The Lion Of The Rock

by CrossoverAUman

Copied from my story over on AO3, a SI OC fic about Tywin's Eldest Son, Tyvek Lannister, who is originally from the real world. Contains mysteries, drunks, monsters, (Gordon) Ramsay Snow, Jon Snow Knowing Some Things, poisoners, and Giant unexpected dragons. Until the AO3 version is back up, I'll be updating here in large chunks, then I'll start updating both as normal on Mondays!

1. Chapter 1

Tyvek Lannister rested his hand on the hilt of his sword, the other on his horse's reins. He was in Lannisport, gathering up his youngest sibling from yet another brothel. It was a higher end establishment this time, at least. Last time, he'd found Tyrion with a jackass and a honeycomb in the second seediest brothel he'd ever seen.

"You're drunk again, little brother. Father won't be happy," he chided, even as the smallest Lannister mounted his own horse.

"Father is never happy with me," Tyrion shrugged. At least he wasn't slurring his speech, and they'd have a little time to sober him up before meeting up with Father. Thank the Seven for small mercies, at that.

"And iyou/i have given up on even pretending to try and not anger him."

Tyrion shrugged again, and Tyvek resisted the urge to sigh.

"What does father want with his least favorite Lannister, anyways," Tyrion asked after a minute of silence, and Tyvek gave him a look.

"Nonsense, you're only his isecond/i least favorite, little brother. Everyone knows Grandfather is still his least favorite, dead or alive. As for what he wants with you, well, I imagine it's the same as he wants with me."

"Death, dismemberment, and a trip to The Wall, not in that exact order?"

Tyvek laughed, a deep one, straight from his belly. His father's distaste for him was well known, even if the reasons were kept quiet, even between them. "Oh, Tyry, Father wouldn't send me to the wall… he knows I would enjoy my new brothers too much!" He whispered this, making Tyrion giggle. It was only with his eldest sibling that he could laugh like the young man, barely fourteen namedays old, that he was. "No, I think it's because King Robert is hosting a tourney for Joffrey's nameday, and he's going to put me in charge of The Rock, and Uncle Kevan in charge of me."

"Joffrey is all of two namedays, he won't remember a thing about this!"

Shrugging, Tyvek urged his horse on. "Maybe not, but I think you and I both know who won't forget it if he's not honored with one."

Both of them shuddered dramatically, thoughts of their sister coming, unbidden and unwanted, to their heads. They knew better than to say a thing about it, and they both knew that there was a monster under their sister's flesh.

"That's a fair enough point, dear brother, a fair enough point. You know, I wish you hadn't interrupted me, though. I know you. If Father leaves you in charge, you'll have me running about doing all manner of nonsense, keeping me busy and away from the brothels I so love. Why, the whores might go without!"

Tyvek kept his silence. He knew that his little brother only saw one woman, not even a whore in truth. He knew better than to mention her, lest Father find out that Tyrion was keeping a peasant girl in coin, that he'd married her in front of a wandering septon and that he had a daughter on her. He knew none of that would matter to Father. Kinslaying was a step he didn't trust his father not to take, if he learned of Tysha, and of sweet little Joanna. Anything to keep that particular 'shame' quiet.

They kept their silence most of the half-day's ride from Lannisport up to The Rock, after that. What more needed to be said? Though they both were men of brilliant minds, neither felt the need to fill up the silence, when they were with each other.

They found their father in his Solar, writing, and stood, waiting for him to bid them sit. Tyvek had, very early on, explained this trick to all his siblings, in an effort to protect them from the trouble it would give them to sit, or squirm, or whine. Only Tyrion had ever listened to him. So, silently, they both stood, waiting, eyes on anything but their father, until finally he looked up.

"So, you managed to find him, did you? Good. What brothel was he disgracing himself in, this time?"

"The Western Sailor's Delight, Father. Drunk, too, but he was sober enough to ride without dunking him in cold water first, this time."

Tywin fixed his youngest son with a glare, which Tyrion wilted under, then bid them both to sit.

"The King has ordered me to King's Landing. There is to be a tourney, in honor of Joffrey's nameday, as you likely suspected already. He also wishes to discuss another loan."

"iAgain/i? Father, that's the third loan this year, and he's hardly paid back any of the last four year's worth of loans either," Tyvek protested. "Should we push to put a Lannister as Master of Coin? This is… ridiculous! Farcical!"

"I am aware, which is why we will be installing your Uncle Kevan as Master of Coin, whether Robert likes it or not."

"Then, Father, how can Tyrion and I serve you?"

"You'll rule from The Rock until my return, three moons from now. When I return, you'll also have a list of at least three potential brides for yourself," the current Lord of the West said firmly, giving his heir 'The Look', which Tyvek took with smooth dignity.

"As you command, my Lord," he said, knowing that he would make the list, his Father would reject most of it out of hand, and berate him for being a sword swallower later on.

"Good. Now get out of my sight, both of you. I have too much to do, I have no time to waste on either of you."

Outside the solar, both brothers breathed a sigh of relief.

"Never gets easier, does it?" Tyvek mused. "Still, we'll have plenty of breathing room, won't we? Three whole Moons of peace."

"It will be pleasant," Tyrion agreed as they walked away. Then, with a laugh, he said "Who knows, maybe father will die of pestilence whilst in King's Landing!"

Both brothers exchanged a look, then burst out laughing, Tyvek nearly bent double. "Oh, oh, Tyry, don't tease me like that! Oh, by the Seven, you little shit," he laughed affectionately, wiping an amused tear from his eyes. "Oh, fucking hells, little brother," he wheezed, making Tyrion laugh even harder.

So for three moons they ruled, and as Tyrion predicted, Tyvek kept him busy. The poor lad was almost his brother's Squire, the way he was kept running. There was always something that needed doing. It kept his mind fresh, and he loved it, but he also greatly wanted to get back to Lannisport, and Tyvek knew it.

Two days before Father was due to arrive, a maid found Tyrion, and summoned him to the Lord's Solar. There he found Tyvek, ashen-faced, and Aunt Genna, crying into her handkerchief. Uncle Tygett was there too, and Uncle Gerion, and their faces painted a concerning picture.

"Tyrion, good. You're the last of us here. Good, I…"

Tyvek paused, catching his breath.

"Sit. Read," he ordered, pushing a Raven Scroll towards his little brother.

Obeying, Tyrion climbed into the chair, and began to read.

His first reaction was joy. He was free. He was ifree/i.

He looked up at his elder brother. "My Lord… what will you have me do?"

Jon watched, slightly concerned, as Lord Tyvek verbally tore the man in front of him to pieces, shredding every argument the man tried to make. He could almost predict what his Lord was going to say next, because he'd heard this many, many times before, sadly.

At ten namedays, Jon was just old enough to Squire, and had been doing so for Lord Tyvek Lannister for nearly a year, now. He hadn't known what to think, when his lord father had told him that he would go south, but he'd hoped to make him proud.

"A Bastard shouldn't be a squire to a Lord Paramount!", Lady Stark had screamed, demanding her husband refuse, but Eddard Stark had denied her, sending Jon to Casterly Rock, to squire for Lord Tyvek Lannister.

Actually, most of Jon's work consisted of following his Lord around, carrying his parchment and other tools of business as he went about running the Westerlands. His martial training was mostly served under Ser Bronn, a sellsword in Lord Tyvek's employ, or under Sandor Clegane. Only once every Seven-day did Lord Tyvek train Jon himself. He would duel Jon for several hours, unrelenting, then stand him up, tell him what he'd done well, and then turn to Bronn and Sandor and say what he'd done wrong. Improvement i would/i be made weekly, he'd been very clear on that when he'd first begun to train Jon.

Sandor was rough, rude, and scarred horribly on his face, but he was never cruel. Oh, he hit like a wall, but he would always pull his strikes with Jon, provided Jon was actually trying to put in the work. Bronn never pulled his punches, and he always fought dirty.

"You're not training a tourney knight," Lord Tyvek had said, when Jon first began to train. "You're training a fighter, a survivor. Make him strong, Bronn, if you want to keep getting paid."

Bronn, Jon had quickly learned, liked being paid.

Today was a Lannisport day, when Lord Tyvek would pack up his Squires (Jon himself and Lancel Lannister, Lord Tyvek's cousin), kiss his niece on the forehead (and promise to bring her a surprise), and then ride down to Lannisport. They would leave before dawn, them and fifty guards (and Bronn), and then Lord Tyvek would attend his business, and Jon would write, and write, and write. Being a squire for Lord Tyvek, he'd found, involved a lot more writing than he'd ever believed a squire would need to do. He was to write down everything that was said and done on their trip, for his Lord believed in accurate note keeping in all things. Lancel had the same job, and then tomorrow, the two would have to rewrite their transcripts twice, for further record keeping.

At first, Lancel hadn't wanted to work alongside Jon, but very quickly they'd learned that the only way to be as accurate as Lord Tyvek demanded of them iwas/i by working together. Now, Lancel happily called Jon his friend, and Jon would say the same.

"This is the end- you have three options. Leave Lannisport on the next tide and never return. That will allow you to live in peace with me. You can stay, and then we'll clap you in irons and ship you to The Wall with the next supply run, or you can stay, and I'll see to your execution here and now."

This he was saying to a member of the City Watch. Lord Tyvek hated, beyond anything, Watchmen who thought they were above the law. Corruption would not stand in the Westerlands, not while he was Lord Paramount, and this particular man of the Watch didn't seem to have gotten that message.

"I'll take the Wall," the man finally said with disgust. Lord Tyvek nodded, his guards taking the disgraced Watchman away.

Then he spat on the ground, holding out his hand. Jon scrambled, passing off his writing instruments to Lancel, holding out the wineskin his Lord had him carry. It was always Jon with the wineskin for some reason, but he had no complaints, and his Lord never drank too deeply.

"I feel like I'm insulting the Night's Watch, Jon," Lord Tyvek said. "I promised them fifty men a year, two years ago, and I'm sending them more scum like that than I am good men."

"Well, it would help if more good men volunteered, My Lord," Jon said, reassuring him. "You can't force a good man to take the black like you can a criminal."

Taking a drink, Lord Tyvek snorted. "Aye, that's true… and I'm still sending more men than my father ever did."

He turned, looking to the sea, then turned back to his squires.

"I'm done with hard work for the day. You boys go on, now, have the day to yourselves."

He passed them both a purse of two Gold Dragons each, then dismissed them. What Lord Tyvek did without them was no mystery- Jon knew his Lord was going to a brothel to discreetly seek his pleasure- but he would never bring either boy with him, and had, in fact, forbidden them to go into one, so long as they were his squires. Bronn would go, Sandor would go, sometimes they would both ride down together; but Lord Tyvek's squires were not allowed to even think of entering a brothel. He'd been very clear that, should they use the services of a whore while in his service, they'd be dismissed with dishonor. He'd even implied that they would find themselves on The Wall.

The first thing Jon did was to remove one of the Dragons from the purse and place it into his own. This he would save, as he always did. He wouldn't be a squire forever, he knew, and so any time he was given money, he would save half. He could buy his own horse, buy well forged arms and armor, once he was a man grown. Lancel always rolled his eyes when Jon did this, but he had taken it up as a good habit anyways, shocked to see how quickly his personal wealth could grow, and shocked at how little it was compared to the great rush of his family's wealth.

"I need to buy mother a present, her nameday is coming up," Lancel said, after a time.

"I'll follow you- Sansa's isn't far off as well," Jon agreed, though what he would get her, he hadn't decided yet. Buying gifts for Robb and Arya was simple- he'd bought Robb a small dagger, and Arya a dagger which was disguised as a doll, so as to throw Lady Stark off the trail of her youngest daughter having a blade. A gift for Bran, that was easy too- Jon had sent him a bow made of weirwood driftwood taken from the God's eye, in the Riverlands. It was a full sized bow, and would take him time to grow into, but it would serve him well, in time.

Sansa was another story entirely. It would be no trouble to buy her a bolt or two of fabric and have it sent north to The Wall, then brought down to Winterfell in time for her nameday, but it felt so impersonal. Robb's dagger had been engraved with his name, and the runes for "Honor" and "Dignity" in the Old Tongue. Arya's doll, which hid the dagger, was made to look like her. Their gifts carried a bit of them in their making.

But what to get Sansa?

Jon and Lancel toured the many shops of Lannisport, trying to find just the right gift. Jon nearly bought a bejeweled comb, gold and silver vines in whale bone, with emeralds as flowers- but the piece was on hold for another, and so it went unpurchased by Jon.

Lancel bought a necklace, gold leaves around a single ruby, shaped to resemble a rose. Jon thought, and said, that it was a good choice, and it would be delivered to The Rock the next day. It still left Jon himself in a bit of a pickle, but at least ione/i of them was succeeding in their mission.

"You should just commission something, Jon," Lancel said as they walked. "You always think of excellent gifts. Doesn't Lady Tysha use the handkerchief you had made for her nearly every day?"

"She does, I can't deny, but… Oh, I don't know, Lancel, this feels important, like I have to get it absolutely right, and I'm not sure why…"

"It grows late, and we have time- mayhaps you'll find the gift you're seeking next Seven-day?"

Sighing, Jon turned on his heel. "Mayhaps you're right, Lancel. It took me near a moon to decide on a gift for Bran after all, didn't it?"

So they started back towards the stables where they left their mounts, laughing and joking as they walked. That world have been the end of it, had a voice not called out.

"Ho there, I know that accent! A Northman, you are!" It said, and Jon turned. The voice belonged to a woman, older that Lady Stark perhaps, but not by much. She must have had Umber in her blood, for in the North, only Umbers or Hodor grew to be so tall.

"I am, my lady- Jon Snow, son of"

"Lord Eddard Stark, aye, I met you afore! Oh, but you have grown, young lad- you was just a baby, last I saw you. Tiny little thing, you was!"

Lancel had stepped back, Jon noticed distantly.

"Your lord father and oh, what was he? Some big lizard from the Neck, that was his sigil- they fussed over you and your sister like you was made of glass, but then, you were so sickly, the whole trip from Dorne to King's Landing."

Jon felt his vision go white, his ears ringing. iSister. Your sister. Your Sister/i...

It was cold, at the Wall. Colder than normal, for this time of year, certainly- but then, just a few months ago, it had been warmer than usual. Maester Aemon had said it would be that way, and he'd been right. Victarion Greyjoy had been a man of the Night's Watch for nearly half a decade now, ever since his brother's failed rebellion. He'd knelt at Robert Baratheon's feet and begged to take the Black- he was no craven, but he'd seen what the Lannister did to Euron, and he wanted no part of it.

"Greyjoy!"

He turned, nodding to the Lord Commander.

"Raven for you from your nephew- here," Mormont said, passing over the scroll. Victarion accepted it, breaking the seal. He and little Theon were the last two Greyjoy men in the world- how ironic, that with Victarion at the Wall and Theron a hostage on Dragonstone, they were now closer than ever.

Victarion read, then gave a little laugh. "Seems my nephew is learning to sail, and he's not as good as he thought he should be- boy took a trip into the water his first day on a ship!"

Mormont chuckled, the old bear thinking about his own first day on a ship. "I can imagine- lost my guts, the first time I got on a ship. He's got time to learn to sail properly."

"Aye, he does. I'll have to write the lad in a few days. Greyjoys have the sea in our blood, but that doesn't mean falling off into it every time you get on a boat."

He looked down into the main courtyard of Castle Black, watching Alliser Thorne berate the newest recruits from Lannisport. He hated admitting it, but it was good to see the Watch prospering like it was. It had been dying when he'd arrived, slowly but surely, but now it was thriving. The Westerlands and the North were supporting the Watch in an ongoing game of one-upmanship, each one trying to outdo the other. It was working. The Westerlands sent men and supplies and gold, the North tried to send just as much of each.

The Watch had less than a thousand men when he'd joined, and now they were nearly three times that. It did his heart well, gave him a sense of pride that he'd never expected to feel.

"Come to my solar, Greyjoy. Need to talk to you."

So he followed the Lord Commander, shivering just a bit as a gust of wind from beyond the Wall hit them. The relative warmth inside the castle made a nice reprieve, and he let himself relax into it as he followed Mormont to his Solar.

The solar of the Lord Commander was plain and efficient, organized. Islander to islander, Victaion could admit his approval of the way the Old Bear kept it. No fancy frills, just good, solid, organized papers and books. The only real hints of decoration were an old shield, left by the last Lord Commander, and a faded tapestry depicting some old battle or another. He sat, Mormont pouring two mugs of ale.

"Five years you've been here, Greyjoy. You're doing better than any of the rest of the Ironborn who've come here, except for Cotter."

Cotter Pyke, Commander of Eastwatch-By-The-Sea, his Bastard half brother. They hadn't made him volunteer to take the Black after the Rebellion, not like they had Victarion. He'd taken it willingly, when he was around fifteen namedays, and Victarion not much older. Father had raged about that for days, sennights, moons, even- but Cotter was a man of the Watch by then, and it couldn't be undone.

"Aye, I am. It isn't raiding, but it's good to be a Ranger, if nothing else."

"Aye, and you're good at it. It's why I'm promoting you to First Ranger, now that we're able to reopen the Shadow Tower. I'm making Benjen Stark the Commander, which means I'll need a new First Ranger."

Victarion took a moment to quaff his ale, thinking.

"Why not the Half-hand? He's got the seniority, and the skill. Hells, why not Garrett? He'd be better for it than the Half-hand even, if he could read."

"I'm making the Half-hand Commander of the Nightfort, once we rebuild it. We've got the men, we've got the resources, and Quorin won't give into the fear of superstition about the place. Garrett is going with him, and so you're my best option. Take it,"

And here, the Old Bear smirked, then quaffed his own ale.

"Take it, or I'll give it to Alliser and make iyou/i my Master at Arms."

"Drowned God forbid," Victarion said with a dramatic shudder. "Fine, I'll take it. But don't think I'll be as soft on the Rangers as Benjen is."

The two sat, talking for a few more hours, wool gathering together about any number of things. Victarion knew he was going soft, on the Wall, compared to what an Ironborn should be, but it was a good soft, he felt. It was a soft that kept him from dying screaming, like Euron did.

The fact that Tyvek Lannister himself would take the time to do it, could make iEuron/i scream like that, was enough to make Victarion want nothing more than to be as inoffensive to the man as a eunuch. A threat? Victarion Greyjoy? Perish the thought.

He ate well that night, then sat at the little desk in his quarters, writing a reply to his nephew.

iMy dear Theon,/i he began. iFalling off of your ship is the first step towards learning to not fall off. That's why you know how to swim. Chin up, take the teasing, show them that you're more a sailor than any of them will ever be by being a better sailor. You'll find your way, like every Ironborn before you. Have you written Asha lately? It can't be easy for her, a Greyjoy surrounded by Starks. Swear to write her, as I shall. We won't let her be alone in the world./i

He paused, flexing his cold fingers, then continued.

iThe Lord Commander means to make me the First Ranger. I imagine I'll be slower to reply, in the future, but I'll still send you word of my doings, when I might. Be well, lad./i

iYour affectionate uncle,/i

iVictarion/i

He would bring it to Maester Aemon come the morning.

He went to bed, then, and dreamt of an island of bones and terror, but when he woke the next morning, he remembered nothing.

Six months later, he was restocking at Eastwatch when Cotter hailed him, and presented him with a dagger in a leather sheath.

"A present from Theon," he said, when Victarion questioned. "He said it was too celebrate your promotion to First Ranger."

Victarion pulled the blade from its sheath, examining the strange blade in the cold light. It was made of a strange, black glass, and wickedly sharp along the edge."

"Tis a fishknife in the style they make on Dragonstone," Cotter explained. "Made with dragonglass. Sharp as all hell and it'll cut most anything, but don't hit nothing with it, or it might just explode."

"A good skinning knife," Victarion declared. "Send him a Raven and thank him for me, little brother. I'll find good use for this, I'm sure."

Eddard Stark had lost control of his children the day the messenger from the West had arrived. He had been at a small holdfast half a day's riding away from Winterfell, to deliver justice to a rapist, when the letter had arrived. His wife had accepted it in his name, as was her right, and had read it, as was also her right. He wished she hadn't, though. He'd come home to find Winterfell in disarray, and his own children turned against him. Sansa had been the first to see him when he arrived, and instead of her usual hug of a greeting, she had railed against him.

"You loved Jon enough to bring him home and dishonor mother, why couldn't you do the same for his twin?!" She had cried out, running away from him, and Ned had gone pale, even as Robb had come to him, glaring, and informed him that "Your Lady Wife is with Maester Luwin, if you care enough to see her. She wouldn't be the first woman you've abandoned, would she," before turning on his heel to follow Sansa.

All around him, he could feel the tension between the servants, which seemed to be split between those of the North, and those who had come North with Catelyn. They were whispering and on the verge of war, it felt.

"Wylas, what in the name of the Gods happened?" He asked his Captain of the Guard. If he could trust anyone, it was the hulking giant of a man who had served the Starks his whole life, from Stable-boy to guard, and now Captain.

"Trying to figure that out meself, mi'lord. I'm not rightly sure- the Southerners seem to think that young Jon has somehow poisoned your Lady, and there's talk that Lord Lannister seeks to supplant your other children with Jon after wedding him to his niece."

Ned blinked in confusion, once, twice, three times.

"I'm sorry, but can you run that by me once more? I'm not sure I heard you correctly, Wylas."

"No, mi'lord, that's what folks are saying. We've had to break up a few fights already, and some are talking about stormin' the Sept to tear it down. I've got me boys putting a stop to it, but that's the worry right now."

It had taken several hours to sort out what had happened in his absence. Doing so was not a task he found himself enjoying, and one he hoped to never repeat. First was to find his wife (in Maester Luwin's care) and determine her health (fine, merely shocked and likely to be very cross when she woke, was the reproachful answer); the second was to hug Bran close and assure him that yes, he still loved his mother, and yes, he was still his son (he loved all of his children, but if this was enough to worry Bran, he clearly needed to slow it more often); third, and worst of all, was to go with Wylas and smash a few heads together, lest he be the first Lord Paramount of the North to allow the Faith Militant to arise on his land.

Robb conducted himself well, in that, seeing to it that Sansa and Bran were safe and well guarded, and telling his father straight away that Arya was nowhere to be found. He'd killed his first man in battle, and Ned had, when the killing was over, rubbed his son's back while he vomited, telling him stories of his own first kill, of Robert's first kill (he'd vomited so hard he couldn't see out of his left eye for two weeks, which made Robb chuckle and wipe his lips); even stories of Brandon, which he could rarely bring himself to tell.

He had finally been able, by the Hour of the Wolf, to sit and read the accursed letter that had set off this whole misadventure. Arya had punched him, right in the jaw, and accused him of kinslaying, and nothing he said or did could get through to her. Gods be good, he'd read this accursed letter and get to the bottom of this, and he'd set his house to rights!

The messenger who'd brought it was Sandor Clegane, who had proven quite an able warrior, and with more honor in his teeth than his eldest brother had in his whole body. His loyalty to Lord Tyvek was unimpeachable, this much he knew- the whole realm knew the story of the Mountain Hunt, when Tyvek Lannister had begged Oberyn Martell to come help him hunt down Gregor Clegane, and when Sandor had saved the Prince and his Lord's lives both by wrestling his own brother to the ground, clapping him in irons himself.

If Sandor Clegane had been charged to bring this missive North, then it was truly important, and worth killing for.

What he read made his blood run cold. A merchant woman, unknowingly sharing secrets. Jon, inconsolable with grief and rage. Questions that desperately needed answering.

iI will not charge you to tell him of his birth. It is not my place. I will not beg you to come south and face him, look him in the eyes and tell him the truth. I have no place to do so. I am not his father, though I love him as a son. I do not ask these, nor demand them, but for love of him I beg thee, arrive and give him counsel that i cannot./i

Then, the worst part. The part that made him nearly faint himself. There, on the final page, written in the runes of the tongue of the First Men. So small and innocent as to, perhaps, be mere decoration, doodles on the parchment; but damning all the same.

iRipples in a pond. His name is Aemon Targaryen. His sister is Visenya, a dragon living disguised amongst frogs, though neither knows the name their mother gave them. You promised her./i

Two days later, he was ahorse with fifty men.

Jon was pale and shaking, when he and Lord Stark emerged from the Stone Garden several hours after they had entered. It was only to be expected; the things that would have been said were too much to put on the shoulders of an adult, let alone a boy of barely ten; but they were said, my guesses mostly confirmed, and if Jon was pale, Lord Stark was a ghost, or at the very least he'd seen one. It had been cleared out of any spies before they entered, and guarded well by Sandor, Bronn, and a Dornish fellow who certainly wasn't Oberyn Martell, I don't know why you would accuse him of that, his name is Obero Martem.

That's what he answers to, at least. We both know how to be discreet.

I let Jon go, sending Sandor with him.

"Keep an eye on him… don't let him stew in it," I muttered to him, and he nodded, following my squire. "Lord Stark, let us go now and speak in my solar, so we may put this behind us."

I guided him, subtly, standing behind him until he began to walk. It was a full six miles from the Stone Garden to my solar- I had Tyrion map the entire Rock, after his "official" marriage to Tysha, so believe me when I say it was six miles, because it was. The Rock is a maze of madness, carved like a mine and converted into housing, like a New York City Block tunneled into a mountain.

I let him sit, pouring him a glass of Arbor Red- I'm not fond of the stuff myself, but I have more of it than I know what to do with, so please, Lord Stark, drink up, drink up. You look like you'll need it, and I think you'll need it even more by the time our talk is done.

"How do you know about him?"

I poured myself a glass of orange juice- freshly squeezed every morning, because I know not to drink alcohol. I'm not a nice drunk in any life.

"You told him all, so I shall tell you. I didn't. Not until you came to tell him, not for sure. I guessed much. Howland Reed has a daughter, near enough to Jon's age as to make no nevermind, and he went with you to the Tower Of Joy in Dorne. The merchant who gave you passage from Starfall to King's Landing, after you returned Dawn, was here in Lannisport. She told Jon that he had a twin sister, and when he swooned, she came with when Lancel returned with my guards. With the knowledge that Jon had a twin, I asked if she knew the girl's name, and she said you had called her Visenya, but that Lord Reed had called her Meera."

I poured him another cup, for he looked like he needed it. I truly am one of the acting greats, when given time to prepare for my role, if I may say so myself. I'd had nearly thirty years to prepare myself to play this particular role, one way or another, and now was time to prove myself the next Glenn Shadix.

"Once I knew that, it was a simple matter to ask Prince Oberyn a few questions about Dorne, and put together who Jon was, and an agent in the Citadel found a record of a marriage annulment between Rhaegar and Elia Martell. It was only possible because someone knew that Jon had a twin. The rest, I admit, is guess work."

"Guess… guesswork? How could you guess that my sister's final words were to promise to protect them?!" Lord Stark asked, bristling like an angry wolf.

"Peace, my Lord, peace. I thought of myself in your shoes, and what little I knew of your Lady sister from the things Robert has said when deep in his cups. It was enough to put the truth together, at least with enough confidence to tell you I knew about them."

"Who have you told?" He asked, face gray and eyes blank, his hand on the hilt of his sword. I think that, Guest Rights be damned, he might kill me in my own Solar and fight his way through the Rock to get away with Jon, if he didn't like my answer.

"None," I said honestly, hiding my nerves behind a sip of my juice before leaning forward seriously. "I told you, I love that boy like he's my own son. I would go to war if the king called for his head, as Lord Arryn did for you. I would die, before I put him in danger. I swear this to you, Lord Stark, I would not seek to harm him."

He receded, for the moment. "If you did not know… what was your interest in him?"

"At first? Purely spiteful. His Grace owes my family a… staggering sum, and his ability to pay us back on time is lacking. He had mentioned wanting to take your bastard as a squire, after the Greyjoy Rebellion was stamped out, so I decided to deny him that. And then… then I got attached. That boy," and here I laughed, recalling memories of my childhood dog from my first life. "He reminds me of nothing so much as a hound, allowed into his Master's house, who fears to look at the bed funny, lest he be put out once more. Watching him open up, become a child, rather than a shivering hound, has brought me joy that I cannot describe to you properly."

His rage subsiding, Eddard Stark looked at me, dead in the eye. He was a brave man. Neurotypicals can't usually meet my eyes for longer than a second or two, but he looked into my soul for nearly a minute before he had to look away.

"I believe you. Now what?"

"Now… you enjoy the hospitality of my home for a few days, you let your men rest, you take Jon into the Stone Garden again and tell him of his 'aunt', and answer any more of his questions… you bring the gift he had crafted for your daughter's nameday home with you, when you return to Winterfell. Jon stays here, squiring and learning. There's a tourney in Lannisport, in two days. I'm not fond of them, but Jon is going to be taking part in the Squire's melee; stay long enough to see how he commits himself."

I think Eddard Stark aged ten years in that moment, even as a great weight seemed to lift from his shoulders. I gave him a friendly smile.

"I know that we cannot let them meet, nor discuss their origins, yet, but perhaps Jon could write to Meera, get to know her? I could have an agent of mine bring word of them to the Maester of Castle Black, so he knows he is not the last of his family, even if we cannot tell him who or where they are?"

Finally, Lord Stark returned my smile, holding out his hand to me. "I believe that would be good for all of them."

Father was smiling at him, that miniscule twitch of his lips that only showed when he felt genuine pride in something his children had done, even when he was otherwise completely serious. He'd used it the first time Sansa had waddled towards him, the first time Arya spoke ("Paap! No!", in response to a command to eat the carrots she'd been given), and the first time Bran picked up a bow.

"You look like a true knight, Son. Sansa will want a full accounting of your first tourney, I hope you know that."

Smiling softly, Jon nodded. "Between you and I, father, she'll get the whole story."

Nodding, Eddard Stark pulled a small handkerchief from his pocket, holding it out to Jon.

"This was… this was your aunt's. If you look at the dire wolf, you'll question who taught her how to sew, but she wouldn't want to see any with Stark Blood ride without the favor of our family. It's… it's only fitting that you wear it."

Jon felt tears pricking at his eyes, until he saw the dire wolf sewn into the fabric at the corner. Then, unable to control himself, he began to laugh. "It… Father, is this a wolf, a horse, or a carrot?!"

Eddard began to laugh, deep from his belly. "Your uncle Benjen asked the exact same question- Lyanna blackened his eye for it."

The two laughed, and then Eddard knelt, tying the handkerchief around his son's wrist, before pulling him into a hug.

"You are still my son, Jon, never forget that. Now, go and honor the North."

Jon nodded, hugging tightly onto his father. "Yes, Father. I will," he said with a determined wibble of his lower lip.

Jon strode, then, into the melee pit. Lord Tyvek had ordered its construction when he'd become Lord Paramount. When it wasn't being used as a place of combat, it housed several midwives and maesters, to serve, heal, and educate the poor of Lannisport. Care was free, education was cheap, and the families of men who had gone to join the Night's Watch could send them letters. It was called the Lion's Den, and seen as the jewel of Lannisport, a testament to the generous, giving spirit of Lord Tyvek.

His Lord Father, and his Lord, were seated together, up in the private box reserved for the Lannisters, and he could feel both of their gazes on him as he stood amongst the other squires, next to Lancel.

"Are you well, Jon? Did your lord father explain things to you?" Lancel asked in concern, and Jon nodded.

"I can't go into details without dishonoring my Lord Father and my Lady Mother, but yes. He… he told me all. She died, bringing my sister and I into the world, and my sister… died of fever, not long after."

That was the lie, the sickening lie, that he and Father had decided on. He wanted to shout out from the peak of the Rock, from the rooftops of Winterfell, he wanted to tell Arya that the Stark look had bred true in another of their generation, but for the love of the sister he hadn't yet met, he had to lie.

"I grieve for you, Jon, but rejoice that now you have your answers," Lancel said softly, a septon droning on with a prayer to the Seven, to bless these young warriors and future soldiers.

"Thank you, Lancel," Jon whispered back. "Stay at my side- we take on all comers together, and then no matter which of us wins, Lord Tyvek is done an honor."

"Aye, though we both know it will be you. You're the better swordsman, of the two of us. Cousin Jamie's skill did not come through the bloodline to me," he joked, making Jon poke him in the ribs.

"That may be so, but I'm hopeless with a bow, compared to you, and I'll never dance half as fine. We triumph together, and will not raise our sword to the other, not unless our Lord orders it."

"Aye, and let him see our brotherhood and declare us both the victors of the melee."

Then, there was no more time for talk. The Master of Ceremonies blew his horn, and the squires sallied forth. Jon's blunted sword flashed in the bright sunlight of the Westerlands dawn, Lancel half a step behind him. A squire from a minor Reacher house charged them, Jon side stepping, slapping him in the backs of his knees, Lancel belting him across his face with his sword hilt, scooping up the fallen Squire's blade as a trophy while the other boy groaned in pain.

A screaming Riverlander charged them, actually dodging Jon's backswing, but two on one, it wasn't long until he was in the dirt, having yielded with honor when he knew he was beaten. He may not have been as skilled as them, but Lord Tyvek always said that there was honor in making peace.

The group of nearly thirty squires was now down to fifteen already, and alliances were beginning to dissolve, but Jon and Lancel stayed true, until they were surrounded. Back to back they fought, grunting with the exertion, neither willing to give in. At some point, Jon was forced to take up a second sword, to cover for the shoulder wound Lancel received, and the bruise he knew would be forming on his own leg. He didn't know how much he looked like Arthur Dayne, in that moment- enough Dornishmen were present in Lannisport at any given time, thanks to Lord Tyvek's friendship with Prince Oberyn, that the sight of a Stark wielding two blades was enough to make them think of Harrenhall, and how Lady Ashara, favorite of their Princess Elia, had danced with Eddard Stark.

Lancel went down from a solid punch, delivered by a hulking brute of a boy who might have been Sandor's son, just by pure size, if his hair was lighter and his eyes a darker shade of blue. He wasn't, but you could have believed he was, at any rate.

He spat at Lancel, and Jon saw red, nearly tossing his foe into another before turning all his attention to the dishonorable cur. Every bit of emotion he'd felt in the last two moons came crashing down on him in that moment, and he thought that, perhaps, this was his Targaryen blood giving him a battle madness, for he no longer felt tired, and pained. He felt only a pounding rage, a screaming grief, and with a cry, he charged the other lad, hammering at him like he wasn't wounded at all. Harder and harder he struck, at the boy's shield, at his body, at his helm- another boy tried to attack him from the side, and Jon smacked him so hard across the face that the boy's helmet spun, the chin strap breaking his jaw.

His hulking opponent laughed, kicking the other boy aside, trying to match Jon blow for blow. He was slow, though, slower than Sandor. Jon knew how to fight an opponent who was bigger, stronger, and faster than he was- and, as Lord Tyvek would say, "Two outta three ain't bad"- but it wouldn't do his foe any good, in the face of Jon's rage.

It wasn't his opponent he was seeing. It was Lady Stark, it was her servants, it was the Septon of Winterfell who sneered at him and berated him. He was every bit of hatred Jon had ever been given, and he was right there, a walking target.

There was a loud crunch, and Jon cleaved the other boy's shield in half, maybe breaking his arm, too. Jon wasn't sure. All he knew was that he was going to win, and damn the consequences of it all.

With a final roar he burst forward, taking a blow to the ribs that he iknew/i broke at least one of them. He didn't care though. Inside his opponent's guard, he struck upwards with a closed fist, dropping a sword and getting him right under the chin. Time seemed to go slowly as the boy lifted up in the air from the force of Jon's blow, falling backwards to the ground in a heap.

There was silence for a moment, then screaming and cheering and a great pounding of feet. The crowd was going absolutely wild, and Jon looked about himself in a daze, before raising his sword up, high above his head, his only acknowledgment of his victory before he turned, bowing to both Lord Tyvek and his father.

Lord Tyvek stood, and the crowd settled down.

"People of Lannisport! Men of Dorne, men of the Riverlands, you came here this day to see combat! And among you all, a single boy from the North, determined to make his Father proud, and to bring honor to the knights educating him- a single boy who won! Who stood by his fellow squire, who showed honor! People of Lannisport, I give you the champion of this Squire's Melee- Jon Snow!"

And the crowd began to cheer for him once again.

Jamie watched Tommen running about, black hair glinting in the sunlight, his blue eyes pure Baratheon. Myrcella was chasing after her youngest brother, tickling the giggling toddler with her long fingers, making him shriek with laughter. She finally caught him, sweeping him up into the air before pulling him close to press kisses to the bridge of his nose.

"Un Jay, say me," Tommen called, still learning how to actually speak. "Cella geh me!"

Myrcella began to carry her younger brother over, his little legs swaying back and forth as she did, holding him under his armpits like a cat. Jamie laughed, taking his niece and nephew up into his arms, before declaring "Save you? Oh no, I won't save you, I'm going to carry you away to my cave to eat you later! I am not your Uncle Jamie, fairest, bravest, strongest knight of the Kingsguard, but a grumpkin! I love to eat little princesses and princes, and you both look delicious!"

They both shrieked in laughter as Jamie carried them from the gardens, up to the quarters where his uncle Kevan stayed. "You had best hope that your brave uncle Kevan can save you!" Jamie declared, toeing the door to Kevan's solar open.

"Save them from what?" Kevan asked with a raised brow.

"Uncle Jamie is a grumpkin! He's gonna eat us! Save us, uncle Kevan!" Myrcella begged, giggling, and Kevan put away his work with a put upon sigh… before drawing his walking stick, brandishing it like a sword, suddenly filled with energy.

"Unhand my niece and nephew, Grumpkin!" He demanded in a most dramatic fashion, whacking at Jamie's shins. Jamie, still holding Myrcella and Tommen, bounced about, dramatically giving out "Ook!"'s and "Ow!"'s as his uncle whacked him before collapsing to the floor, bringing the children to the ground with them, making them both laugh uproariously.

Uncle Kevan scooped up both children, making them giggle as he set a foot on Jamie's chest. "Worry not, children! I have slain the foul beast!"

Closing his eyes, Jamie stuck his tongue out, acting very dead indeed.

"Now, I do believe it's time for dinner, children- perhaps this particular grumpkin should turn back into Uncle Jamie, and we shall all go and join your father the King for supper?"

The children cheered at the idea, and Jamie began to flop about, acting as if he was changing back into himself, like Tyvek used to do when he told the story of Lady Belle and the Beast, back when they were all very young, and mother was still alive.

Myrcella laughed, slipping from her great-uncle's arms to hug her uncle. He grinned, kissing the top of her head, accepting Tommen from his uncle. They were the joy of his life, his redemption for failing to protect Rhaenys and Aegon.

He wished Cersei loved them.

She had rejected them nearly from their births, their black hair poison to her eyes, their blue eyes a knife to her throat. They were barred from her heart, merely because Jamie was not their father. Because Robert loved them more than he even pretended to care for Joffrey. Nevermind that Tyvek iknew/i, and had poisoned his own brother to leave him sterile.

Well, "impotent as a snip snip eunuchy" had been his exact words, the final part said in a strange accent, but Jamie couldn't get it up anymore, so that was well and truly the same thing.

Cersei had raged for days, had sent an assassin.

Tyvek had sent the assassin back, in several pieces, with chunks missing. The "tasty bits", as his brother might dub them, so to speak. Jamie didn't like to think about what had happened to them. Thinking about them meant accepting that he thought it a distinct possibility that his brother ate them.

Dinner with his uncle was pleasant. Lancel was back at the Rock, Squiring for Tyvek alongside Ned Stark's bastard pup (Robert still whined about that, sometimes, when he sobered up enough to think about it), but his aunt and all the other various Kevan Lannister offspring were there. There was something to be said about the joy of a family dinner. It was only missing Cersei, Uncle Gerion, and Tyrion; if it had them, all his favorite non-Tyvek relations would be here.

He loved his eldest brother, would have gladly played the Kevan to his Tywin, were he not Kingsguard, but there was no way Tyvek could ever be one of his favorites. He was an incredibly off-putting individual, at times, truly Tywin Lannister's get, even if they both hated it. Sometimes, Jamie wondered if Tyvek had been behind their father's death, but he felt that, if Tyvek was going to kill their father, it would have been with some rare, esoteric poison, probably derived from a peasant remedy; it wouldn't have been from a horse bolting at the wrong time. How would one even arrange for a horse to bolt on command without riding it themselves?

When the dinner was finished (Robert had remained sober, and refrained from groping the maids long enough to kiss his children goodnight, miracle of miracles), and guards posted at the nursery door, Jamie walked his way to the Tower Of the White Sword, whistling an old tune, one of the songs Tyvek would sing when he told some of his stories. It was from the one, oh what was it, one of the ones about a young squire who was friends with Ser Winnie Ther Pooh, a very clumsy but loveable bear of Very Little Brain.

Perhaps he would write his brother and ask him to write down some of his old stories. For Myrcella and Tommen, of course. They would like them- Tommen would especially like The Lion King. Even Joffrey might like that one. It had certainly been Cersei's favorite, when they were all children.

He had been thinking of Tyvek quite a bit, the last two months, when Eddard Stark sent a letter warning Robert of growing religious unrest in the North. It had all started, Stark said, when servants from the south had learned of a letter sent by Lord Tyvek, and had assumed it was treason. Winterfell had gone on a knife's edge in barely an afternoon, and Lord Stark had been forced to crack a few skulls and behead a few men to calm things down.

But when he'd ridden south himself, to speak with Tyvek, the unrest had begun to bubble again, and the Northmen were getting rather grumbly about wandering septons in the area. In turn, had Robert heard of any rumblings of unhappy members of the Faith of the Seven?; and as it turned out, Varys had. The Starry Sept was thinking of maybe planning to ship a few hundred men up the Mander, into White Harbor, to "teach the pagans a lesson", so to speak.

Robert hadn't liked that one bit, and a strongly worded letter to the Tyrells had seen that brief attempt at resurrecting the Faith Militant crushed like a bug faster than a maid could scream to have it squashed.

Now Robert was talking about going to Casterly Rock himself, to meet "Dear Old Ned's" bastard. Jamie would have scoffed at the idea, but then Varys had, tittering, informed them that the boy seemed to have taken to wielding two swords at once, after a Squire's Melee had seen him forced to attempt it. It had been a blow to the gut. The bastard was probably Ashara Dayne's son, which made him Arthur Dayne's nephew.

Jamie knew that, bastard or not, if Arthur was alive, the boy would have been ihis/i squire, and no other's. He'd be learning to fight with two blades from the start of his training, rather than the middle.

If the King went to the Rock, Jamie would just have to go with. It wouldn't be hard to convince Robert to bring his youngest children with, if he went. And it wouldn't be hard for them to convince him to let them bring along their favorite uncle Jamie.

And if the king ididn't/i go to the Rock, then Jamie would just have to figure out a way to go there himself. Maybe get Robert's permission to go and retrieve a few gifts for Tommen and Myrcella? That would do it.

But either way, he would go and meet Arthur's nephew. That was the only real outcome, either way.

The Neck was quite beautiful, really. Nevermind the myths surrounding the swamp's creation, the variety of life forms contained within was a glorious thing. It wasn't solving the higher mysteries of life and death, but it was distraction enough that Qyburn found he didn't much mind. Most Maesters thought that Lizard Lions were Lizard Lions, but after his time in The Neck, he knew better! Yes! The smaller, striped ones only bred together, and lived in large groups near the center of the swamp; the bigger ones lived mostly alone, closer to the ocean and even within it, sometimes. Only the larger ones wanted to eat the flesh of men, as well- and the two couldn't interbreed. They were two entirely distinct species, like wyvern and dragons had once been!

And the ipoisons/i, oh the poisons one could derive from the forty or fifty so different kinds of frogs alone… it was enough to boggle the mind! It was certain that the Crannogmen would know more about what could be synthesized, but they would also never give up their secrets. Respectable, and it meant he had the chance to ferret the secrets out one at a time.

"Come along, young Samwell!"

His young student was a fairly new addition to his work. Samwell Tarly, craven extraordinaire, assigned to him for many reasons but mostly to "Break him of his maester worship and get him used to blood and death." A set of tasks that Qyburn was very, very well suited for, and a challenge he found himself relishing.

Sam was a chunky little lad, but he was full of energy for learning things- and he'd taken to field research rather ferociously, after the first few weeks. He'd never be a warrior, but a skilled lord, wise and thoughtful? A Commander of armies, brilliant in his tactics? These Sam could achieve, with a little time and guidance.

He was, itechnically speaking/i, squire to Lord Tyvek Lannister, but just as Tyvek had passed the day to day martial training of his other two squires onto Sandor Clegane and his pet sellsword, Bronn, he'd passed the mental training of Samwell onto his "pet mad Maester", and Qyburn found himself relishing it.

Sam hopped to, clambering over a fallen log, closing his sketching journal and tucking it into his belt, his little box of glass jars bouncing a bit as he set it in the bottom of their little coracle. Five of the twelve jars had specimens in them, each one a different animal- and each one incredibly toxic in one way or another.

Their guide, the young Lady Meera, pushed the boat off, away from the dock they'd moored at, with a long pole, guiding them from the dry patch and onto the waterways once again. The sun was due to set, and rare was the Crannogman willing to stay out of doors when night fell on the swamp.

"Catch your fill, Maesters?" She asked as she steered the boat. Qyburn chuckled at her insistence that he and Sam were both maesters. He hadn't been a Maester in many years, now.

He let Sam babble away at the lady. They were of an age, and it wasn't his desire to step between a young friendship. Instead, he let his thoughts wander a bit. He had a mystery to solve, you see.

He remembered the day well. The day those rats at the Citadel had thrown him out, having burned his works and his journals. He'd ended up in a tavern, ready to drink himself stupid for the night, then… Essos, maybe. There were plenty of sellsword companies who could use a Maester, and the Conclave couldn't take his knowledge from him, damn them. He'd make a living for himself doing that, carry on with his experiments. Yes.

Except, as he entered the first tavern he'd come across, a man had pulled him to a table and given him a letter to read. Knife in hand, the man had gestured to it, and Qyburn had opened it.

iQyburn Waters;/i

iIf you're reading this, then you are no longer a Maester, and the Citadel has lost one of their finest minds. I intend to profit off of their foolishness. You likely intend to go to Essos, but might I make another suggestion? Go west, instead. The man who gave you this letter is an agent of mine- he's likely cleaning his nails with his knife, right now. But say the word, and he'll put you on a ship that will bring you to me. I have a need for an expert in poisons and death, and how to undo both. You, I'm reliably informed, will fit that bill nicely; as for your experiments, well, we can come to an agreement on that, as well. Men headed to the gallows are doomed to die anyways, and if they happen to end up on your slab before or after, it will make no nevermind to me. I believe the two of us can save a great many lives, if we work together, and I can pay you better than a sellsword company could ever dream to try./i

iYour Friend,/i

iTyvek Lannister, Lord Paramount of the Westerlands, Warden of the West/i

He'd mulled it over for a moment, then folded the letter up, slipping it into his sleeve.

"What's your name, then?" he'd asked the sellsword.

"Bronn, currently. Might go by something else, if the mission calls for it," the sellsword had answered, as a barmaid set down two mugs of cider for them both.

"Does it change often?"

"No, but it might. Never know, do ya?"

"I don't suppose we would have time to buy up some parchment and other items?"

Bronn slapped a bag of coins on the table, grinning. "We have until first light before the ship leaves. We can get what you need."

It still made Qyburn wonder. How had Lord Tyvek known of his work, when the Citadel had only found out a few days before they took his chain? It was a mystery he'd yet to solve…

But, then, Tyvek hadn't ilied/i. The work he'd had Qyburn doing was fulfilling and enjoyable in a way he knew he'd never have gotten if he was off in Essos. He'd never know where his work would take him, day to day, and he loved it.

And the challenges! Oh, the challenges!

A poison that would render a man impotent, and a cure for it. A way to help turn a stuck infant without killing it. Prove the shape of the world (round like a sphere, as he'd thought). Find a use for all the bat shit that could be found in the various caves of the Westerlands. It was all over the place, and he loved it.

They were meant to be cataloging all the wildlife of The Neck as best they could for six months- because they needed to avoid all suspicion when Randyll Tarly died suddenly.

Qyburn didn't know what Tarly had done to anger Tyvek… but he couldn't wait to see what the fallout would be.

"And so, it is here we shall leave them. And it is here we shall find them again. For the boy and the bear will always be together in this remarkable place, called the Thousand Acre Wood."

Robert closed the book softly, leaning down to kiss his youngest children on the brow. They were snuggled together in their bed in the nursery, and Ser Jamie was standing guard, a smile on his face. There was no mockery in it, not like Cersei would have had, if she cared enough to know that he had taken to telling the children stories before they went to bed. Sometimes they were stories his father had told him, him and Stannis both; tonight though, they had begged him to read from the book their Uncle Tyvek had given them when the Royal Family arrived at Casterly Rock. He hadn't been able to find it in himself to deny them, and so he'd read off the convenient list of stories to ask them which they would like.

They had, with some prompting from the Kingslayer, selected one of the Many Adventures of Ser Winnie Ther Pooh; this one being The Search For Christopher Robin. He'd even seen Ser Jamie mumbling along as he'd read it to them, and even more shockingly, he'd found he'd ienjoyed/i the absurdity of the stories of a bear knight and his squire. It was ifun/i, and he found himself wanting to read more of the book, even though Tommen was already asleep, and Myrcella was almost there herself.

He kissed their brows once again, making sure they were tucked in and ready to sleep. He'd always been soft with his children, like when he'd pick up Mya and toss her up, and catch her. All except Joffrey. He'd never liked Joffrey, but then, Cersei had never really let him be a proper father to the boy, had she?

Outside the nursery, Tyvek was approaching, and he bowed to the king. Nothing like his father, that one. Never acted like his own shit didn't stink. Always acted with respect, even if he thought you were being a shit. He'd warned Robert, at his own fucking wedding, to watch out for his own damn sister. "She'll never shut up, if you let her screech at you once. Keep her occupied with drinking, and don't let her see you with another woman. Have enough respect for her to do that."

Then he'd clapped Robert on the shoulder with a laugh and said "And, if I might be so bold as to offer this further advice, never call her by the wrong name!"

Yes, Tyvek Lannister was much easier to get along with than his father, but damn the man, he was tight fisted with the money he was willing to loan out. Give it to the Night's Watch? Sure, without issue. Give it to his king? Not a chance!

"I suppose the little ones are already settled in for the night, Your Grace?"

"Aye, with your brother to watch them," Robert replied.

"Damn. I'll have to spend a little more time with them both tomorrow, then. I was hoping to tell them a story before they went to sleep."

And damn if the man didn't sound genuinely disappointed at having missed it- but then, Ser Jamie had said how his brother loved telling stories, as a lad, and how little that had changed. And it wasn't like he wasn't close to the Imp's little daughter either- he positively doted on the girl, from what Robert had seen over the last two days.

And Ned's bastard! By the Gods, but the lad looked like Ned at that age- a little rounder in the face, mayhaps, and his eyes were a little darker, almost Lyanna's coloration- but he was Ned's without a doubt.

The lad could ifight/i, too! Better than Ned at that age, and he could hit harder, too- the lad went up against the fucking Hound without fear, and that huge squire the Hound had taken on (who might have been his nephew, but could have been his son, and nobody wanted to dig into it too deeply. The boy was Tybalt Hill either way, acknowledged as a bastard of House Clegane) was damn near afraid of the boy. He moved like Robert himself did, only with a blade instead of a hammer. If he squinted, Robert could feel his heart squeeze. That was what his son with Lyanna would have looked like, he was sure of it.

"If you're feeling up for it, your Grace, the squires might like watching you and I pound at one another in the tiltyard," Tyvek offered, making Robert grin, easily distracted.

"Aye, I'll take you up on that. Might be a good idea- I've been getting fat, sitting around in King's Landing, all day."

"That's undeniable- I think there's double the Robert Baratheon there was at Pyke, your Grace," Tyvek said, making the king laugh uproariously.

They were walking down to the tiltyard when a guard came running up to them, face red, sweat pouring down.

"Your… your… your grace!" The man gasped, barely able to stand.

"Gods, man, here- drink this!" Tyvek ordered, thrusting a wineskin at the man, who chugged it gratefully. "Drink, then speak when you can breathe. It does no good to tell us what you have to say if we can't understand you for the wheezing."

"Thankee, milord, but… it's her grace, the Queen- she's been found dead, your Grace!"

Robert felt his body go white, even as his heart filled with joy- but Lord Tyvek went cold. In that moment, Tyvek was gone, and Tywin had returned from the Seven Hells to solve the mystery of his daughter's death.

At the chambers Cersei had taken (their mother's, Tyvek had said softly, on the way there), Robert could smell the shit and piss that only leaked out of a body when they'd died painfully. It was definitely Cersei, puffed up like a porcupine, her skin red all over.

"Go put extra guards on the princes and the princess," Tyvek ordered one of the guards quietly. "This could be a distraction to kill them."

Robert turned to him seriously. "You think so?"

"A queen and two of her young children in revenge for a princess and her two little ones? If I was Viserys Targaryen, it's what I would do the moment I had a little spare cash to hire a man." He said coldly, examining Cersei's face, a hand on her neck. "No pulse. Halbert- is Qyburn back yet?"

"No, milord" one of the guards said quietly. "He's not due for another sennight."

"Fuck. Too long to risk it. We'll have to bury her without an autopsy."

"So soon?" Robert asked, still giddy inside, to be free of her. He'd tried to love her, or at least like her, but they were like two wet cats in a too-small sack.

"If I'm wrong, and it's illness rather than murder? We need to bury her now, to prevent the spread of disease. And… the children should be able to say goodbye, shouldn't they?"

Oh. Myrcella and Tommen. Even if she'd been cold to them, they had still loved their mother. They'd be heartbroken.

Three days later, they buried Cersei in all the splendor of a Lannister of the Rock. They'd let the children say their goodbyes, and then sealed her in the tomb. They were taking it as well as could be expected- Joffrey had behaved himself at the funeral, at least. Ser Jamie was despondent, and Robert had left him with his brothers for a few moons, to see if they could help him.

On their last day in the Rock, he'd arranged a meeting with Tyvek in his Solar. They'd sat for hours, discussing the Crown's debt (outrageous, and they'd get no further loans from the Westerlands until they'd paid off their current ones), Myrcella and Tommen (in a few years, Joanna Lannister would come to King's Landing and act as a handmaiden to her younger Baratheon cousin, and Tommen would go to the Rock and Squire for his uncle Tyvek). They'd talked about Joffrey (who had attacked a servant with a knife, and Tyvek had caught him threatening Joanna with a knife. Robert had seen red when he'd heard that. A son of his, attacking his own kin with a blade!), and what was to be done with him. Tyvek had agreed to take off 30,000 dragons from the debt the crown owed, if Robert legitimized little Edric Storm and named him as heir to the Stormlands (Stannis wouldn't like it, and Renly would… well, he wasn't sure, but Renly was a poof, and he wasn't getting married any time soon, so Robert didn't care), and he'd somehow convinced Robert to bring Mya to King's Landing.

It had been a productive trip, all in all.

It was dark, her wrists and her shoulders hurt, and her throat was on fire. Cersei could tell all these things right away, when she woke up, and when she tried to move, there was a rattling of chains. She tried to scream, but something in her mouth kept it from getting too loud. The air smelled stale, wherever she was, and foul, like rot. It made her gag behind whatever was in her mouth, and she fought to keep the contents of her stomach in their proper place.

She couldn't say how long had passed when there was a scraping of stone, and flickering torchlight filled her vision, making her eyes water.

"Hello, sweet sister."

She began to scream, her no good, sword swallowing, kinslaying elder brother's face filling her vision. She could see what was happening to her, in the present moment. She was chained to a wall, her wrists held above her head by shackles. There were no locks that she could see, merely solid bands of iron.

"You're likely wondering what's going on, where you are, why is this happening… Melara Heatherspoon. Of all your sins, she was the worst."

Cersei felt herself go pale.

"Yep, I know about Melara. I couldn't save her, but I can, now at least, get her some justice. Prophecy is poison, but let me give you a prediction now. You're going to die here, in this little hole, screaming for someone to help you, sobbing in the darkness until The Stranger finally comes to lay claim to you. This room will be your final resting place, and nobody will know."

She saw him smile at her, softly, and then he pulled away, and began to close the door again, taking the light away. He paused.

"You know, it was so brilliant, I have to share. There's a fish, down near Dorne, spiny little things. They puff up, when you threaten them- the poison from their spines makes you swell up, and you appear to have died, but you're not dead. Merely in the deepest sleep of your life. I had to time this perfectly, you know. Didn't want you to wake up with Myrcella and Tommen still in the Rock, you know."

Then he closed her into the darkness once again, and with a rattling of chains, Cersei began to scream.

It was good to be in the North again. He'd missed the crisp feeling in the air, missed how clean it could smell. He felt energetic, wiggly. Lancel had been laughing about it for days, ever since they had left the Neck. Sam had understood, at least, but then Sam had been North before, several times. He'd even been to Winterfell, once.

It was good to be going home. Back to Winterfell, to see Arya and Robb and Bran, Sansa and now little Rickon, who he hadn't seen but once, after his birth. They would be going to the Wall, not long after- Lancel wanted to take his Vows, perhaps, and so Lord Tyvek had decreed that he should see the Wall, before he made his choice.

"You ask me," he heard Bronn saying, "This is bloody beautiful weather, this right here. Not too hot, not too cold, sun on your face, wind in your hair."

"Bet your cunt self won't like it so much," Sandor growled, "When it's Winter."

Next to Jon, Tybalt nodded his head rapidly. "It's damn cold up here," he said quietly to Jon. "Grandfather and I came up here for work, last Winter- he swore he'd never come past the Neck again, and I believed him."

Tybalt was… well, he was simple. Straight forward, without a doubt. To the point. It had taken he and Jon a while to warm up to one another, though he'd latched onto Sam right off the bat, which made him at least half decent, in Jon's mind.

They were only a few days more hard riding from Winterfell, and the riding under Lord Tyvek was hard indeed. It turned out that, under other men, the ride from the Rock to Lannisport would take a full day, Lord Tyvek just didn't particularity care for that level of nonsense.

Lord Tyrion had given up on actually riding his own horse, on this particular journey. Instead, he'd strapped himself to Tybalt's back, in the hopes of saving his "poor, innocent hips and thighs".

"Have you ever been to Winterfell, Tybalt?" Jon asked.

"No, we stayed at… Karhold, I think it was called? Wif the Karstarks, that's who run it."

"Aye- they were an offshoot of the Starks, from a second son. Then there were the Redstarks and the Greystarks, but we… we don't talk about them. But I ask, because the Captain of the Guard is taller than Sandor- taller than the Mountain, even. His name is Wylas, but we all called him Hodor- he would go "Hodor, there, what are you boys up to?" whenever Robb and I would run about."

"Must be a big fellow, then."

"Only the Umbers are bigger, though you'll not likely meet any, this leg of the journey."

"Met two of them, I think- the Greatjon, and his son, Smalljon?"

"Aye, those are Umbers," Jon laughed. "Lord Umber and his heir, in fact."

"They seemed to like me well enough. Didn't realize they were lords. The Greatjon called me solid, said I was a good lad."

They talked as they rode, all Lord Tyvek's squires, and the squires of his guardsmen (and Lord Tyrion, who had a wit greater than any man except his brother, maybe, and knowledge on more subjects than any of their little group than even Sam), and Lady Tysha rode with them, while Lady Joanna rode with Lord Tyvek. They rode long past sunset, but when they made camp, and all the men and horses were settled, Lord Tyvek sat at the fire for the families of the servants and guards he'd brought with, his guitar in hand.

It was a smallfolk instrument, originally, most common in the Westerlands and the Reach, but Lord Tyvek had long since mastered the playing of it. He would often sing for the children- Jon, it had turned out, wasn't half bad at the instrument himself, and so he pulled out his own, sitting to play alongside his Lord.

"Do something upbeat, Jon, I'll join in on vocals shortly," Tyvek whispered, and after tuning it, Jon began to pluck his guitar strings. It was vaguely upbeat, and once Jon had it down, he began to slip into the actual notes.

"There's a port on a western bay, and it serves a hundred ships a day, lonely sailors pass the time away, and they talk about their homes."

And then, Lord Tyvek joined in, their voices harmonizing.

"The sailors say 'Brandy- you're a fine girl. What a good wife you would be. Yeah your eyes could steal a sailor from the sea.'"

After that song concluded, Jon took the back up, as they worked through several songs. It was a good way to relax, and to reward everyone for the hard riding. His Lord was sort of like Father- he knew his servants, and he treated them well.

When they bedded down for the night, Jon slept beneath the stars, though he could have shared a tent with Lancel, Sam, and Tybalt. He wanted to be out in the open air. He fell asleep to the cries of owls, and the distant howling of a wolf.

They rode hard again, the next day, tearing up the ground beneath their feet, passing smallfolk villages, buying up supplies for the Wall at a fair price as they did. Of the two hundred men Lord Tyvek had brought with, only fifty or so would be staying at Winterfell- the rest would be going to Castle Black immediately. The men would join the Watch, the boys would work farms in the Gift and the New Gift until they were of age, when they would join the Watch themselves. It was an option available to any orphan boys in the West, and a great many of them took it every year, especially since Lord Tyvek would pay ten dragons to any siblings they had. Ten dragons could settle a family of three for many, many years.

It was noon when the guards reported a giant wolf, and Lord Tyvek perked up, calling Jon to his side.

"A giant wolf, they say! You know what that means to me, Jon? This far north?"

"That the guards have never seen a wolf up close?" Jon suggested, making Lord Tyvek laugh.

"Oh, probably, but let me have my fun and imagine it's a Dire Wolf, Jon," Lord Tyvek teased him, before setting his horse to a trot. "Either way, I find myself wanting to see it, if it's out in the open. You know how I am for strange creatures!"

"Is that why we keep Prince Oberyn around, my Lord?" Jon asked as he pushed his own horse to go faster. It made Tyvek laugh uproariously, tossing his head back.

Lord Tyvek had many, many pet monsters that he kept in a menagerie, on the seaward side of Casterly Rock. He kept them in wide open enclosures, kept as close to their natural conditions as possible. His favorite was the tattooed lizard from Sothoryos, which he called 'Clever Girl'. She had been freshly hatched, and Lord Tyvek had carried her everywhere with him, until she grew too big and vicious- Clever Girl still knew his voice, though, and would hold off her attacks, if up against her "Father". He'd expressed to Jon once that his father, Lord Tywin, had wanted a Valyrian Steel Sword, "Enough to kill for it. I just want my people safe, and to watch my monsters."

About the only things he didn't have, Jon thought, were the giant apes of Sothoryos (not for lack of effort), a mammoth, a dire wolf, and a wyvern (again, not for lack of effort); what other beasts could he catch?

If he said this, Lord Tyvek would laugh, and begin listing all the major monsters that he didn't have (yet).

Sure enough, it was a monstrously huge wolf- A Dire Wolf. The sight of it made Jon gasp, as any of House Stark might do, as surely as an Umber seeing a giant or a Targaryen a dragon come again.

It was huge. It was just… massive. There was no other way to describe it, just that the size was monstrously large. It was as tall as a horse, and Jon felt his eyes meeting its own.

He knew, instantly, that she was a she. He didn't know how, but the Dire Wolf was a she-wolf, and he slipped from his saddle, holding a bare hand out to her, palm up. She growled, and he stilled, but then she pressed forward, and he resumed his movement, until her nose was half an inch from his hand. The world had gone silent, all around him, and it was just Jon and the She-wolf. He closed his eyes, and felt her fur under his fingers.

i"Lyanna,"/i he whispered. He couldn't have said why, he wouldn't have known. But that was her name. i"Lyanna"/i

They went no further, that day. They made camp and Jon went about the day in something of a daze, a hand on the furry ruff of the she-wolf's neck as Sam eagerly made sketches of her. She was incredibly pregnant, and hungry. Jon fed her from his own share of the supplies, but Lord Tyvek went one step further and bought a whole cow from a smallfolk farm. He slit its throat himself, and then Lyanna gorged herself deeply.

She was pitch black, save for seven points of white fur on her chest. People were commenting on it, that she was a sign from the Seven to make peace with the Old Gods, or that this Winter would be a harsh one (and for some reason, Lord Tyvek shivered harshly when people said that), or that the Seven were smiling on the closer relations between the North and the other six kingdoms. That she came to him like a trained hound was seen as particularly auspicious.

Most were giving him a wide berth, now, including Lord Tyrion ("I am much smaller than a cow, Jon, and she is very large."), but Lord Tyvek merely held out a strip of meat, letting her take it at her leisure, until Lyanna had allowed herself to be petted on the rump, just above her tail.

"Don't suppose she's likely to give up a pup for me to add to the menagerie?"

Lyanna growled at Lord Tyvek, then, who shrugged, giving her another piece of meat.

"Twas only a suggestion, my lady," he assured her, until the she-wolf subsided.

"I think, My Lord, that you've been given an answer."

"Indeed I have."

They watched the world go by in silence for a few minutes, then, until Lyanna had settled down into a comfortable sleep.

"You've been my squire nearly five years now, Jon," Lord Tyvek said after a minute, pulling out his dagger to sharpen it. "I say it more often than my father, though not nearly often enough, but I'm proud of you, lad. You're a credit to me and your father both."

"Thank you, my Lord," Jon said softly.

"Did I ever tell you that I knew Prince Rhaegar? We were friendly, though never truly close."

"You knew… you knew Rhaegar?", Jon asked, mouth suddenly dry.

"Oh yes, I knew him. We took lyre and harp lessons together- I'm proud of my voice, but he had one like an angel, nobody could deny that. And he loved to sing. I think it was the only thing that made him truly happy, until he had his children. They could do no wrong, in his eyes. Rhaenys… I held her, did you know? When she was just a few hours old, I got to hold her. She was so small, only a little bigger than Tyrion had been, it seemed. She was a happy baby, though, and she made y… her father laugh like nothing I had ever heard before. Her death… there's still something gaping inside me, at the slaughter done to her and her brother, and to her mother, too. My mother would scream, at what my father had done, and now, worst, I have to worry that others may do the same to Myrcella and Tommen, to clear their way to the throne."

Jon was silent, then. Sometimes, his Lord got a little maudlin, like this.

"You know, before Joffrey was born, my sister and Robert had another son? They called him Tywin, after my father, and he was… gods, he was a big lad. Strong, too, he could grip your finger tight enough to break it! Then one day, he had a fever. Nothing terrible, babies get light fevers all the time. Cersei and Jamie both had them all the time, as newborn babies. Except his fever didn't abate. It got worse, and he got all swollen up, and…"

Jon watched as his Lord stood up, his face pale.

i"QYBURN!"/i he called urgently, in a voice Jon had only ever heard him use for battle, before.

Then, he and Qyburn were in his tent for hours. Jon was summoned, for a brief moment, to fetch more juice and wine, but of Lord Tyvek's squires, only Sam was brought in for any real form of discussion.

The next day, they mounted before the sun, and they rode ihard/i, to Winterfell. Harder than Jon had ever known Lord Tyvek to ride, in battle or in leisure. His horse was foaming at the mouth, and Lyanna was breathing heavily by the time they stopped for half an hour, to rest the beasts. They'd left the baggage train behind, in their haste to get to Winterfell faster, and Jon didn't know why.

They made Winterfell just after dark, and though the reunion with his siblings was a happy one, Lord Tyvek and his father had gone with Maester Luwin directly to the Raven cages, and Jon still didn't know why they had begun to rush so hard.

But then Arya saw Lyanna, and he was very much distracted trying to keep his younger sibling from mounting the bemused Dire Wolf like a horse.

The best part of having Jon home was having Jon home. The second best part was the absolutely massive dire-wolf he'd somehow found to bring with him. He'd named her after their Aunt Lyanna, which had made father go stiff for a moment, when he met her, but now the great she-wolf had settled herself into one of the stalls in the kennels, and Hullen had merely shrugged his shoulders, saying that a Dire-wolf in the kennels of Starks just made sense. That Lyanna had attached herself to Jon was remarked upon by some of the Southern smallfolk- but only where Northern smallfolk couldn't hear them say that once again, a Bastard was going to usurp his siblings rightful places.

That was just stupid. Jon wouldn't ever try to replace anyone- especially not Robb. And Robb? Robb would never be replaced, and he wasn't afraid that he would. Even Mother had relaxed about Jon, ever since she'd found out about his twin sister who had died, and since Father had told her who Jon's mother was. She'd cried for days, cried and prayed, but then she'd ordered Father to set aside land for Jon. He would be a Lord himself, she had very firmly declared, and even if she didn't know why, Arya liked this version of Mother, the one who liked Jon, even more.

Jon had gone into the Crypts, when he arrived, and had spent several hours down there. He didn't tell her why, but he must have told Robb, because Robb was unusually pale for a day or two afterwards. It wasn't fair- ishe/i was Jon's favorite, he was supposed to share secrets with her!

But even though she'd kicked Robb in the shins, and refused to speak to Jon for two days straight, neither had relented.

"Jon will share this secret with you when you're older," Father had assured her. "He loves you dearly, perhaps most of all of your siblings. He would not hold this secret from you if he did not think it wise."

It was stupid, and Arya had said so, but Father had just smiled softly. It was a sad smile, the kind he only used when he was thinking about Aunt Lyanna or Uncle Brandon.

She was in bed when the answer came to her. Jon wasn't Father's son, he was Uncle Brandon's! That was why Father had ridden south, when Lord Tyvek had written him about Jon needing to know who his mother was- because his mother wasn't as important as his father, and his father was uncle Brandon. It all made perfect sense!

So, out of her rooms she ran, down the hall in the family wing, bursting into Jon's room. She flung herself onto him in a hug, making him "Oof! Arya!", before she slugged him in the shoulder.

"You big stupid!" She told him, before hugging him again. "I don't care that you're uncle Brandon's son and not Father's, you're still my brother!"

Jon hugged her, tightly, but then he began to laugh, and Arya whacked him again, for laughing at her.

"Peace, peace," Jon laughed, hugging her even tighter. "I laugh only for the joy your love and loyalty bring me, little sister, not to mock you. Uncle Brandon isn't my father, but I promise, one day, to tell you about my birth. When it is safe for me to tell, and you to know, I will tell you."

"Why can't you tell me now?" She asked, a fair question, she thought.

Jon just hugged her tighter and kissed her brow, and said "Later, I promise. Father only told me because I found out most of it anyways, and he wanted me to know of what had happened."

Arya grumbled, but finally, she nodded. "Fine- but you had better tell me!"

"On Ice, one day I'll tell you, I swear it. Now, back to bed- would you like me to come tell you a story?"

Considering her options for a moment, Arya nodded. "But it had better be a good one- no sappy stuff!"

Laughing, Jon sat up, stretching. "No sappy stuff, little sister, I promise- though perhaps we should ask Lord Tyvek to tell the story of Buttercup, the Princess Bride, one day. It might be the greatest story ever told. It might even be eggnog to make you and Sansa agree on something."

"Perfect Sansa? Blech, we inever/i agree about ianything/i, except, well, we were both mad at Father for not telling you about you having a twin." Arya said, letting Jon carry her back to her room.

"I was too, for a long time." Jon said. "Not enough to hate him, but I hated myself for a time. Why did I live, with Father, and she didn't? But then, I realized that you and Sansa are sister enough, and I wasn't so angry anymore."

Arya let herself be settled into bed once again, then hugged Jon.

"You'll always be my favorite brother. You're better than… than Robb, or Bran, and you're iespecially/i better than Rickon the Drool Monster."

"You were just as drooly, little sister, believe me, and you puked all the time, too. Any time you were upset, blargh, all over whoever was holding you, except for me. It drove Lady Catelyn to her wit's end, until she was forced to just let me carry you around all day, just so you would gain weight."

When Arya was settled, Jon pulled up a chair and began to think.

"What should it be? Something fun, or something with action, or maybe, possibly… something scary?"

Thinking for only the barest of moments, Arya grinned.

"Something scary. I bet all your Southron spook stories aren't that scary!"

"Alright, then I'll tell you one of the scariest ones that Lord Tyvek ever told me. I'll tell you the story of the Pet Kryptyard, and the cursed events that followed when Winston Churchill the cat was buried in that terrible place of evil…" Jon said with an evil looking grin.

By the time he was done telling the story of the Creeds, Arya was much too scared to sleep… but too stubborn to admit it. She wanted to hear more scary stories from the mind of Lord Tyvek, and Jon had promised that, if she asked, his Lord would likely indulge her.

It took her a further two days, and Bran's help, but she finally managed to pin down Jon's Lord at Supper and demand a story from him. He'd laughed, agreeing, but only if she gathered up all the smallfolk children as well, so that they could hear, and only if her Father would allow him a large bonfire in the center of the courtyard.

When all this was arranged, Lord Tyvek sat, his brother the Imp next to him to his right, his niece in his lap, and Jon on his left. Jon had his guitar, a smallfolk instrument that he had learned to play from Lord Tyvek himself, and even Sansa had joined them. Any tale from the south, she wanted to hear, and to hear it from a Lord Paramount himself was too good a chance to pass up.

"Well, is this everyone?" Lord Tyvek asked, and the assortment of children declared that yes, yes it was. Even a few of the grown-ups had joined them- Mother was on a bench, with Rickon in her lap, and Father next to her. Arya had seated herself next to Jon, on the ground (if it was good enough for a Lord Paramount, it was good enough for her!), and finally, Jon began to pick at his guitar, and Lord Tyvek began to speak.

"This is the tale of Buttercup, the Princess Bride."

"Is this a kissing story? I want a scary story, like the one Jon told me last night, about the lichyard that brings back the dead!"

Lord Tyvek looked at his squire severely. "You told her ithat?/i That's one of the scariest tales I tell, Jon!" He scolded, but there was no harshness to it.

"Jon doesn't tell it as scary as you do anyways, Uncle," Joanna Lannister said, making her uncle laugh.

"And I don't tell it as scary as the man I heard it from."

"I don't want a scary story," Sansa said, and Arya stuck out her tongue at her snooty sister.

"That's why I've selected this one. It might be the greatest tale ever told. It has everything you could ask for, in a story. Fencing, fighting, giants, monsters, chases, escapes, True Love… Miracles!"

"That doesn't sound so bad, my Lord… I'm sure Arya will be able to stay awake," Jon teased her, and she elbowed him in the guts.

Lord Tyvek laughed, then began his story in earnest.

"Buttercup was born on a small farm in the country of Florin. Her favorite pastimes were riding her horse, and tormenting the farmboy who worked there. His name was Westly, but she never called him that. Now, isn't that a wonderful beginning?"

"Sure, it's great," Arya grumbled.

"'Farmboy!' Buttercup would say, 'Polish my horse's saddle- I want to see my face shining in it by morning!', and 'As you wish' was all he ever said. 'Fill these barrels with water, and don't spill a drop!', she would order, and 'As you wish' was all he ever said. Buttercup was amazed one day, when she ordered him to fetch her a pitcher within arm's reach of her that when he said 'As you wish', what he meant was 'I love you'; even more amazing was that she realized that she loved him back."

"Groooossss," Arya complained, even as Sansa got all starry-eyed at the idea.

"Well, Westly had no money for marriage, and so he left the farm to seek his fortunes as a sailor. When Buttercup confessed her fears, that Westly would die, and she would never see him again, he held her close and said 'Hear this now- I will always come back for you. Death cannot stop true love, all it really does is delay it for a little while.', and Buttercup kissed him, and knew that he would return for her."

Jon changed the tune he was plucking- it was almost sinister.

"But then, on his first voyage, Westly's ship was captured by the Dread Pirate Roberts, who never left captives alive! When word came that Westly was dead"

"Murdered by pirates? Cool!" Arya exclaimed.

"Buttercup went into her room and barred the door, and for days, she neither slept nor ate. 'I will never love again', she swore."

Sansa was crying at the injustice of it all, and Arya laughed at her. Everyone was into the story, and when Buttercup was forced to be engaged to a Prince, only to be abducted by three mummers, Arya was hooked.

"The Three Mummers were Vizzini, a hunchbacked Qhoric; Inigo Montoya, a Bravossi Water Dancer; and Fezzik, a giant who had wandered south of the wall as a child, and forgotten how to get back across. Of them, Vizzini was the cruelest. Inigo was a drunkard, and Fezzik just wanted to spend time with his best friend, Inigo."

Arya listened intently, as Buttercup tried to flee into the water and was nearly eaten by Shrieking Eels- as the Three Mummers climbed The Cliffs of Insanity, pursued all the while by a mysterious Man in Black. She gasped when Inigo told the Man in Black about the six fingered man who had killed his father, and his quest for revenge, and she cheered when the Man in Black finally won their lengthy sword fight (played out by Jon and Lord Tyvek), but left Inigo alive. When the Man in Black defeated Fezzik by getting up on his back and choking him, she laughed as the Man in Black told him "Rest Well, and dream of Large Women".

When Vizzini held a knife to Buttercup's throat, and the Man in Black saved her using his wits (and poison), she found herself cheering aloud with all the other children, even Sansa."

And then, the revelation that the Man in Black was the Dread Pirate Roberts, who had killed Westly. She shot up from Jon's lap at the injustice of it, but he laughed, and told her to wait and see.

"'I… remember, this Farmboy of yours. This would have been what, five years ago? Does it bother you, to hear? He died well, that should please you. No bribe attempts, or blubbering, he simply said that he had to live. Then he spoke of a girl of surpassing beauty and enduring faithfulness, I can only assume he meant you. You should thank me for killing him, before he found out what you really are.', the Pirate said. 'And what am I?', Buttercup asked. 'Faithfulness he spoke of, my lady, your enduring faithfulness! Tell me! When you found out he was dead, did you get engaged to your Prince in the same hour, or did you wait a whole week out of respect for the dead?' 'You mocked me once', Buttercup hissed. 'Never do it again! I idied/i that day!'"

"And when the Man in Black was distracted, for her betrothed had ridden up upon a hill, only a few miles away, she said 'You can die too, for all I care!', and pushed him down a hill. To her shock, as he fell, he called out 'Aaaaaassss… yoooouuuu… wiiiiiiisssshhhh!', and Buttercup knew that the Man in Black was her Westly, and she threw herself down the hill after him."

Arya was nearly vibrating, as the rest of the tale unfolded. The dangerous Fire Swamp and its giant rats, what Westly had done in the last five years; the torture and Death of Westly in the Pit of Despair.

Inigo and Fezzik, defying the gods to bring him back, so that they might rescue Buttercup and get revenge on the Six Fingered Man- and when Inigo finally killed him and said "I want my father back, you son of a bitch," Arya somehow found herself hugging Sansa, and Sansa hugging her, in their shared excitement. When Westly finally rescued Buttercup, and the story ended, she found herself bouncing in excitement.

"That was awesome!" She cried out in excitement, wanting to demand more.

"So romantic," Sansa said in a dreamy voice.

After that, Jon helped Arya to bed, and she bounced around excitedly as she got ready, slipping under the furs.

"I told you Lord Tyvek would have a story even you and Sansa could agree on, didn't I?" He asked her teasingly, and Arya nodded rapidly. Jon laughed, kissing her brow, and bid her goodnight. Arya fell asleep that night, her dreams full of sword fights, and slept better than she had in ages.

It was so hard to look at the boy, playing with Robb. Even now, knowing the truth about him, she had to suppress the bile in her throat, the fear that he might one day seek to remove Robb and take his place in the succession of House Stark. He wouldn't, she knew that. Ned was going to make him a Lord, possibly of Sea Dragon Point, possibly of Moat Callin; he'd found a cadet branch, take on a name of his own in time, to pass onto his sons and daughters. He was far from being the monster of her nightmares, well she knew, and yet.

Lord Lannister was in the courtyard, he and that sellsword of his, and the Hound, as well. Ned believed that the Hound was a truer knight than many others in the South, despite his brutish demeanor, and perhaps he was right. He went hard on the boys as he helped train them, but he was never cruel; not even to Bran, when he missed a target. Lord Lannister and the Hound were, under the watchful eye of Ser Rodrik, testing his squires and her son, and the Hound was showing Bran some kind of trick with his bow, in between bouts. He was no knight, having refused the title, but he had the honor of one.

The sellsword was rather slimy, but he was honest about it. He didn't deny his mercenary nature, and it seemed that his loyalty to House Lannister was well assured.

No, it was, in the end, Lord Lannister himself that worried her. He was mercurial, always… acting. He was like a mummer, playing a part, saying all the right lines and in all the right places, but he seemed to be a little to the left of everyone else. Perhaps he was. Perhaps he had to be. It couldn't have been easy, growing up as the heir of Tywin Lannister; especially when rumor had it he was a sword swallower. He'd never married, certainly, not in all the time he was Lord, content to let his younger brother sit as his heir, and Tyrion Lannister's half-smallfolk daughter behind him. He was a most curious individual, that was certain, and he surrounded himself with curious individuals. That Maester of his, who was no longer a Maester and who seemed to know more of poisons and death than an honest man should. Young Lord Samwell Tarly, a craven but intelligent child who would make a poor knight in times of war but a successful Lord in times of peace. The Hound's bastard nephew, who was stuck to Samwell like they'd been tarred to one another, who was nearly as tall as his uncle already.

She didn't trust Tyvek Lannister, but she didn't know iwhy/i she didn't trust him, not exactly, and it was most vexing.

Robb moved to disarm him, but the Lannister merely sidestepped and moved into Robb's guard to slap him silly across the face, making her gasp.

But then he helped Robb to his feet, showed him what he'd done wrong, and when they repeated the move, Robb evaded it, grabbing the Lannister Lord by the wrist, only to once more end up in the dirt, his opponent flipping him over his shoulder.

Robb was laughing as he yielded, though, and Lord Tyvek helped him up once again. She couldn't hear what they said, but Robb sat, and Jon stood, drawing both his swords, holding himself at the ready.

Lord Tyvek was merciless. He and Jon moved like whirlwinds, thrusting and slashing, dancing around the other, neither giving up much ground to the other for more than a moment. They both used every dirty trick in the book to attempt to gain an advantage, and Catelyn was horrified by the brutality they showed one another. This was the man Ned had trusted his 'son' to? This vicious warrior, who moved like he was two people and fought like an animal? And what was worse, he was losing. Jon was too fast for him to hold off for very long, and all her fears about the boy came rushing back in an instant.

Then, Lord Tyvek ithrew his sword directly at Jon's face/i, and when his squire went to dodge, he rushed in, grabbing the boy by the belt and slamming him into the ground, face first, holding him down and disarming him.

They were all laughing as Jon stood up. All of them. Lannister, his men, Robb, even Ser Rodrik. Did Robb not see? Did Ser Rodrik not see? How could she have been so blind? The boy was a monster on the battlefield, and he had the backing of the Lord Paramount of the West. If he wanted to take the North from Robb, he could. It would be bloody and costly, but he could.

Everyone knew the Crown owed the Lannisters quite a solid chunk of money. All Lannister would need to do to keep the Crown out of it was promise to forgive their debts, release the Crown from its chains of gold. If he did that, nevermind Robert's love for Ned, the Lannisters would rule the North through the boy.

She watched as The Lannister walked Robb through the moves he'd pulled against Jon, who was back on the bench, rubbing his head. Arya had run out to sit next to him, and he was hugging her close. Catelyn could see The Lannister's plan, almost. Kill Robb, wed Sansa to Lancel Lannister, send Bran and Rickon to the Night's Watch, then reveal that Jon was Brandon's son, marry him to Arya, and control the North through them. Even if the boy iwasn't/i Brandon's, they could lie, say that he was, and all her nightmares would come true. The boy might not even have a hand in it- The Lannister may just decide he preferred it that way, and work to make it so!

She had to tell Ned. He would listen to her, put a stop to it.

Except…

"No. Catelyn, my love, you're being paranoid. I do agree that Tyvek could do it- for all the reasons you've listed, even," Ned agreed, holding her tightly. "But he loves Jon, and if Jon were to find out Lord Tyvek had arranged for such a thing, he would never speak to him again. That would kill Tyvek, I believe. He loves Jon too much to subject him to that."

"Ned, please, listen to me. Make the boy take The Black!"

"Catelyn, we've been over this before. It was you yourself who suggested we make him a Lord and give him lands- am I to believe you want to go back on that after seeing him sparring one time?"

"He fights too well, he's a threat to Robb, even if he doesn't know it!" She said firmly as her husband pulled away from her angrily.

"Then Robb must practice harder, must he not? He is my heir, and Jon will be Lord of his own lands one day- and that is final, Catelyn!"

Now she lay awake in her bed, staring at the ceiling.

If Ned wouldn't do something… she would have to.

It was cold… so cold. It was always fucking cold, these days. South, past the Wall, would be safest, but a big group would never get past without violence- violence that would just make more bodies for the White Walkers to raise.

Well, no thank you.

The Watch was too strong these days, some prissy Lord from the south had sent nearly 2,000 men to join them in the last ten years. Yeah, she wasn't stupid. Ygritte had decided to take her chances and hop the Wall, all sneaky like, and now was the best time to do it.

So she'd packed up her belongings and grabbed a few extra boughs off a God-tree, just in case she needed them for trade, or to fend off a wight. Wouldn't kill em, but it would smash in their skulls and knock off their heads. She might still die, but she didn't need to make it easy on them!

Ygritte hunted as she ran, south and west. The Wall wasn't as well watched, to the west, so she would build a little raft and take to the seas just long enough to get around the damn thing.

When she made it to the Wall, though, Ygritte realized something.

She didn't know a damn thing about making a raft, or sailing.

Sure, she knew like, the basics. Tie some logs together and go, but beyond that? Not a clue.

So she struggled for a moon, thinking about what to do. She was still struggling with what she wanted to do when a ship came in sight, less than a mile off-shore. She watched from the trees as a little row boat came ashore, and began to build a fire.

There were six of them. Two stayed with the fire, the other four heading into the trees. They went past her without seeing her, and she watched them go, waiting, weighing her options. She could kill the two men on shore, take the boat. She could approach them, see what they wanted, but be ready to kill them. They had swords, but it would take time to draw them.

Well. Time to play nice.

As she moved closer, she heard them talking.

"It's fucking cold up here, Byl. I'm fucking glad I never pissed Lord Tyvek off enough to have to take the Black, that's for sure."

"Right you are, Jamie, right you are- but just think, there's supposed to be more than 100,000 people living up here in the fucking cold."

"Aye, and we're the lucky sods who have to find three of em. I tell you, Byl, I dunno how his Lordship does it. It's witchcraft, it is. He's always right."

"No, no, you wasn't there at the Greyjoy Rebellion, I was. He couldn't get Balon's daughter's name right. Kept mixing it up."

"Right, that's fair enough, but. I dunno. Don't seem right. I follow the Seven."

"You follow orders, not the fucking Seven," the one called Byl said, spitting into the fire. "Just like me. We ain't paid to think about how his Lordship does it, just that he fucking does! He gave us a list of folks to find, folks to take care of, and folks to itake care of/i, and we do that. Simple as anything."

They went quiet for a minute, and Ygritte watched them a little longer, before deciding her course of action.

Spear held at the ready, she came from the trees behind them and sat down on one of the driftwood logs they'd pulled around it.

"Sounds to me like you boys are shit guards." She announced, making both of them jump with a frightened yell.

"Fucking buggering hells! Issa girl!" Byl yelled, clutching his chest. "Fucking hells, she can't be much older then my Jenny, and she snuck up like a ghost!"

Jamie was laughing at his compatriot, and Ygritte smirked.

"I take it you're a native of these parts?" He asked her smoothly. "One of the Free Folk, you call yourselves?"

"Aye, what's it to you?"

"We're… looking for people. We might need a guide, see. We could pay you for the work- food, medicine, dragonglass, anything like that, if you're willing to do the work."

"I'll take the food, but I'm going south. I'm not staying up here, and you and your friends who went off into the forest would be smart to bugger off too. I'm not gonna be caught up here, come Winter."

"Not looking forward to the cold?"

"You don't know what's coming, do you? That's a shame. It ain't the cold, I don't care about that. It's the fucking dead. I don't intend to join them."

"The dead? Fuck, Lord Tyvek said you people were running from the dead… are you serious? You're not having a jape?"

"No, and I'm not japing when I say I'm going south, if I have to gut you both a and steal your boat to do it."

"It won't come to that, I swear it," Byl said, getting his breathing back under control. "We're here to ferry people south, I see no reason not to bring you with. Look, you know anyone named"

But then there was a shout from the woods, and three of the four men who'd gone off to scout came running back.

The fourth was right behind them, his throat a ruin, and he'd brought friends.

"Get in the boat. Go. Now." Ygritte ordered, suddenly serious as she began to run, not waiting to see if the men followed her.

It was good to see Tyrion again, Jamie thought, scooping his brother up into a hug before giving Tysha a kiss on both cheeks.

"It's good to see you too, Jamie," Tyrion said, hugging him back. "You look well. You look much better than you did last time we met, at any rate."

"I… I'm getting there." He admitted. "I'm taking care of Myrcella and Tommen, and that helps."

Speaking of the children, Joanna had snatched them right up, walking arm in arm with Myrcella, the two chattering away like old friends.

"You simply imust/i come and meet Lady Sansa," She had told Myrcella as she led her away. "She's Jon's younger sister, you surely must remember Jon Snow?"

He'd noticed Myrcella blushing, at the mention of Jon Snow. How odd.

Robert had gone off to the Crypts of Winterfell to pay his respects to Lyanna Stark, only to meet with the horse sized wolf… Named Lyanna Stark.

It had been hilarious to watch him nearly shit himself when the she beast had scooped up the youngest Starkling with her jaws as if he was her own pup.

"Where's Tyvek?" Jamie asked. "I know he's here, he came out to greet Robert and the children. Where's that brother of ours run off to?"

"I believe he's going to steal Robert away. You missed quite a mad rush on our parts. We were two days of riding from Winterfell when he suddenly left the baggage train behind," Tyrion groused. "He and Qyburn have been deep in a brown study ever since, consulting with Lord Stark and the Maester here. The only time he hasn't been up in the Maester's tower was when we first arrived, and little Arya Stark begged him to tell a story. I've hardly seen hide or hair of him since."

"How odd… I suppose I'll have to catch him after dinner, then?"

"Probably," Tysha said. "Now, come with us. Lady Stark has had rooms prepared, and you're all dirty from the road. The baths here at Winterfell are lovely- they're over a hot spring, did you know?"

She and Tyrion led him to the room that would be his, and a servant then showed him to the baths. Tysha was right- they iwere/i lovely, and it felt good to wash the filth of riding off, even if he'd just get dirty again the very next day.

Robert had a great hunt, planned, and of course, Jamie would be joining him to "Keep an eye on Joffrey". What a joke. To think that he'd killed the Mad King, only to have his own son be Aerys come again. The Gods were cunts.

He snorted, shifting himself lower into the water, so it was nearly up to his chin. He closed his eyes almost all the way and let himself relax, feeling the gentle stirring of the water as he let his hands float to the surface.

He looked from under his lids as Jon Snow entered the bath, naked as a jaybird, slipping into the water quietly. Arthur's nephew knew how to be respectful at least, and let a man rest without causing a commotion.

He was a good lad, and a solid fighter. Jamie knew he was better than Tyvek, and from what he had heard, the boy was close to being better than his brother too. He'd have to spar against him again, sometime before they all left Winterfell, see just for himself how his mentor's nephew had improved.

The boy scrubbed himself nearly raw, just as Jamie was certain Tyvek had taught him to. His brother had always been fastidious about his body, making sure to wash with soap after every fight, and before every meal. He'd clearly passed that onto his squire, just as surely as he'd passed it onto Jamie, Tyrion, and now to half a dozen of Jamie's squires.

"I see my brother has you well trained, bastard," Jamie said quietly, and to the boy's credit, he didn't jump in fright.

"And I see all my efforts to be quiet while you slept were for naught, ser," the boy sassed, and Jamie chuckled, sitting up a bit.

"No, I appreciated the effort, lad. I'm not asleep, just using an old Kingsguard trick to rest while you're awake."

"Go away, go inside yourself until nothing can hurt you?," the boy suggested wryly. "That's what my Lord says he does when he's had a long day and doesn't want to deal with another Lord pressing their daughters and nieces at him."

Jamie felt himself pale for a moment, until the boy explained where he'd gotten the idea, and why. Then, he forced himself to chuckle.

"Something like that, aye, aye. Speaking of my brother, what ihas/i he been up to, that he couldn't come to greet me even while he went to greet the king?"

"Ser, I wish I knew. We had been speaking of your eldest nephew, who had gotten sick as a babe?"

"Aye, an unhappy memory." Jamie said quietly.

"Aye, ser. He described how it happened, then he went pale, and he ordered me to horse, and we flew faster than I've ever seen my Lord ride. It killed two of the horses, ser, by the time we arrived here. I wish I could tell you more- Sam might know more than me, though."

"Sam?"

"Sam Tarly, Ser Jamie, he's sort of a squire to Lord Tyvek, only he's not much for battle."

"Tarly… Oh, I know the name. Randyll Tarly, Horn Hill, wasn't it?"

"Aye, ser, Sam was his heir, and now Sam is Lord of Horn Hill. His mother and his uncle act as his regents until he returns home. He's one of the smartest men in the known world, my Lord thinks."

"High praise," Jamie muttered. Tyvek thought most people were morons.

"Aye, ser, he thinks most people are moronic," Jon said, inadvertently echoing Jamie's thoughts.

"You've given me much to think on, Jon Snow. I'll have to thank you in the training yard some time, if you're willing to test yourself against me once again?"

The boy genuinely grinned at Jamie, showing his youth for a moment. "Ser, it would be an honor, though I must warn you that my brother, Bran, will cling to you like a burr until he gets every war story you know from you. He dreams of the Kingsguard, ser."

Jamie laughed at that.

"The warning is well received, lad."

He got from the water, then, having scrubbed himself clean while speaking to the boy.

He dried off and redressed in clean clothes, then set himself to walk the halls, taking time to seek out hiding places that an assassin might seek to use.

He met with Lady Stark, then, and noticed that when he mentioned young Jon, she went stiff, her eyes cold and cruel.

"Oh, not fond of young Jon Snow, are you? Please, my lady, let me guess- you fear my brother would seek to place him as Lord?"

She nodded, slowly, cautiously.

"Let me guess, you have nightmare visions of the war my brother would cause to put Jon on the throne of Winter? Allow me to assure your fears. You think Tyvek would do as our father would- poison your sons, proclaim Jon to truly be Brandon Stark's son, marry him to one of your daughters, marry the other himself, and use an army from the West to enforce Jon's rule?"

Given how pale she went, yes, that had been Lady Stark's assumption.

It made him laugh, long and hard.

"No, my Lady, Tyvek would never do that. No, he would be much crueler, and he wouldn't kill any of your children to do it. No, he'd simply poison all three of your sons with a noxious thing that will render them impotent, and then make sure Jon has many, many children. When your sons die without issue, then Jon is right there to take the reins, and there would be nothing you could do to stop him."

He paused.

"But then, if you threaten the bastard, who knows if you'll live long enough to see it happen? My brother is very, ivery/i protective of his loved ones, Lady Stark."

He whistled the Rains of Castamere as he walked away.

D: Hey listeners, Daemon Giantsbane coming at you again on your favorite radio show, it's the Giantsbane Late News Hour, where we talk about everything new in the world of history! Joining me today is Maester Sarella Duneserpent, one of the foremost experts on the life and times of everyone's favorite historical Lannister, Tyvek Lannister! Say hello, Maester!

S: Hello, Daemon and listeners. I'm glad to be here.

D: And we're happy to have you, you're always a treat to have on the Northern Airwaves- what have you got for us today?

S: Well, I think you're gonna like this one- I'm here to officially announce a brand new discovery about Tyvek Lannister in the form of a letter sent to his brother, Jamie, and to read the letter out in public for the first time.

D: Oh, exciting! But before you do that, what can you tell us about how the letter was found?

S: Well, it was found on Tarth, in Evenfall Hall.

D: Long time home of the Tarth Family in the Stormlands, for those who don't know their geography as well as a history buff should!

S: Quite- it was actually found in the Master-at-Arms' solar, in a previously undiscovered hiding hole- not even the current Evenstar, Lady Jamie Tarth, knew it was there. We actually found several artifacts, other than this letter- a locket depicting Tommen and Myrcella Baratheon at a young age, for one.

D: Oh wow, holy cow, that's… that's fantastic.

S: We certainly thought so! At any rate, this letter is addressed to Jamie Lannister by his elder brother, Tyvek Lannister.

D: Kind of a big deal.

S: Well, it isn't every day you find original writings from the author of "Poisons and Cures of the Known World", after all! From a scholar's standpoint, this letter is worth all the glass in the Westerlands and the North put together- beyond that, though, we really know very little of Tyvek, compared to his siblings, his father, or his own children. We know almost everything about his family's lives, and nothing about ihis/i, so this was sort of a big deal!

D: I can tell- and I want you to tell me and our listeners all about it, but first, we gotta hear a few words from our sponsors! Folks, we'll be back right after this commercial break!

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(Sounds are suddenly cut off by the sound of gently trickling liquid being poured into a cup)

Relax for a minute with a cup of Ygritte's Old Roast. The world is crazy- you've earned a cup of the good coffee.

Wars. Economic disruption. A Small Council with their heads buried in the sand. Isn't it time for someone new? A Hand who knows how to look beyond the current disaster to make sure there's no disaster to prevent? This Election Day, put Donal Tremb out of office. This Election Day, vote for Tyra Lannister. Tyra Lannister has the experience, decorum, and iron will to guide the Iron Throne and the Seven Kingdoms in the right direction. ipaid for by Tyra Lannister for Hand. This group is not associated or affiliated with any candidate for Handship)

D: Alright, folks, we're back, and for those of you just tuning in, I'm speaking with Maester Sarella Duneserpent about a new discovery concerning that indomitable and mysterious old fellow, Tyrek Lannister. Beyond helping draft the Articles Of The People's Rights, and the fact that he married fairly late in life, not much is known about him- but this letter of yours might change that, right?

S: It isn't a matter of 'might', it's a matter of 'will'. It's changing our understanding of his entire life, and it explains his place in the Targaryen Restoration better, perhaps, than any other surviving record from the time.

D: Well listen, you've got me excited- read it out for us!

S: Keep in mind, this isn't a complete letter- the parchment was faded and ripped, in spots- but it's still an answer to so many questions.

(There's a shuffling sound, and Maester Sarella begins to read)

S: Dear Jamie

S: I hope this letter finds you well. Things at Casterly Rock are much the same as they always have been, though it's much quieter, now that Joanna is all — up, and all my old squires are now knights and lords and men grown.

S: My lack of squires is part of the reason I write you now, I'll be —. You see, I was hoping to make the offer to foster Galladon as my squire- he's of an age for it now, though I'm certain Brie will be — to let him out of her sight. How is she, by the way? Is the pain in her arm manageable still? Or shall I ask Sam to come up with something better than Milk of the Poppy?

S: Joanna is doing well. She and Alysanne Lefford remain the best of "friends" (in the same way that — and I were "friends", if you catch my drift?), and Bronn remains content to raise he and Alysanne's children and be an effective Lord. I tell you, I'm glad I found him before Father ever could.

S: Things are… awkward with my lady wife. Trying to assure her that she's done no wrong, I just want no part in her carnal delights got so boring after a time- though now we have to find things about each other that we can build a marriage off of, and Gods know that will be difficult. She likes hawking, and hunting- you know my feelings on the matter. I think I bore her, in a way. I feel bad, having trapped her in a loveless marriage like this. I feel enough — for her to feel guilty that I don't love her, nor do I want to bed her.

S: Oh, Jamie, how rotten is your eldest brother's love life, that I know every High Born Sword Swallower in the Seven Kingdoms, and most of the lowborn ones, and I still can't find a love like mother and father had, or you and Brienne?(I don't include Tyrion and Tysha because their love goes beyond even that, and I know not to ask for things that far out of my reach) How curse'ed and unlucky, that I even now find myself cut off from my favorite whore because he now runs his own brothel, and no longer whores himself!

S: There was a missing page of the letter, here, just a whole page missing- they were numbered, and page 3 was missing, sadly.

D: Oh that's a shame. Damn.

S: Indeed, but what we've got, you can tell, is a historian's dream come true. At any rate, there's more.

D: Go on then, don't let me stop you!

S: (coughs) I hope you can forgive me, that I left you to suffer, all these years, thinking you had failed. I did it only to protect them, I swear it- you know why. But now, you can know, safely, and you deserve to know the truth. I did everything I could, but for their sakes, I had to lie to you, and I beg you to forgive me, little brother. For the sake of our mother, if not for me.

S: So you can see how much that missing page is driving me crazy, yes?

D: God in the Flames, YES. What happened in that one page? The tone of the letter shifted entirely! What did he reveal? I mean, backing up, this is word, in Tyvek Lannister's hand, admitting to being Queer, that's huge, for one- this is like the Renly-Loras letters all over again, in a way- but ugh! It's killing me not to know what was on that missing page!

S: And we can speculate until we're blue in the face, but we don't know- and the fact that we know this much is still leaps and bounds ahead of what we did know.

D: True. Well, Maester, thank you for coming on the show and reading to us today! That's all the time we have, folks, but we'll be back tomorrow to take calls about this and discuss things in detail with you! This is Daemon Giantsbane, telling you to stay warm, stay safe, and keep your dragonglass polished!