

It did, of course – Miquella really knew his stuff – and the kid made an admirable effort at smothering his wonderment as he stood and took a few steps. His motions seemed fairly smooth, nearly natural from a distance, and enough practice would soon iron out any clumsiness.

For a moment, I appraised his haggard appearance, before changing his torn, dingy trousers and gambeson into spotless black cotton equivalents, and replacing the embossed kraken on his cuirass with a gilded tree – I wouldn't abide a scruff. "There." As he checked the damage, I offered a smile. "Now you almost look presentable."

A sharp knock at the doors.

We both paused until I dismissed the barrier and waved the kid on. "Go get that, would you?"

Ed eyed the doors, then turned back to me, before plodding over and opening them with a sigh.

Lumbering at the head of a team of maids was a thick, square woman in a tight red dress, her emerald eyes gleaming with one part determination, the other cunning – to indulge in metaphor, she appeared more elephant than cow. Gesturing the maids towards a coffee table (or whatever they called those here), she shot me a wry grin. "Am I interrupting anything, Your Grace?"

I matched her smile with one of my own, a subdued, tranquil thing I'd mastered through regular practice. "No, not at all. Perfect timing, actually, I was just about to ring the bell."

"Good, good, wouldn't want to be a bother." Closing the doors, she gave a shallow curtsey. "I am Genna Lannister, and my brother sent me to fawn and toady. It seems you've left quite the impression on him."

Well, honest of her to out and say it. "And I assume Lord Tywin is occupied with urgent business?"

"He's always been more of a commander than a fighter." Genna then beckoned towards the table, on which the maids had arranged an elaborate spread. "Whatever the case, would you like some breakfast?"

"Might as well." Walking over, I perched on one of the adjoining couches, a pastel piece embroidered with a forest idyll. Dishes laden with diced fruits and steaming pastries and fried bits of meat, I sent an amused glance at the banquet, then met Genna in the eyes. "Do you Lannisters always eat this much?"

Genna plumped herself down on the matching couch opposite my own, shoveling a helping of eggs onto her plate. "Only on special occasions. A Lannister would never dare to skimp on a distinguished personage such as yourself."

I forked a sausage. "Well then, with all the consideration you put into this, it'd be terribly rude not to have some."

Her smile remained unchanged, and she offered me a honeycake.

We kept going at it for a while, our ostensibly friendly pokes and jabs, however close, never truly entering the realm of proper shitflinging. And while I was having fun with it, a certain tension lurked beneath Genna's smile – despite her skill as an actress, she still left little tells, her jaw tightening and fingers tapping and eyes ever so slightly squinting.

From her end, a wild ape had been invited into her home, and she'd been told to mollify the thing before it started ripping arms off.

Setting a half-eaten plate of pear slices on the table, I rose to my feet – all this back and forth standing and sitting was getting tedious – and patted the area where, if I had organs, my stomach would've been. "Thank you, Lady Genna, I rather enjoyed that." She made the usual pleasantries, "You're very welcome" and the like, and I nodded along, resting a hand on my waist. "I don't mean to impose, but could I perhaps trouble you for a tour as well?"

She cocked her head. "A tour?"

"I've heard wonderful rumors about this place. Expansive, extravagant, you get the idea. Now that I've the chance, why not see if they're true?" I chuckled. "Besides, lovely as these rooms are, there's no sense lazing around all day."

At this, Genna became, if only for a second, visibly perturbed – it seems she was planning (or had been ordered) to do exactly that. Limit the damage, I suspect, to some tucked-away guest wing. Dabbing her mouth with a napkin, she affected a cheerful enthusiasm. "A capital idea, Your Grace. Gods know I need the exercise. Do any particular rumors stand out? I'd show you the lot, but I don't think I'd last that long."

Watching her stir from the couch, I shook my head. Best not spook the poor mortals too much, I figured, no matter how amusing their reactions. "I'll trust your initiative."

She straightened her dress and made for the doors, snapping at the maids to clear the spread; I followed her and told Ed (who'd been loitering in the corner) that he could help himself to the leftovers. As we departed into the winding corridors, a couple of her household guards fell in behind us. Genna freed the breath she'd been holding and minutely relaxed her shoulders – now she'd at least the illusion of security.

For the next couple hours, she escorted me through ballrooms and gardens, septs and galleries: a respectable slice of the unrestrained opulence stuffed into these untold miles of tunnels. Rather than deliberately, coherently designed, the place had been cobbled together higgledy-piggledy over generations, and furnished according to the transient whims of a bottomless treasury. Narrow caves, gold veins peeking through the rough-cut stone, gave way to gilded halls lined with portraits and statuary, which in turn branched off into tastelessly ornate parlors and cavernous chambers fit to seat an army. Aesthetically, in other words, Casterly Rock was a mess, a hodgepodge of disparate styles and moods and techniques united solely by a profusion of golden lions.

Even so, I suppose that was to be expected, given the Rock had served as the seat of highest nobility for six thousand years, give or take. The sheer weight of history had imposed a singular gravity, a palpable sense of tradition and lineage – every ancestor, every deed, was memorialized and commemorated, preserved somewhere within the grand record that was the family home. Mind, you can only hear so many permutations of 'King What's-His-Name' and 'the Battle of So-And-So' before it all blends into mush.

Not that I intended to tell my hosts any of this, of course – aristocrats get so touchy about that sort of thing.

As Genna expounded on an arrangement of crystal chandeliers – she'd a passion for decorating – I noticed a set of black ironwood doors, nearly double my height, recessed into an alcove. They'd been shut tight, presumably locked, and whenever anyone drew near, the pair of guards posted out in front would firmly turn them away. We were right in the middle of a bustling thoroughfare, far from the vaults and dungeons and the like, so the whole thing struck me as peculiar.

I tapped Genna on the shoulder, her speech trailing off, and pointed towards the alcove. "Where do those doors lead?"

She followed my finger and blinked, then adopted an expression I couldn't quite parse – resigned, maybe, and a smidge disappointed. "The library. One of them, as it were."

I raised an eyebrow. "Oh? From the turnkeys, you'd think that's where the lepers are kept." I shot her a smirk. "Is Lord Tywin trying to hide something? A secret collection of bodice-rippers, perhaps?"

"I imagine so, Your Grace." After a moment, Genna rubbed her forehead with a bit of a sigh. "The hiding, not the collection."

"Shame, I'd have liked to see that."

Despite herself, she let out an amused huff. "Odds are it's my nephew. Tyrion, Twyin's third. When he isn't in his rooms, he's there, reading anything he can get his hands on. Positively voracious." She grimaced. "Tywin, well … he's too hard on the boy."

Having flicked through some of the books and sat through part of the show, I already knew there existed no small amount of enmity between the two; patricide, after all, is generally a sign of an unhealthy relationship. Though for however tragic such blatant dysfunction may be (my own parenting experience, both lived and inherited, taught me firsthand just how bad things can get), I'll admit that it has a certain base appeal – dumpster fires always make for the best entertainment.

I hummed. "How about we give him our respects?" Then, without waiting for a response, I marched straight for the doors.

Those guards were apparently well-informed, and gulped and stiffened and all that rot as I brushed past them. Clutching their spears, they leaned towards Genna and lowered their voices, wary of causing a scene. "Lady Genna, what should – "

She cut them off. "Just let her."

"But Lord Tywin – "

"Is not here. I am." She watched a tendril of grace fiddle with the latch. "Return to your barracks."

The lock clicked and the doors scraped open, and I turned back to Genna and beckoned her onward as I entered the library. Towering varnished bookshelves were piled below an echoing limestone dome, stairways and balconies bridging the upper stacks, while rows of desks mustered on the tiled marble floor. Archivists with hunched backs and sore fingers faffed about dusting and mending, their flunkies lighting candles and hefting tomes.

Genna indicated towards a gap in the shelves. "There's a spot he likes over this way." Crossing through a book-lined tunnel, we emerged into a cushy reading room, sofas and side tables bathed by a roaring fire – odd for the season, but I suppose the caves were chilly enough to warrant it. The guards who'd been tailing us, with their quartered red and blue surcoats, planted themselves near the opening.

In the corner, engulfed in a plush armchair, a stumpy dwarf sipped at a goblet, a manuscript balanced on his lap. He was an ugly little thing, stocky and twisted, with canted eyes wedged beneath a bulging forehead, and stringy bleached hair wilting down to a stubbled chin. Exuding melancholy, his mismatched eyes – one Lannister green, the other coal black – wandered across the illuminated pages, not having noticed our entry.

Genna cleared her throat.

Tyrion jolted, cup spilling out onto the rug, and coughed into his fist as he choked on his wine. After some gasps and thumps against his chest, he poised himself enough to peer in our direction. "Seven hells, Aunt Genna, I … " His words trailed off and his mouth slowly gaped when he clapped eyes on me. "Oh. You're the, um … well." Heaving the book from his lap, he scrambled to his feet. "Your Grace, I – "

Waving him off, I chuckled. "Sit down, sit down." I turned to Genna and playfully flashed my eyebrows, then leisurely reclined on a nearby sofa – all I needed were some grape sprigs and palm fronds. "Everyone's so jumpy today."

They had good reason to be, but still.

"What are you reading?" I inquired. That ought to break the ice a bit, and smother some of his skittishness.

An imploring gaze fixed on Genna as she pulled herself a seat. She nodded, and after a moment of indecision, Tyrion tilted the cover of his book at me. "Balameon's From the Founding. One of the more complete histories of Valyria."

"Fascinating." Between that and the wine, it occurred to me that this sad little dwarf had spent the day wallowing in escapism. Altogether warranted escapism, mind – his life was by and large a pitiable one – but there's nothing good, much less healthy, about neglecting reality in favor of fantasy (or the past, but same difference). "Can't say I've heard of that one. What happens in it?"

Tyrion swallowed. "The initial conquest of the peninsula, mostly. Only the first dozen chapters survived the Doom. I was just reading about a mutiny." Sparing the book a glance, he allowed himself to get drawn into a lecture. "Having suffered a great defeat against the hill tribes, the assembly appointed an old retired archon, Jaerys, to the office of tyrant. When he arrived at camp, however, the legionaries refused to fight. The city was already doomed, they argued, so why throw their lives away prolonging the inevitable?" For a teenager, he was rather articulate.

"Quite a pickle. And how did this mutiny end?"

He started gesticulating. "Jaerys gave a rousing speech, then burned the ringleaders alive with his dragon, before doing the same to every tenth man. The remaining soldiers marched on the enemy, the Freehold was saved, and Jaerys abdicated after only two weeks." A Valyrian Cincinnatus, then – bit on the nose there, George.

I offered a playful smile. "The rest, I assume, goes much the same."

Laughing, Tyrion patted the spine. "Essentially. Wars, dragons, waging wars with dragons. They were the finest conquerors the world has ever seen, and by far the most enthralling."

Depraved, more like. From what I knew about the Valyrians, they'd ravished, despoiled, and enslaved half the known world, and their sudden immolation was universally declared no less than they deserved. Even the Golden Order, with all the muck underneath the gilding, had the excuse of divine ordination, and made things markedly better for a (slight) majority – those sister fuckers, on the other hand, were just trying to outdo Sodom and Gomorrah.

"Fire and blood, indeed. It's funny, every civilization seems to have an obsession with those lizards, one way or another. Back home, there was a cult that worshiped them."

He raised his brow. "Oh?"

"Yes, it was very popular among knights and such." A snort. "Of course, that likely had more to do with the magic than the preaching. Prayer seems a small price for the ability to toss lightning bolts around."

Skepticism rose to the surface, if only for a second, before he remembered who – what – he was talking to, then his back straightened and eyes lit up and mouth wrenched into a beam. "So worshiping dragons gave them magic?"

"More or less. Our dragons, you must understand, weren't those animals the Valyrians rode." I rolled a hand. "Powerful, wise – really, it's like the difference between men and apes. The eminent among them could even assume human form."

Sprawling into the embrace of his armchair, Tyrion frowned at the ceiling, then leaned in and fixed his eyes on my own. "Please, Your Grace, continue."

Another chuckle, this one decidedly close to a giggle. "You know, your aunt" – I bobbed my head at Genna – "described you as, what was it … 'positively voracious.' Seems she had a point. Of your siblings, I take it you're the smart one?"

To him, that must have seemed something of a non sequitur, and he blinked before answering. "Well, what I lack in height, I more than make up for in wit." I'd a feeling he had that line memorized. "Jaime has the brawn, and thus a white cloak. Cersei has the beauty, and thus a crown. I have the brains, and thus … " Tyrion considered the bookshelves, losing a bit of steam. "This library."

As his eyes dimmed, I tilted my head. "Are you content with that?"

Tyrion took a breath and furrowed his brow. "No."

I couldn't help but notice he was confiding in a woman he'd known for all of five minutes. "Do you want more?"

From the way his expression firmed and his fists tightened, my inquiry seemed to hit the mark. "Yes."

"Right then … " A book – some theological polemic – floated from the shelves into my hand, and I infused it with grace before dangling it out in front of him. "Take it." Awestruck, he reached out, before recoiling a bit. "Go on, take it."

Tyrion snatched the book out of the air, and his hand began to steam and bones began to creak and flesh began to bubble. Screeching and writhing, he slumped onto the floor, strands of golden light twisting down his arm and across his body, boring beneath his skin.

While the guards, teeth clenched and swords brandished, clambered through the tunnel, Genna erupted from her seat and lodged herself between Tyrion and me. She swallowed, sweat trickling down her forehead, and flinched at a particularly harsh scream.

I rolled my eyes. "Again with the theatrics."

It seemed Genna wasn't quite sure how to react – or maybe her roiling emotions looped back around to placidity – and she just stood there, gaping at my pleasant, neutral smile. But when her nephew's screams petered out, and his bangings and poundings ceased, horror came to the fore, and Genna jerked backward and fell to her knees, then gasped and scrambled away when she caught sight of him.

By any metric, the grace had done its job – there, on the rug, sat an average, healthy, moderately handsome young man (no übermensch, a little gangly, but nice enough), ogling his own limbs. Tears pooling in her eyes, Genna inched closer and cupped his cheek, and Tyrion leaked a high, hysterical laugh. "How … but … I don't … "

"Yes, yes, it's all very dramatic." Both turned to me. "Consider this a reward for your hospitality. Tyrion?"

"Y-yes?" Only his voice remained the same – even the heterochromia was gone, both eyes now a luminescent gold.

"Look at your hand," I ordered, pointing at the one that'd been holding the book

Raising it, his eyes somehow widened further: a cruciform tree, elaborate linework pulsing and shimmering, had been branded onto his palm

"That's your seal. The book has instructions on how to cast spells with it. Congratulations, you're now a wizard."

Of a sort, at least.

Humans, barring a few odious aberrations, do not naturally possess magic, nor the ability to wield it. Thus, if they want either, they must commune with some greater wellspring – the wellspring, in this specific instance, being myself. He wasn't the first to tap into my grace, as millions across the Lands Between can attest, nor was he given a particularly large slice (for as much as one can slice infinity, mind), but he was one of the few that I'd bothered to commune with personally.

Really, knowing his future, it seemed the least I could do.

Sniffling and trembling, Tyrion blubbered some more and Genna clasped her hands against her chest.

"Your Grace, Lord Tywin bids … "

An attendant in crimson livery shuffled into the room, his servile composure quickly morphing into confusion.

I leisurely sat up and swiveled to face him. "Ah, hello. Didn't catch that last bit. What does he want?"

Blinking, the attendant opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it. "Is that … ?" He shook his head and remembered the script. "Lord Tywin apologizes for his hitherto absence, and invites you to sup with him and his family."

So he finally deigns to show himself. Raising my eyebrows, I whistled. "Lunch already, eh? Time sure flies." I stood and made for the passageway, snapping my fingers at the Lannisters. "Are you two coming?"

Dazed, Genna managed a vacant stare in my general direction. "What?"

"Food."

She sat there for a moment, slowly regaining some small measure of lucidity, then picked herself up off the floor – Tyrion, his body unfamiliar, floundered and stumbled, and she held him up by the arm.

We were led out of the library back to the thoroughfare, then through a few hallways and up a few stairways into the so-called 'Lion's Den,' the main-line Lannisters' private wing. Intimate, I think, would be the best word for it, a soft ruby glow dancing through the stained-glass skylights and across the wood paneling. The attendant opened another pair of doors (these a rich walnut) and bowed as we walked into the dining room.

After taking a moment to appreciate the high vaulted ceiling, then the solid stretch of window that occupied the far wall, I sat down at the head of the table. Two dozen blondes – and a smattering of brunets – had been waiting there for us, all well-groomed and well-dressed, with Tywin presiding at the other end. Forcing geniality, they respectfully dipped their heads, though a certain disquietude slipped through their masks when an ostensible stranger parked himself in Tyrion's chair.

Unfolding a napkin, he gave Tywin a look that, if it weren't so smug, could almost be described as beatific. "Lord Father."

Tywin only resisted a stupefied goggle through sheer force of will. "Tyrion."

The erstwhile dwarf smirked, grabbing a pitcher of wine. "I've just had the most thrilling conversation with Her Grace." Never mind that he spent half of said conversation huddled on the floor. "Did you know that her homeland still has living, breathing dragons?"

Though his relations winced and gasped, Tywin's expression couldn't be flatter – it'd take more than a makeover to extinguish his hatred. He glared some more at Tyrion, then fixed me with a look only a hair or two less severe. "I hope he was not too much of a bother, Your Grace."

"No, not at all," I laughed. "You've raised a very precocious son. He actually made for good company."

Tywin turned to Genna for confirmation, and pursed his lips when she faintly nodded. "I see." His gaze bore into me. "Speaking of your homeland – the 'Lands Between,' if I recall correctly."

"Yes?"

Leaning forwards, he propped his elbows on the table. "No such lands feature on any known map, and the maesters in residence, by every indication learned men, cannot attest to their location. I myself concede a similar ignorance. In the interest of curiosity, where are these 'Lands Between?'"

"Between, of course." Another laugh, and a dismissive wave. "I kid. They exist in the transient space that bridges realities. Not so much a physical landmass as a … coagulation of belief and metaphor." A profound simplification, but a necessary one, given how convoluted the metaphysics of the place were.

A couple of the Lannisters narrowed their eyes and turned to each other in confusion, though Tywin maintained his outward reserve. "And you are the queen of them?"

Something told me that he'd have found feigning royalty more offensive than making up a continent.

I nodded. "Up until quite recently, at least. After millennia, the throne grew tiresome." Reaching for a glass, I took a sip of wine – dry and sour, and heavy with tannin. "So I put my affairs in order, hopped into a boat, and sailed wherever the winds would take me." A shrug. "I wound up here."

Another simplification.

Doors swinging open, the first course arrived: a thick, steaming beef stew. The extended family, more than keen to bury themselves in something resembling normalcy, gave their meals their full attention. Tywin, for his part, went without, waving the server off when she approached him.

"What are your intentions?" Odd venue for an interrogation, but I suppose this was his idea of courtesy.

I lifted my spoon and chuckled. "You make it sound so sinister." Taking a bite, I shrugged. "Nothing at all, just enjoying my retirement."

He glowered some more, then cleared his throat and straightened his back. "Your Grace, you have done House Lannister a great service, both with respect to the attack yesterday and … my son. Though your capabilities far surpass our own, reciprocity only seems befitting, and I would ask what you desire as a boon."

I took another bite – the spices were a bit much, but I reasonably enjoyed it. "It was no trouble. Honestly, I'd say you've already done enough for me, inviting me into your home and all."

"I insist. A Lannister always pays his debts." He pointedly eyed Tyrion. "A marriage, perhaps?"

Well, he certainly didn't beat around the bush. "While I appreciate the offer in the spirit it was given" – cynical opportunism – "past experience has soured me towards the whole marriage thing. Besides, I'm afraid your heir is a few centuries too young for me."

Silence fell upon the dining room, and Tywin clenched his fists. "He is not my heir."

Tyrion, emboldened by the circumstances, spoke up. "Why not?"

Sucking air through his grit teeth, Tywin turned to him with something approaching a sneer. "Because Jaime is eldest."

"He is also a Kingsguard, barred from inheritance."

They stared each other down, friction palpable, until Tyrion took a swig from his goblet and gestured at himself. "Look at me. I am no longer a dwarf. I am whole. What compels you to further deny me my rightful due?"

Genna tried to intervene. "Brother, nephew, there is no … "

Tywin slammed his fist down on the table. "Rightful? By rights, I should have – " He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. "Your Grace, I sincerely apologize for my son's outburst. I thought he could control this unbecoming jealousy of his. It seems I was wrong."

Tyrion refilled his goblet. "Indeed. And I apologize for my lord father's."

This sort of nonsense continued for some time.

How generous of them, to give me dinner and a show.