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!

3. Chapter 3

Ygritte looked at Byll. Byll looked at Ygritte. The corpses in the cages before them looked at both of them and hissed angrily, clawing at the bars to try and reach them.

"This is fucking nuts. I agreed to this and it's fucking nuts," Ygritte finally said. "I know why we did it, don't explain it again, but fucking hell."

"Aye," he sighed, breathing heavily. He was the only one left from the original voyage- he ihad/i to see his mission through to the end, just out of spite- but carrying cages containing countless corpses through the woods was nobody's idea of a good time. The fact that they weren't even igood/i cages made it all the worse. They'd been cobbled together from tree branches and torn cloth, with a few of Ygritte's sleeping furs donated to hold the sled together. They had a sack of hands, too, from the poor, departed rest of the crew, unprepared as they had been. These two full bodies, though, were their ultimate prize and their greatest difficulty.

It was cold, but the sun was shining and the work was hard- both of them were sweating, but The Wall was in sight now. They'd agreed on that from the beginning, when more of them were still alive- head for The Wall, figure it out once you're safe on the other side. It was the only damn plan they had.

"C'mon, we've rested enough," Ygritte finally said after another moment. "We keep going. I'd rather skip Craster's Keep, he's a fucking creeper."

Byll nodded, trusting her to guide him straight. He wasn't bad, for a southerner. Had some strength to him. She might have been willing to take a roll in the furs, if he wasn't adamantly only into men, even if he didn't care to admit it to her.

So on they went until nightfall, setting as large a fire as they could. Byll offered to take the first watch, like he always did, but Ygritte found she couldn't sleep, not just yet. So, sitting on her furs, up against a tree, she finally asked the question she'd been wondering.

"So, what brings a southerner this far up, to catch dead men? What makes you keep going?"

Byll looked at her, then seemed to decide that it didn't matter if he told her or not.

"I'm dying. All of us were, of various untreatable illnesses. I got crabs in the belly real bad, and Lord Tyvek offered all our families 100 gold dragons if we came up here and did this- if we died up here. I ain't got no kids, but my sister, she's a widow with two kids, and 100 dragons could last her forty, fifty years, if she's careful." He explained. "Could buy my nephew a horse, and he could be a knight, too, and then, well, the world's open to him, ain't it?"

Ygritte thought that really, if you packed your bags and left, the world was open anyways (case in point, herself), but dying so your kin could live was a good cause, and she said so.

"Aye, and I know Lord Tyvek is good for it- Lotta lords would try and cheat you, but Lord Tyvek is a good man, solid. Believes in law and justice- you believe in that that stuff, up here?"

"We got laws of our own, aye. Different laws for every tribe, but mostly the same. Most important one is don't talk big of you can't back it up."

Byll laughed at the notion, then nodded. "Aye, that's a smart law. I wish more folk followed it. But you don't got laws against stealing or nothing?"

Oh, one of these talks. Great.

"Aye, kinda. Don't take from your own tribe or your neighbors, cause you never know when you'll need their help. But stealing from other tribes is just… life. There's a lot of people, and we all wanna live, see? If I got something you need, and you can take it, you will. If you got something I need, and I can take it…"

"Then you will."

"Aye, and not lose sleep. We all gotta try and live. I'll take care of me and mine first, if it's all the same to anyone else."

They made south again, until nightfall, and then, tired and using the light of the moon to see, they forced onwards, until they could go no further. Byll collapsed into the snow, clutching his gut, and they were forced to rest for the night.

The next morning, he gave her a little package, an envelope, he said. "Men don't always know when they're going to die, but… I have a feeling about today. If it's smoke, I'll take that back. If it isn't… and we get you beyond The Wall… you get that to my sister, eh?"

Ygritte nodded, solemn for the first time in her life, but then bopped him on the shoulder.

"We'll make The Wall today or tomorrow, you'll see. You can send it yourself." She assured him.

Still, she took the envelope. "What's in it?"

"Letters, for her, my niece and my nephew. Letter for our mum, asking me to forgive her for leaving her without a son."

Ygritte tucked it into her furs, carefully, so they wouldn't slip free. She'd grown to like this Southman- she'd grant this request, if she could.

It was slower going, that day, and when the sun was above them in the sky, Ygritte was forced to admit that Byll was likely right, about not making it to The Wall. His strength was flagging, and he could barely breathe.

Finally, he collapsed, gasping for air, and Ygritte rushed to unhook him from the makeshift harness, sitting him up against a tree trunk. He was… not quite gasping for air, but he was struggling, without a doubt. His eyes were swollen and bloodshot, and he wasn't fully awake, even as he tried to stand up.

"Not… gonna… gottagon… witout me…" he slurred, trying to push Ygritte away, but she looked at the sky, looked at Byll, and then, grabbing the bag of heads and hands, she tied it around her waist and scooped Byll up, into her arms.

"Yer gonna make it. We're getting to The Wall, both of us, cause yer my way across, one way or another," she grunted. Byll just groaned, lost in a haze of pain and confusion.

She couldn't say how long they had walked. One step, one step, one step. Just take one step at a time.

It was almost dark when she heard voices, just up ahead- accents like Byll's, men of the Westerlands- and then a voice called out "My Lord, look! Ahead!", and then there was a flurry of hooves as she was surrounded by men on horses. She was at a disadvantage, forced to drop the "bits bag" if she wanted to pull her spear; she'd have to drop Byll if she wanted to use it effectively.

"Hold steady, lads, hold steady! Jon- oh, good lad, thank you- you must be one of the Free Folk?" One of them asked as another dismounted. He looked… leaderly. Like he knew what he was doing, and the people under him trusted him to do so, and keep them alive. He'd have been a chief, if he'd been born Free Folk.

"Aye," Ygritte said, warily, keeping her spear up. "Ygritte of the Free Folk. This is Byll, he's in Service to Lord Tyvek of the West- we aim to get across The Wall, and I aim to get his bones to his sister before I keep running south."

"Not a bad idea," the leader agreed. "Needs a little refinement- Jon, what's one issue you're seeing with it, right off the top?"

The one who had dismounted thought for a moment, then said "Byll looks like he'll be dead before we reach The Wall, and she won't know what his sister looks like, my Lord?"

"Right you are, Jon! Lancel?"

"She won't know where Lannisport is?"

"Excellent, both of you, really, excellent!" The man said in a jovial fashion as he dismounted, approaching Ygritte slowly. "The good news is that she won't have to go that far on her own, if what she says is true."

Byll gave a weak wheeze, and attention shifted to him.

"Yg? Zat's mlrd… gotta…" he tried to speak, and then he was hacking again.

She set him down against the roots of a weirwood- a lone Godstree she'd never had the chance to see, never having been so close to The Wall- and the leader knelt at his side, taking his hand in his.

"It's me, Byll. I'm here to listen. Tell me what you need to, then rest."

Ygritte couldn't hear what Byll desperately whispered to his Lord, but she stood guard, ears listening to the woods. They'd been able to skirt the notice of the White Walkers for the moment, but she knew it wouldn't last forever.

She watched as Byll slipped from the world, some hollow emotion in her chest. This was a man who died within sight of help, and who had known he was going to die, but who had been her friend, in the short time they had known one another. He held a knife in his hand, and, with help, plunged it into his own chest. He was going to die free.

The leader of the group looked at her for a moment, then turned to the others, only to see a few of them falling back in fear. He and Ygritte both turned, and Ygritte found she didn't blame them. The tree- the tree was- Byll's body was wrapped up in the roots, already sunk halfway into the frozen ground. It was only the work of another moment and it was gone.

"Well… that was unexpected. I was gonna give him a nice eulogy, too." She heard their leader mutter to himself. "Rest Well, Byll."

Jon had believed in the Old Gods his whole life, as far as he knew. Lady Stark had educated all of her children in The Seven, one way or another, but Jon had never truly dared to tread on the stones of the Sept of Winterfell. His Father had seen to his religious education, and Jon had spent many long hours in the Godswood of Winterfell as a young child, and many more since in the Stone Garden of Casterly Rock. He'd worshiped the Old Gods for many, many years, now, but he'd never seen them so active as this.

It was, some of the Seven-Worshippers were saying, a sign that the Old Gods were real, as real as the Seven, and Jon had scoffed at the idea that this was new knowledge. The Gods were just that, Gods. Knowing them in their fullness wasn't possible- Lord Tyvek had once said that if nobody could ever truly know another man, it would be stupid to think that anyone could truly know a God.

(His exact words had been "People are fucking stupid about religion, lads, no matter what they believe in. Anyone who claims to know the Will of the Gods is a dangerous idiot, or a cruel one. Don't trust them.", but the general message was the same.)

Instead, Jon focused on the tree itself- it had gotten bigger, of that he had no doubt. Not… enormous. But a noticeable amount. Bigger than it had been before it had absorbed Byll, at any rate. Lord Tyvek was talking with the wildling girl and the bard from King Robert's Court who had joined them at Winterfell, and Lancel was seeing to wine for the rest of the men. Normally Jon would be at his Lord's side, recording all that was said, but today he'd been told to stand guard, and so guard he would stand. Ghost was at his feet, white fur blending in with the snow, his red eyes scanning the horizon for threats as surely as Jon himself was. His loyal canine companion seemed to grow a little larger every day, and their bond seemed to get a little tighter every night when Jon slept.

The sun was beginning to set, he noticed distantly; his hand kept drifting towards his sword without his say-so. He was scared. Not nervous, but scared. Some forgotten instinct had set his teeth on edge in terror, and it was driving him mad that he didn't know why.

After a time, Lord Tyvek came to him, up close to speak privately.

"You feel it too, don't you," he asked, barely above a whisper. "Something foul in the air?"

Jon nodded. Lord Tyvek had trained him to trust his instincts in all things, to follow the quiet whispers of his heart and gut. "Aye, M'lord, though I know not why."

"I do, and I wish I didn't," Lord Tyvek said bluntly, even as he passed Jon a wineskin. It wasn't full of wine, mind you- it was full of Whiskey, the fiery drink his lord had invented almost by accident and was now fond of. Liquid Stupidity, he called it, and it must have been dire straits indeed for him to be offering it to either of his Squires. "Do you remember what I taught you about bravery and stupidity, Jon?"

Taking a swig of the Whiskey and regretting how disgusting it was, Jon nodded carefully. "Be brave, not stupid? Stupid people either live forever, or don't get to have children cause they're dead."

Jon heard the wildling girl snort in the distance when he said that, but Lord Tyvek merely nodded in his approving fashion.

"Good lad. The issue is that I'm about to do something incredibly stupid, which means I have to ask you to do something incredibly brave, my boy."

He pulled out a small envelope and handed it to Jon, smiling sadly at him. "There's three letters in here. One is for Tyrion, one is for the Lord Commander, and one is for Joanna. You're going to escort Ygritte to Lannisport, but first you're going to give Tyrion and the Lord Commander those letters. You only give Joanna hers if you get word that I've died. There's things in there only someone like me can teach her."

"My Lord," Jon began to question in worry. "You can't mean to send me away?"

"Away? Yes. Out of my service? No. You're still my favorite squire- don't tell Lancel I said that, i really shouldn't play favorites-, and you're still in my service. But I need Ygritte across the Wall, and I need those letters delivered. Besides, if the worst happens… Well, it's in my letter to Tyrion."

Jon nodded. It was useless to fight, and he was too well brought up to try anything like disobeying his Lord.

"This isn't just to get out of marriage, is it?" He asked suspiciously.

He may have been above disobedience, but he wasn't above a bit of well earned cheek eerie now and then.

Lord Tyvek laughed, deep in his belly, shaking his head. ""No, lad, no, it isn't to get out of marriage, I swear, though now that you mention it…" He mused amusedly. But then he sobered, and pulled Jon in for a hug.

"You go, now. The sun is setting. Run. If I'm not back to The Wall in three days, Tyrion is my heir, and then he'll be the Lord of the Rock- Father would have hated that, so tell him I can think of no greater character witness to prove he's up to the task than our father thinking he would't be."

Nodding, Jon turned to Ygritte, who was eyeing a horse warily. He whistled, getting Lancel's attention.

"Just put her on Shadow, Lance. We move swiftly, I won't have time to teach her to Ride."he said, and Lancel nodded, swiftly swapping the horse for Jon's own, a nameday gift from Father just a year ago. Shadow was a fine, stout, northern beast of a horse who might have had a little unicorn blood in him, but no more surefooted a steed could Jon ask for.

Ygritte was still eyeing the horses mistrustfully, but Jon scooped her up and set her in the saddle, ignoring her protests as he climbed in behind her, whistling for Ghost. He collapsed arms with Lancel for a moment, then, with a final nod to Lord Tyvek, kicked his heels and took off with a flurry of snow.

It had been alive longer than most things could fathom. It had slept for generations of the fleeting lives of mortals, and now, it woke. Why? It stretched its senses outward from itself. The icy ones were moving, but they were of no trouble to it. The iwrong-twisted-decaying-death-Doom/i thing was still hiding in its tree, away from the world and the workings of the truly alive. The great being hated the icy ones, and the thing in the tree, frozen opposites of its burning might, but it left them alone, for they left it alone, and the tree thing had the blood of the Masters, somewhere deep in it.

So why? What caused the slumbering one to wake?

It stretched its senses further- something not of this world, but full of life, poking at things it didn't fully understand but desperate to save as many lives as it could- no true threat to the waking one, merely an interesting footnote; nothing worth waking for.

South, then, towards the great sheet. The waking one could feel the power. It was glorious. The burning intensity of the Masters; buried deep, yes, but flowing strong. Waiting. Unbound, scared. Alone. Waiting for guidance and a Bond, waiting to reawaken the strength of the Masters once again.

With a roar, The Cannibal took to the air, burning away the snow that had gathered on its sleeping form.

And to the South, beyond The Wall, Jon Snow found himself looking to the sky.

iWhy did I come here?/i Eddard Stark thought to himself as the Small Council debated and argued. iI was happy in Winterfell, leading my people./i

But this… the Crown in ungodly amounts of debt (Four Million Dragons! Tyvek had told him of the One and a Half Million owed to the Lannisters but this was madness!), Robert never attending Small Council meetings, Renly and Stannis always half a word from one another's throats…

Thank the Gods their mother could not see what her sons had become! Thank the Gods his own sons and daughters loved each other- even Arya and Sansa, yes, ever since the incident on the Kingsroad. The very idea of his children hating one another like Stannis and Renly so clearly did made him sick to his guts. Made him want to toss the Hand Pin on the table, wish Robert luck, and go the Hells ihome/i. Madness, madness, all of it!

Stannis was Master of Ships, and seemed, at least, to be the best of them at his job. The least corruptible of any of them, not given to flights of fancy. He had his demands (more Naval funding, more ships for the Navy, more training for the Navy), and he'd been gone from the Capitol until only a day or so, after Jon Arryn's death, but it had been for Naval Business, and thus excusable, Ned supposed. Better than Renly, who. Well. He did his job as Master of Laws to the barest minimum, and no further, but he didn't seem to be taking bribes, at least.

He also liked to needle Stannis with every sentence, as much as Stannis liked to treasure and hoard offense at the most innocuous of phrases.

Tyvek had warned him to be wary of Kevan Lannister, Master of Coin.

"My uncle… I love him dearly, as a man should, but he's more loyal to the memory of my father than he is to my hopes for the future, and believes that I somehow arranged for my father to die, though he has no proof, for obvious reasons. Be mindful of him, Ned."

Still, it seemed the man was vaguely capable at his job, despite the massive debts. Payments to debtors were made in good order, the mint ran smoothly enough, and he seemed respectful, in that Lannister way that said he was looking at you to determine what he'd stepped in that even Tyvek had, at times.

Grand Maester Pycelle was either lying or incompetent, and Eddard didn't trust him a bit, no ser. Only Varys did he hold in less affection, among the Small Council, and Tyvek had been clear on ihim/i.

"Do not, under any circumstances, trust a man who uses tongueless slave children as his spies, Lord Stark. I cannot stress this enough. When he titters and giggles about his little birds, he is speaking of either monstrous adults, or slave children, imported from other countries, their tongues cut out, usually by his best friend."

It was everything in him not to kill the man then and there, but Tyvek had counseled caution and a steady, peaceful pace to tear the man down. "A rat in a trap will fight back, unless you put it in a cage and feed it so that it doesn't know it's in a trap," he'd said. "Don't let him know you know what a monster he is."

So that was the Small Council, two angry, unhappy Baratheons bickering in an endless circle while Varys egged them on and Kevan Lannister looked down his nose at all of them for various reasons. At least he had been about to squish down the ridiculous tourney Robert had wanted to hold. 40,000 dragons, just for the archery competition, by the Gods. No, it would be 50,000 in total, split between the three major events; 100,000 dragons in total. Still a kingly sum, but not so much as to beggar the realm. Really, what was Robert thinking?

"Now, we need to turn our attention towards other matters of state," he said. "Lord Stannis, your ward, the young Greyjoy- he must be getting near old enough to send home, to become Lord of the Iron Islands? Forgive me, I don't recall his age."

Stannis nodded. "He has eight and ten namedays, my Lord Hand. He can sail as well as any man, though he still maintains that The Old Ways are best."

"What, your charming personality wasn't enough to make him convert to your wife's new religion," Renly snarked, making his brother's teeth grind loudly.

"The boy knows the cost of the Iron Price and the Old Ways alike. His religion is no business of mine." Stannis defended. "If he wants to waste his time on the Drowned God, the Seven, some fire thing from Essos, they're all the same to me."

Renly laughed. "I see you avoid counting the Old Gods among that number in front of Lord Stark- why Stannis, have you finally learned a sense of tact? I'm so proud of you!" He japed.

"I did not list them because they are real enough for me. I can go and see a weirwood, sit in front of it, touch it. If the Northmen want to look at trees and rocks and say they are Gods, then go on being men of Honor anyways, then I find it easier to believe they might exist. The Old Gods have no miracles ascribed to them, they ask nothing of me, nor any who follow them, why should I stand against them?"

Before they could continue, Eddard cut them both off.

"Excellent, thank you, Lord Baratheon. Is the boy with you? I should like to meet him, if possible."

"He is," Stannis said, glaring at his younger brother. "I shall send him to you in the morning, if it please."

"It does. Now, Lord Renly, we turn to you- where's your heir? You're past marrying age, and you've ridden in a tourney or two- a man can die playing at war as easily as he can in the real thing. Who would be Lord Paramount, should you die?"

"I would assume Stannis- actually," Renly laughed, "having said that, I'm shocked he hasn't had me killed already!"

"Lord Renly," Eddard scolded. "That is no laughing matter!"

"I suppose little Edric Storm would be your heir, if not Stannis," Varys tittered.

"Gods, no, Stannis would idefinitely/i kill him, if we tried that." Renly laughed again.

"Renly…" Stannis ground out, and Eddard felt that, perhaps, they had lost the plot of this particular meeting.

"Enough- Lord Renly, you need an heir. The King believes war is coming, Lord Tyvek and I agree. The Wildlings grow results m restless, up beyond The Wall, and we have no time to bicker like children. You imust/i have an heir, and you must do it soon."

The meeting carried on, a little longer, but it was nowhere near as meaty. Eddard inquired after the state of the city watch (hopelessly corrupt), the Royal Treasuries (hopelessly empty), and the state of the Kingsguard he'd seen for himself (disgustingly incompetent outside of two men, one of whom was the Kingslayer); he asked after the health of various Bannermen and cousins (not dead and mostly healthy), and he asked after the state of tax payments (arriving on time from most, and arriving late from the usual suspects), and concluded that, all in all, thanks to Lord Stannis, things had, at the very least, run smoothly in the aftermath of Jon Arryn's death.

When the meeting had adjourned, he found himself going the same way as Lord Renly, and took it upon himself to ask if the lad ireally/i thought Stannis would kill him.

"Lord Stark, rest assured that while my brother has, many times I'm sure, fantasized about ringing my neck, I know he would never kill me. He loves me, somewhere deep in that black, shriveled heart of his. If I declared myself King tomorrow, Stannis couldn't find it in himself to strike me down, Lord Hand."

Then, he laughed, a bitter sound. "Truthfully though, I would worry about Edric, if I named him my heir. I don't think Stannis would kill him, but his wife… she's. Well, if you've never met her, consider it lucky."

"But you could name him your heir, if needed?"

"Oh gods, if it wouldn't upset the succession, I would have had Robert legitimize him ages ago, he's a good lad," Renly said with his first genuine smile. "He has the Florent ears, but they go well enough with the Baratheon jaw, on a lad. Poor Shireen, mind, but they look comely enough on him."

"Then perhaps we should approach Robert anyways? You clearly hold affection for the boy, why inot/i have him legitimized as your heir, instead of Robert's?"

"Have you ever had the displeasure of meeting my goodsister, Lord Stark?"

"I have not met Lady Baratheon, no…" Eddard said cautiously.

"He'll be what, near ten, now?"

"Aye, he'll be ten this Sevenmonth, in fact. Lord Lannister has extended an offer to have him as a squire- your own bastard is his current squire, isn't he?"

Eddard smiled fondly at the thought of Jon. He'd be at the Wall with Tyvek by now, if the weather had been good to them on the trek up.

"Indeed he is, and a better life I couldn't have given the lad. He's happy, under Tyvek, learning to fight, and learning to lead. I need to hurry and find him some land in the North, or I'm afraid Tyvek might end up betrothing him to Joy Hill- Gerion Lannister's daughter- and keeping him in the Westerlands."

He paused, then laughed. "Truthfully, he may offer her to Jon anyways, if he thinks she would be amenable to it. He's very fond of Jon."

"He's… good, to his squires, then?" Renly asked.

"Indeed- at the very least, Jon has never had anything to say but praise for him."

Renly thought for a moment, then nodded. "Thank you for telling me this, Lord Stark. You've made my choice a little easier; I fear I'll lose my Master At Arms, though, if I send him away. He's very fond of the boy. Ser Cortnay is more Edric's father than Robert, in truth, acknowledged or not."

They parted ways, then, and Eddard found himself watching Bran attempting to practice his archery, Sandor Clegane looking on, while Arya played with a thin sword he didn't recognize, Sansa sitting off to the side, working on her sewing. That was a lovely sight, after years of the girls fighting. To see them peacefully together warmed his heart.

Catelyn despaired of making Arya into a Lady, but he had learned his lesson, in Lyanna's fate. Arya would never be a dainty Southron lady, like Sansa was. She was too wild, too free. Marriage was likely well beyond her, and she would likely grow old in Winterfell, but she would die happy and old, Gods willing. That was enough, for him.

Lyanna came trotting up, then, the leather collar around her neck looking worse for wear, chewed upon by Dire Wolf pups and, perhaps, Lyanna herself.

"Causing trouble?" Eddard asked her, getting a tiny "huh-whuf" in reply, which he translated to mean "Yes".

He chuckled, enjoying the quiet moment. It wouldn't last, he knew, but it would still be something to cherish.

Viserys was definitely Up To Something. It could no longer be avoided. He'd been going out, seeking the council of the few remaining Magisters in shadowy meeting places, and speaking not a word of it, not even to Ser Willem. He was up to something he likely ought not to have been, and Dany was bound and determined to find out exactly what it was.

She and Viserys were going for a ride today, just outside the city gates. A great horde of Dothraki had appeared, causing quite a stir, for they had met with the Prince, and she had heard them, reveling in the night in their foreign had been invited to meet their leader, a certain Khal Drogo, in his camp; he was said to be a mighty killer, unrivaled in combat, and as fierce as the Warrior Himself.

The servants came behind them, with a contraption Viserys had designed loaded into a cart. It was his "Great Contribution" to the restoration of their family, as he put it; Dany had never seen it at work, but she knew it did, for Viserys had gone mad with joy nearly a year ago, when it had been finished, dancing around their manor home, hooting and hollering with joy. He had spun her about in the air, giving her a rightful fright, but then he had said no more of it. It had remained a mystery ever since, but it seemed that, today, the great Khal would be the one to give Dany a chance to witness it at work. Viserys never had, saying that it was a surprise. She'd been curious, of course, but not enough to fight him over it.

The khal had one of the greatest khalasar ever assembled, or so Viserys had excitedly told her as they rode out. He chattered away about it in High Valaryian, Dany answering back and forth, poor Ser Willem forced to try and guess at their conversation based on the scraps of the language he had picked up over the years. The Dothraki tied a bell in their hair with every victory, Dany knew from her own studies into the Horse Lords; Drogo was said to have more bells than hair, at this if it was untrue, it could not be denied that a man who had that kind of a reputation was a skilled killer, and Dany found herself curious as to how Viserys and herself had come to his attention enough to be invited to dine with him.

"Sekke, jinak tih zhavorsa khalakki?" The khal asked as they came near, calling out to the magister sitting near him.

"Ai, vezhven Khal. Mae hake Danerys," the magister said, and Dany scowled to herself, for she knew enough of the Dothraki tongue to know exactly what was going on. She turned to Viserys and, quietly, said "You have sold me to be a slave?" She snarled, the ancient warrior women of her line shining through her in that moment, and she pulled ahead of her brother, up to the Khal on his dias, and she spat.

"Anha ase ha anna anha. Fin are yeri, Khal, toh anna?" She snarled, sitting straight on her horse, ignoring the Magister and her brother both, looking the Khal in the eyes. He met her gaze willingly, and he saw no fear, there, despite being over three times her size, and of much greater strength.

"Yeri vilajero anna? Yeri yofi?" he asked, raising a brow in amusement, laughing at her.

"Ai. Yeri filkak?" Dany asked, meeting his challenge for what it was.

The khal stood, whistling for his horse. It was brought forth, and he mounted it.

"Yeri run, anha catch. Anha catch hatif shekh yath, yeri mine," he said, grinning at her, and Dany snarled in anticipation, as much a dragon as Balerion, or Meraxes.

"Anha run, yeri vo catch, anha take yeri," she told him, and then, without warning, she pulled a dagger at him, tossing it in his face as she wheeled her horse around, fleeing.

Into the deserts around Pentos she ran, Khal Drogo behind her, never far behind, her horse and his both foaming at their mouths. She led him on a mighty chase for how long she couldn't say, but Dany could feel her blood pump in her ears, and she found herself grinning viciously as she fled, weaving her horse this way and that, throwing Drogo for a loop with her back and forth form of riding. She could feel Drogo behind her, could hear his horse coming closer, his enthused whoops every time he almost caught her; but she kept ahead of him, all through the night, and past the sunrise, when she had already "won" their contest.

It wasn't enough to outlast Drogo, though. She would prove herself his equal, if she could, and now it was the time, she knew.

She wheeled her horse about, one final time, giving a warcry of her own as she charged Drogo. He laughed at her, but it was no mocking chuckle, it was a joyful laugh of respect, of flowing blood and lusty desire. He rushed to meet her, and Dany was satisfied to see his face change from laughter to shock as she pulled her horse to a stop, just as he and his came upon them. They slammed into her horse's ass, and Drogo went flying over his steed's head and shoulders, into the sands.

Without hesitation, Dany hopped down, pulling her second dagger. She grabbed him by the braid, near the base of his skull, pulling it back to expose his throat to her blade. He was grinning up at her, and she down at him, when she asked "Fotha che noreth, vezhven khal?", dagger drawing a thin line of blood where she pressed it to his skin.

"Kishi rizh vezh ki dothrakh rhaesheser, anha bet. Noreth ha yeri, Danarys."

Then he pulled his own dagger and sliced his hair short, leaving the braid and bells in her hands, as they stood.

The boy sounded so much like Egg that it hurt. His dear, sweet, baby brother, come again, all to torment him with guilt, it seemed.

No, though, Jon Snow was no torment to him, not really. It was a soothing balm- it hurt worse, in the first moment, but then the relief began to spread into all the pained parts, and to could breathe again.

Aemon knew he would die, one day soon enough. He was ancient. He'd seen ninety-seven namedays come and go, seen his family tree wither and die, seen the green buds of new growth poking their heads out.

Aemon Targaryen. They'd named the boy for him. Those young, heartsick fools.

His sister was living under the name of Meera, but had been born Dyanna- he wanted to weep, for she was named for his mother, as surely as Aemon was named for him.

The lad had raised quite the fuss, coming back plus a wildling girl and minus the party he'd gone out with- Tyrion Lannister had been forced to stand in the boy's defense, so he could tell his tale and deliver his Master's letters.

When Tyrion had finished reading the one meant for him, he bade Jon kneel, so they were face to face, and then began to comically shake the poor boy by the shoulders, yelling "What do you mean my idiot brother wanted to stay beyond the Wall?!" as he did, making the poor boy's head bounce back and forth. "You should have knocked him about the head and dragged him back! Sandor! San- Sandor is in King's Landing, fuck- You should have hit him insensate and thrown him over your horse like you're the Mountain and he's an innocent young maid! Anything!"

But for now, he'd see to the wildling girl, who had come to him for aid with a series of sores she had developed on her flight south- common for one who had never ridden a horse, and easily treated. He'd had a good chuckle at her reaction to him, bursting out with "That's the oldest fucking man in the world, what do you Sothrons ieat/i?", which would make for a humorous story for his younger brothers, doubtless.

"No but seriously, what magic did you do to live this long, old man?," she asked as he showed her how to apply the salve, making him chuckle.

"No magic that I know of, my dear, no magic. Just… bad luck." He said. "Maybe I'm living all the extra years that my family cannot. Perhaps I'm eating well. But no magic."

That was… mostly the truth, but it wasn't worth the effort of explaining his family line so as to tell her why it was only mostly true. He himself had done no magic to live this long, and that was what was important.

She seemed to accept this explanation, and so Aemon carried on. "Now, you intend to carry on south with Jon, yes? To the Westerlands?"

"Aye, I want as far from this place and the Others as I can get."

A shiver ran through him. Between her and the batch that Victarion had brought with him, it was getting hard to deny the existence of the Others- or, at the very least, that the Wildlings truly believed they were fleeing them, and that they were growing desperate.

"You'll need more of this, then," Aemon mused, going back to the shelf where the salve was stored. It wasn't hard to make, and he'd have young Samwell and Qyburn for at least another few days… he could spare her the small jar.

"You'll need more of this then, young lady," he said, handing it off to her. "Twice a day, more if you notice bleeding. It should last you for the trip, but any Maester in any keep will be more than capable of making more, should you need it."

"And they just… give it away for free?" She questioned.

"Not the whole jar, but you'll be able to get enough to keep you going, my dear. Now, be so kind as to send Jon to me, before you both leave?" He had asked, and she had sent the lad.

It was all Aemon had in him not to cry when he was finally face to face with his many times great nephew. The boy had embraced him, heartily, when the door was closed, and oh, gods, it was like going home.

"Let me look at you, lad, come closer," the old Maester said, and Jon let his face be held by weathered old hands, still nimble fingers tracing every line and curve of his face, until Aemon began to cry with laughter.

"You have the Stark look, you say, but your face, oh. Your face is carved from the statue of the Conqueror, I would swear it. Oh, how often did Egg and I climb that statue as boys, to look upon the face? I would know it if I lived another hundred years."

They sat and talked, then, two Aemons, past and future of their house. They talked for hours, on all subjects- what the lad wanted to name his future house (Tarstark, if he could find a way to make it fit), what he was thinking he wanted for a wife (still unsure, but he… was swiftly developing an idea), what he hoped to name his children (Lyanna, for a girl; Eddard or Robb, for a boy, after his father or his brother), what he'd learned under Tyvek Lannister (much. The boy was trained in practically every art a man could be, his Lord had seen to that) - they spoke for hours, until night had begun to fall.

Finally, Aemon rose, and began to feel his way along the wall, until he found the right catch of stone and carefully pulled it loose. He pulled the long, wooden case from within, and carefully presented it.

"You'll need to cover the pommel, but… this is yours. I can think of no one better to give it to," Aemon said, practically whispering. This was a solemn moment, a passing of a torch.

"Blackfyre," the lad whispered as he drew it from the box, voice reverent as if it were the Seven Incarnate. It was the voice of all boys his age, holding their father's sword, suddenly struck with the responsibility of it, and Aemon felt his eyes grow wet once again. "But… how? It was lost in the Blackfyre Rebellions."

"My bastard uncle, Brynden Rivers, recovered it, and hid it, to break the legitimacy of that line," Aemon said, as if teaching a lesson. "He entrusted it to me when we came to The Wall- he said that one day, the Conqueror might need it once again, and. Well. It should be yours, lad. I'm a blind old Maester, chained to the Wall and my duty. You're young, strong, and honorable- it should be with you."

"I… Maester… thank you," the lad said after a moment, and Aemon smiled.

"In the future, you give that to little Eddard, or little Robb, and you sit him on your knees as a little lad, and tell him all about our family history. You tell him stories of his ancestors, even if they're only distant history lessons. I wish nothing greater for you- if that blade leads you to that greatness, then you must take it."

"I can think of no greater gift, Maester. I… I swear to you, my children will know of the history of our house."

Now, dawn had come, and they were to see the boy off, he and the wildling girl. He was about to approach, say his public goodbyes, when someone screamed, and a great, roaring heat filled the air.

"GET DOWN!," he heard the Lord Commander cry, and then there was a roar that shook him to his bones, that seemed to shatter the air around him. He felt a great heat, and hot air in front of his face, then heard a snort. Whatever it was moved away from him, towards Jon and the Wildling girl, and then, with some more yelling, a great wind knocked him over, into the freezing mud.

There was much yelling and arguing, but young Samwell came to his side, helping him stand.

"Are you alright, Maester Aemon? Gi- Gilly, fetch a stool, quickly. Maester Aemon, can you breathe?"

"I'm fine, young lad," Aemon said, breathlessly. He was putting pieces together, but wanted confirmation. "But I'm still as blind as I was last night, so please tell me what just happened."

A stool must have been found, for it was placed near him, and Sam helped him sit.

"Well, um… I."

"A big flying thing came down and scooped up, Jon, Ygritte, and Jon's Dire-wolf," a female voice- the Gilly Sam had mentioned, maybe?- said bluntly, and Aemon felt himself suppressing the urge to laugh. "Hooked them by the hoods with its horns and tossed em right onto its back, then took the Dire-wolf up, and took right back off!"

And Aemon couldn't resist. He began to laugh.

The wedding preparations were well underway, for though the wedding was four moons out, it was already setting up to be the largest the Reach had seen in living memory. Father had hired on every mummer troupe that came near Highgarden, was hiring more singers and bards than Willas had known could exist in one space. It was getting ridiculous- you'd think royalty was getting married, the way mother and father were going on*. There was going to be a joust, of course, and a melee, archery, and even hawking contests.

*Royalty iwas/i getting married, but as Willas wasn't in the know on that, you'll have to forgive him for thinking the whole thing was a little overblown.

Still, it was making Margaery happy, so he'd suffer through the wince he felt, every time he looked at the costs of the whole thing. Still, seventy-seven courses seemed… excessive. They'd have to donate most of it to the poor, or else serve incredibly tiny portions.

Still, the iguest list/i was atrocious to look at as well. Reacher Lords and Ladies, Storm Lords, Lords of the West, some Lords from the Riverlands… even his good friend Oberyn Martell would be in attendance, bringing a few hundred of his countrymen with him, and most of his daughters. There were even going to be lords from the Narrow Sea houses, or so Grandmother had scoffed in his general direction at dinner, one night. It would be absolute bedlam, and he wasn't looking forward to any of it.

Well. The hawking contests, maybe. He'd have to see if any of them were any good, then make friends with the ones who were. Truly dedicated students of the craft were truly rare, and it would be nice to be able to talk about breed differences with people who could follow along.

He clacked his way down the hall towards the family dining room, planning to meet Garlan and Leonette for lunch. They'd be sampling some of the course ideas for the wedding, sent from Casterly Rock by Lord Tyrion on behalf of his brother as "some of his favorites". They were strange things, supposedly, that the cooks had never heard of, but then, they only cooked the usual Reacher fare, did they not? He didn't know much about Westerlands food, himself.

A servant pulled his chair out for him when he arrived, and it wasn't long until his brother and good-sister arrived, arm in arm. There was a love-match if he'd ever seen one, the two starry-eyed over each other. He hoped he'd get a little niece or nephew out of them soon, for Garlan was his heir, until he could wed and sire a son of his own- but then, his leg stood in the way of that. He had been unable to lie with a woman without great pain, ever since it had been ruined. **

**The truth of it was that Willas was forced to adjust his walk, due to the injury he had received from his joust against Oberyn Martell, and thus his hip was affected by his leg. The motion of thrusting was too much for the nerves in his muscles, and a good, Seven-fearing man like Willas Tyrell had never heard of cowgirl or reverse cowgirl, which would have taken the weight off his legs and hip. Don't worry- he'll get laid eventually and figure it out, promise.

They chatted for a little while about anything that wasn't wedding related, where they could, pleased to have a break from it. How was Loras (upset at Renly not being able to make it for the wedding), how were the other Fossaways (excellent, and excited for the wedding), how were they (hopeful about a baby coming soon, but don't get your hopes up, and excited for the wedding to be done and over with, please); they were talking about the most recent dog-breeding experiment of Willas's was going when the lunch began to arrive, accompanied by the chef, to explain what it all was.

She was a chunky woman, perhaps their mother's age, who, were she a high class lady, would have been very much like their grandmother, at that age. Very no nonsense and very, very firm about who was in charge of what, with a serious look in her grey, northern eyes. She lifted the clay top off of the first dish, and a heavenly smell began to fill the room, sort of crisp and… salty? maybe, like fresh sea air.

"These are Fries," she began to explain, servants dishing up the golden brown strips of… whatever it was. "A large potato is cut into the sections you see before you, soaked in cold salt water for a day, then dried off and deep fried in vegetable oil twice. Directly from the oil, one sprinkles salt over them, and then they are served hot. A single fair sized potato can make a serving of Fries for one individual."

That… well, it smelled divine, so, cautiously, Willas picked one up and bit into it.

It was. Who knew isalt/i could be so flavorful? This was a sin, how delicious this was. What in the name of the Gods? It was like biting into the Seven Heavens, like dining with the Gods, like…

Willas pulled the plate closer to himself, hunching over it, glaring at his brother and good-sister in a teasing fashion. "You won't like these," he assured them. "Best to leave them all to me."

Ignoring their laughter, Willas ate another, crunching the crisp little treat in his teeth, grinning to himself. Father would love these, they'd have to try and keep the cook around a time after the wedding, if they could.

"These need to be at the wedding then, clearly," Garlan laughed, even as he pulled the plate towards himself. His face was a mirror of what Willas imagined his had been as he took the first bite, and the heir of Highgarden laughed.

"Oh, delicious," Leonette declared, taking another small handful. "And it's that easy to make?"

"Just that easy," the Westerlands cook agreed. "Like many of Lord Tyvek's dishes, it's based on smallfolk cooking, which tries to get as much flavor from as little spice as possible- he merely added in the idea of soaking the strips of potato in salt water for a day, first, and frying them twice."

She paused, then said, with no small amusement "Mi'lord is quite fond of potatoes. 'Boil 'em, mash 'em, stick 'em in a stew', as he says."

"Indeed," Willas said sadly, as he saw that the plate was empty. "Well, these will be at the wedding, and could you arrange for these to be served at tonight's family dinner?"

He would be making a note to go and befriend more smallfolk. If they could cook like this, he'd have to see what else they could surprise him with.

The next dish was a creamy potato soup***, and while it wasn't the Fries, Willas enjoyed it enough to request it be served at the wedding as well, because it had a little bit of kick to it, provided by Dornish peppers; between Margaery and all the Dornish guests who would be at the wedding, it would be popular enough to be worth it.

***As you may have guessed, Tyvek liked potatoes, and most of the dishes he had introduced to Westeros were, in one way or another, potato based.

The third dish was, once again, potato based (shocking), this time the skins removed and made crispy, then filled with a spicy cream with bits of bacon. Willas wasn't fond of it, but Leonette loved it even more than the Fries and so Willas knew it would be served fairly often at Highgarden, from now on.

Next was something called a "Pizza", which the chef said could be made with virtually any ingredients, but that this particular one was pork sausage and mushrooms with several Westerland cheeses. Willas had liked the Fries, but three Pizza unmanned him, for he moaned like a wanton at the taste. It was crunchy and soft, spicy and sweet, the mushrooms seemed to melt in his mouth, and Garlan seemed to like it even more, from how swiftly he ate it.

"Pizza is one of mi'lord's favorites, and some variation of the dish is served at least once a Seven-day, and he often sends large batches down to the poor, in Lannisport and other surrounding towns."

"He would miss having you as a chef, then?" Garlan asked, trying to sneak the last bits of his Brother's slice for himself.

"Oh, I'm not the head chef, so I don't think he would- my husband might, though," she laughed. "Our son is almost as good as me, mind, but he's too young to take over the whole kitchen yet, either."

"Would he be… open?, to the idea of staying in Highgarden, to serve food like this?" Willas questioned in all seriousness. "I believe that my father will enjoy all of this on a more permanent basis, after he tastes it tonight."

The chef thought, then nodded, slowly. "Aye, I think Ramsay would be willing, though he has… other duties that Lord Tyvek gives him. Still, I can send him to you to make your offer."

"My thanks. If I may, what else does he do, for Lord Tyvek?"

The chef got a far away look, for a moment, then smiled with something like pride. Willas noticed, suddenly, how thick her lips were, how pale her skin. He didn't know why he hadn't noticed that earlier, because she was pale, like the blood was all gone from her body.

"He finds answers when his Lordship needs them, if you catch my meaning? His Lordship taught my Ramsay himself, if you follow?"

And Willas thought, in that very brief moment, that they had condemned Margaery to wed a monster.

Eddard Stark may have been an unlimited, judgmental bore, and his wife a wretched fish of questionable intelligence, but his brats were proving to be a source of boundless entertainment. His Bastard was a damn skilled opponent- between the boy and Barristan Selmy, Jamie would put more gold on the boy- but even his legitimate children were worth something. That eldest daughter of his had a spine like a sword- Cersei would have either loved her like a daughter, or wanted her dead- and the younger daughter was an absolute whirlwind of activity who was clearly meant to wield a sword.

The littlest one though, Brandon- he was like a puppy at Jaime's heels, bouncing about at all hours of the day, either playing with Tommen or asking questions. Question after question after, you guessed it, question, of him, of Barristan, of the Hound, who was very indulgent with the boy. He was full of questions about being a knight, and he loved to learn.

He was also pulling Tommen out of his shell, making the boy into a true Baratheon, so that both were tearing about the Red Keep like a windstorm. Tommen wanted to be a knight, now, and Jaime often found himself with one or both boys hanging off his arms, like little monkeys, as he walked. So it was now, and he rolled his eyes at their exuberance.

"Alright, alright, both of you little animals calm down. You've got too much energy, clearly. Go on, to the training yard, on the double, and get yourselves in armor. I'm going to train you like my brother trained me, and like he's been training his squire, that brother of yours, Bron," he said, deliberately getting his name wrong to tease him.

Both boys whooped in excitement, running away towards the training yard, and Jaime chuckled to himself. He followed them sedately, enjoying the warm weather and the much improved scent of the city, courtesy of Tyrion's sewer management project from, oh, a year or two after father had died- almost ten years, now. Tyvek had sent him, and Tysha and little Joanna, of course, and Lannister gold had funded the whole thing. Cersei… she hadn't reacted well, to Tysha and Joanna. Only fear of Tyvek's reaction had kept her from doing anything to them, he was certain.

Joffrey had been… well, fond wasn't the right word but it was the closest Jaime could think of- ifond/i of Joanna, though. It wasn't mutual, as far as Jaime could tell, but Joffrey had been almost pleasant to her in that time. It had been the one time Joffrey had ever been kind to anyone and meant it, perhaps.

How he had sired such a monster… and that incident with the eldest Stark girl's falcon, that had been bad business. Tyvek had pulled him aside that night and slugged him, right in the gut. Jaime had been bruised for a seven-day, and it had hurt to shit for a moon- his brother could hit almost as hard as the Hound, when pressed- and he'd ordered Jaime to "Control your monster".

What did Tyvek know? If he iknew/i, why hadn't he said anything to Robert, to keep Joffrey from the throne as he so clearly wanted? It certainly couldn't have been out of love for Jaime or Cersei*, and it was absolutely not for the love of Joffrey that Tyvek kept his silence. So again, what did he know?

*It was, funny enough, love for both of them that kept Tyvek silent. He'd made a vow to a dying woman that he would look after his little siblings, and protect them, love them, teach them what he could, and Tyvek was a man of his word in both lives. Jaime, being a swordsman and not a mind reader or clairvoyant, had no reason to know this, though.

It was a deep mystery, and Jaime would continue to ponder it, even as he danced circles around both boys in the training yard. That little Stark boy, just like his Bastard brother, he was impossible to pin down, Jaime would give him that. The right training and the boy could fit in well on the Kingsguard, if the space opened up. He made mistakes, of course, but never the same mistakes twice, to his credit.

It took a few hours, but he managed to wear them both out, so they could hardly move. They hadn't even noticed their fathers watching them, too caught up in his lessons- they'd need to work on their situational awareness, next lesson- but they paid attention when the King laughed.

"Look at that, Ned! Gods but it takes me back!" He declared gleefully. "Were we ever that young?"

"I should hope we were," Stark said, smiling softly, "Or my memories of a certain stormlander I named my son after dumping a bucket full of water over my head might not be real, in which case I need to go back to the North."

The King laughed even more at this.

"You training them hard, Kingslayer?" He asked, enjoying the sight of his youngest son in the training yard. "This, ah, this is how boys should be! Fighting and training in the yard, making friends. You're only young once, lads!"

Tommen grinned, his thin face making him look like a strange, smiling Stannis. He'd gotten those cheekbones from Cersei, but the rest of him was all Baratheon. It was a shock to see him next to Joffrey- Jaime knew what fools he and Cersei had been- and he was built like a brick wall.

"Oh Aye, your Grace, but then, boys this age have hard heads, so you have to train them harder," Jaime answered, making the king and Stark both chuckle.

"You lads… well now, that's an idea. Tom, my boy, you're what, getting to be eight now?" The King asked, making Tommen smile.

"Yes, Father!"

"And Bran, you must be the same?"

"Yes, your Grace! Well, seven, but I'll be eight soon."

The King grinned even wider, then, slapping a thigh in excitement. "That's me decided, then! You boys are old enough to start Squiring- teach them well, Kingslayer, they're your students, now!"

"Robert…" Stark said, and Jaime resisted the urge to roll his eyes, even as the king waved him off.

"Bah, Ned, it'll be good for them- Gods I wish Joffrey was half the man our youngest boys are shaping up to be!" He grumbled. "No, the Kingslayer will teach them both, and that's my final word."

Well. That was unexpected, but…

Jaime looked to them both, his nephew and the Stark pup, and shrugged. "Well, he's the king, what he says goes! Go on then, on your feet, both of you- armor won't polish itself!"

Jon realized, as Cannibal floated downwards in lazy circles, that they were above Winterfell. They had only been flying for half a day, but they had already arrived over his childhood home. Too high to be seen as anything other than a bird, but circling lower, lower, into the Godswood.

Cannibal settled in a clearing, and Ghost leapt from their neck, bouncing off a shoulder spike before landing on the ground, looking up at Jon and Ygritte as if to ask what their delay was.

So, caution to the wind, Jon followed, then caught Ygritte when she slipped on the way down, her legs shaking, unused to riding horse, let alone an ancient dragon.

A dragon… he and Ygritte (and Ghost) were the only Dragon Riders in living memory. Not even Maester Aemon could claim to have seen one, for the last dragon had died before he had been born.

The last iTargaryen/i dragon, Jon mentally amended. Cannibal had long been wild, in all the time since the Doom, and perhaps before that, even. Indeed, Jon thought, perhaps a bit hysterically, Lord Tyrion must have been aflame with curiosity at this very moment, for Cannibal's whereabouts Post-Dance had long been a subject of fascination for him.

Well. Here they were. Cannibal's whereabouts.

He looked at Ghost, then nodded, a plan coming to mind. "Go get Robb, boy. Don't let anyone see you." He ordered, and Ghost left.

"Ye'r a skinchanger," Ygritte asked without question. "Ain't ya?"

Jon shrugged, looking Cannibal over. "Hm. Probably, though I've never… worn? Is that the right term? I've never worn Ghost. I just… tell him what I want and he manages to do it if I explain it well enough?"

"Skinchanger," Ygritte grunted after a moment of deliberation. "A tree is a tree and a cock is a cock, some are better than others, but they're still what they are."

She paused, then looked up at Cannibal. "Still don't explain the way the Sky-Doom looks at you, though."

"Sky-Doom?" Jon questioned.

"It's what we call him. He's a legend, a myth- but then, so are the White Walkers, and…"

"And indeed," Jon agreed. He hadn't seen one, but he knew the old stories. Wights meant White Walkers, it was a simple fact. Denying it would be like denying the sun, at this point.

Cannibal looked down at them, then snorted, massive head curving on their snakey neck to make eye contact with Jon. He could feel… something, sort of poking at him, near the base of his skull, but there wasn't anything there, physically.

So he picked a weirwood and sat in the roots, closing his eyes. He began to fight inside his own head, both his swords spinning as he dueled phantoms. First he faced a nameless squire from the Rock- his momentary worries, easily brushed aside. What was going on (he was working on finding out), was it safe (Cannibal hadn't eaten them yet, so likely yes it was), what the dragon wanted (likely him, for obvious reasons). Then he fought Tybalt in his mind's eye, his more pressing worries- then Sandor, the even greater concerns, and then his Lord, standing in for his greatest worries.

And when his mind was clear of all his concerns, he was able to sit and take in the world around him, at peace with himself. He could hear the grass, feel the wind, and he could see Ghost, as if from within, hiding in the shadows as he worked to find Robb- and he could feel Cannibal, curiously poking at his mind.

iGreetings,/i Jon said.

iOHGOODYOUARESMARTNOTASTUPID. HIYESYOUCANTALKGOIDSMARTGOODMASTERYESSMARTGOOD./i

Jon flinched. It wasn't loud, it wasn't a sound, but Cannibal was incredibly volumous, by any stretch of the imagination. Also, the dragon was talking, which he hadn't known they could do.

iSmart but… confused. I know nothing of you, or what you want from me./i Jon explained, and he felt a wave of approval.

iGOODSMARTMASTERASKINGQUESTIONSIWILLTEACHYOUWILLLEARNWEAREGOINGTOTHEPLACEOFTHEDECIEVERSTOFREEMYKINDTOBONDANDHATCHNATURALLYONCEAGAIN./i

That cleared up… virtually nothing, but Jon had a feeling he would find out, one way or another.

iThe place of the deceivers?/i he asked, and without warning, his mind filled with visions.

Great, soaring towers of melted, black stone, dragons soaring through smokey skies. Fourteen volcanoes spewed gas into the air, and the land itself smelled twisted and broken. Valyria. It was Valyria of old, as seen through the eyes of Cannibal him… no. No, not himself. Theirself. Cannibal was not male or female, Cannibal was a dragon, free, but waiting.

iIHAVEBEENWAITINGFOR/iYOUiTOCOME. YOUHAVETHEBLOODOFTHEMASTERANDTHEBLOODOFTHEDECIEVERS. YOUWILLHELPSAVEUSASWASFORETOLD./i

Jon knew, then, what would need to be done. He knew it as if he'd been born knowing it; knowing it was like breathing.

He saw, then, Cannibal's birth, a small egg, hatching into the arms of a bastard son of Garth Greenhand in the Reach, clinging to their Master as he grew and became a warrior- staying at his side through a terrible war against things of ice, snow, and death. For a moment, Jon iwas/i Cannibal, and he knew all that Cannibal had been.

Then he woke, to find Robb crouching over him, yelling his name. His head was in someone's lap, their knees pinning his arms to his sides, as if he'd had a palsy.

"I'm alright," he groaned, running his hand under his nose, groaning again when it came away smeared with blood.

"You're clearly not," Robb groused, proving himself truly a Stark by glaring at Cannibal. "If this is what it means to be a dragon rider, I am glad to keep my feet on the ground."

Jon stood on shaky legs, Ygritte playing crutch for him, a wave of ismug-right-haha/i rolling off of Cannibal, and Jon swatted at them mentally, like one might a cat sitting on your table and about to dip its paws into your drink, or force the mug from the table.

And, much like a cat, Cannibal merely took the swat smugly, with a prideful air of false nonchalance.

"Tis fine, Stark… t'was just a lot to take in, in one swallow. Like quaffing too much mead in one gulp, except it was my brain."

"We're not sure if you have one of them," Ygritte teased, "Trying to skinchange a dragon, and all."

"Not… try," Jon said, shaking his head. "I idid/i. I know what's going on, and why. I know why Cannibal grabbed us both, and I know where we're going. They told me."

Ygritte considered this for a moment, looking him up and down, then shrugged. "Better married to you than the Sixskins, i guess."

"What?!" Robb and Jon both sputtered, and Ygritte grinned in a conspiratorial fashion.

"Oh aye, if you're a skinchanger, and he's one of your skins, then when he stole little old me, it was you Stealing me, and we're married- if I don't care for it, I can stab you while you sleep and run off."

You could almost hear Jon and Robb blinking at that statement, and Ygritte began to laugh. "I ain't serious!" She laughed. "Well, I ain't gonna stab you, at any rate."

Jon turned to Robb. Jon 'I have issues with intimacy and the idea of marriage and children' Snow smiled, then said, "I think I'm going to swoon again, Robb," and did just that.

"You take care, Rayder," I said to the former Watchman, clasping arms with him.

"You too, Lannister. We're going to need you safe and sound." He said, grinning. "You need to convince Lord Stark, and those bodies you've got are our best hope."

"Don't I know it… I can't wait to burn them." I said seriously, and he nodded. "But not until they've conveyed the truth of what's coming. The Night's Watch will get one, and I'm bringing one to my wedding, of all places."

He laughed, and then slipped back into the trees. He was gone in an instant, and I turned to my own men.

"Right, mount up! We ride for the Wall, and fucking hard, lads!"

I looked over to Lancel, already mounted, his face ashen. That poor boy… that poor, poor boy. He'd get his knighthood for this, but. It would be a hard prize, for the loss of his sword hand.

Lands. I would set him up, the same way I planned to do for Jon, if Ned wouldn't. I could make them neighbors, maybe? I'd have Tyrion pick good lands for them both- and something nice for himself, maybe? To make up for the scare I had probably given him, doing this.

"iRIDE!/i", I yelled, and Ride We Fucking Did. The Wall was a day and a half away, and we had a day to get there, so I mean it when I say we damn well rode. Speed was our ally, time our enemy, as it would be for this entire war.

We lost two horses, and we left them where they lay, for we couldn't risk stopping to burn them. Nature, or ice demons, would take their corpses.

We had one grizzled, grisly, gristle-tough Ranger with us- Garret by name, and I knew he was important, but fuck me if I could recall why. He'd been our guide, and he'd done well, and now, as night fell and we came closer to the Wall, he let loose a burst of sound on his horn, a long, clear note. It echoed in my bones, and I felt stronger. To my left, Lancel looked more like himself, for a moment, strength returning to him as the horn sounded.

The gates creaked open to admit our party, and we rode in, horses frothing as we slowed. I was off in a moment, helping Lancel down. "Call the Maester!", I cried out, even as Tyrion came running up to my side.

With no offense to Aemon, I would have preferred Qyburn, for Qyburn could see, but Lancel was getting greyer by the minute, and I would have to make do.

"Tyry, I'm very glad to see you, little brother," I said, greeting him. He looked rather grey himself, which was worrisome. "You look like you've seen a ghost, little brother- is the thought of being Lord Paramount that scary to you?"

He shook his head, gravely. "No, Tyvek, it isn't… it isn't that. It's…"

I was distracted, then, as the Lord Commander appeared. We shook hands, and I said "Lord Mormont, gather up… everyone. We have… rather bad news to relay."

The cart rolled in, then, finally, canvas covering the cage that held the wights we had captured. Eleven in all, mostly intact, plus Ygritte and Byll's bag of heads and hands. With any luck, it would be convincing enough to get everyone who saw it on side, especially since I would be bringing one or two to Highgarden with me- what a wonderful wedding present, right?

"Tyvek, I" Tyrion came back up to me, and I turned.

"Yes! Tyry, yes, sorry, what were you going to say?"

He looked at me again, grey and grave, face empty with worry, and I knew something was wrong.

"Is it Joanna? Did something happen to her? They can't be in King's Landing yet, but… Oh, Tyrion, was it Tysha? Did something happen to them?"

"It's Jon! Something… Something happened with Jon."

My world stopped.

I won't lie and say I don't remember what happened next. I recall it well. I can recall it with perfect clarity, how I screamed, falling on my knees. Logic was gone, in that moment. The boy I had raised, had loved as a son, had protected… was dead. If not dead, he would be, for what dragon could this have been but Cannibal, the only wild dragon still known?

The rest, though, is a blur of grief. I know the men of Castle Black were shown the wights we had captured, and Lord Mormont and old Maester Aemon told of my plans, but then… we rested for the night, and left at the break of dawn. I had drank heavily, and felt the shame of broken promises to myself, and friends from my first life, but I needed it. I needed to dull the loss, even if I still hoped that Jon lived. Hoped, believed, ineeded/i, it was all the same that night.

We left when dawn first cracked her head above the clouds, and rode as hard as we dared. We would have to stop at Last Hearth, and warn the Umbers of what was coming. I would leave them a wight, to show to their bannermen; then two to Winterfell. Two were on a ship to the Westerlands, to Casterly Rock, now. They were for Qyburn to play with, and study, as once I had given him the brain of The Mountain. The rest would come with me to Highgarden and to King's Landing, proof of the monsters that we would all soon face.

The Red Comet was in the sky, and I had no time.

Ned scowled to himself to learn that Robert had sworn once to legitimize young Edric Storm, and had not yet followed through, in the near five years since making that vow. This was not the man he called brother, this was not the man Jon Arryn raised.

Robert had always been… shifting, in his emotions. Quick to rage, faster to forgive, lusty and romantic in turns, but he had always been a man of his word. A promise made by Robert Baratheon had imeant/i something, back in the Vale it was disheartening and frankly painful to see him so changed.

As soon as Tyvek arrived in the Capitol, Ned planned to pound some sense into Robert, one way or another. Leave Tyvek in charge of things in the city, take a few of the Kingsguard, and go out and smash heads with a sellsword company in Essos, maybe.

But not just yet.

He entered the shop before him, Wylas at his back. His bulky Commander of his household guard was quick with a blade, and quicker with his wits. He would notice anything Ned missed himself, and he would keep quiet if questioned about their purpose.

The proprietor of the shop was one Tobho Mott, a thinly built Qohorik man who had, by his skin, once been much stronger. Age, and perhaps illness, had sapped him of strength, yet as he spoke with Ned, he was clearly still as sharp as a blade.

"You must be here to see the boy, my Lord Hand?" He asked, after they had gone through all the niceties. "Lord Arryn was most curious about him, and both Lord Baratheons."

That was interesting. And very, very curious.

"All three together?"

"No, no, it was… Lord Arryn and Lord Stannis, then after Lord Tyrell came and got his armor that he had commissioned, Lord Renly came a few days hence and met the lad."

That was four very important men in a relatively short time span. Five, now. Ned was determined to see this lad who was so important Jon Arryn had made a note of his existence.

iRight age- Lannister features?/i was… it was a curious note, and it felt incomplete. Ned knew he had to be missing something, and perhaps this would help to determine what that something was.

"And now it will be Lord Stark- I would meet him as well."

"Aye," the Qohorik said, then turned over his shoulder and yelled "Gendry! Get here, lad!"

From around the counter, out of the back of the shop where the work was done, a ghost emerged. The boy was dirty as a smith should be, hard work clinging to his skin, but under the soot, there was the face of Robert Baratheon, the body of Robert Baratheon.

"Yes, Master?" the lad asked, and his voice was Robert's, twenty years before. Not as loud or excitable, but Robert's voice nevertheless.

"Hand of the King to see you, lad," The Qohorik said, and the apprentice smith raised a brow.

"Thought he was dead, Master?"

"New one, Lord Stark, of uh… Whinerfell?"

Wylas snorted in amusement.

"Winterfell," Ned corrected, taking in the lad's face. There were small differences. His eyes were more almond shaped than Robert's, his nose a bit thinner, his cheeks sharper, at a second glance, but he was undeniably Robert's get.

"Huh. Well, that's fair can I help you with, milord?"

"I'm not certain, but… why don't you tell me about the previous visits from the other Lords."

The lad nodded, musing on it for a moment. "Well… about half a year, maybe seven or eight moons ago, Lord Arryn and Lord Baratheon, the older one?, they came by the shop and asked me and Master Mott a whole lot of questions. How old I was, who was my mother, did I know my father, what had my education been like, things of that nature. They asked me if I remembered my mother's face, or her hair color, and I said she had yellow hair, and that she had worked at a tavern, then I told them about the man who brought me here, after my mother died, and paid for Master Mott to take me in."

Wylas took note of that for Ned, as ordered, and Ned felt that he'd have to get those answers for himself, after this.

"Anything else?"

"Aye, um, Lord Stannis asked if I was happy here? Lord Arryn seemed surprised he'd ask that, but I am, so I told them so."

"I am glad to hear it myself, lad. What sort of education have you had?"

"Well, I can read, I can do the books- they're a bit confusing, but I can struggle through em and not get cheated, mi'lord. And I can do nearly anything with any metal. I just ain't learned to rework Dragonsteel yet, but Master Mott says I'm good enough that he'll teach me, soon."

That was rather impressive, and Ned said as much.

"Thank you. Then I'll likely stay here as a full Master, and take on apprentices of me own," the young man said with a wistful look. "Maybe find the girl I keep dreaming of, if she's real, see if she'll marry me?"

He chuckled. "Forgive me, Lord Hand- 'm'gettin' too comfy with highborn visitors, after having so many in the last half a year."

Ned chuckled. "It's no harm, lad. Show me some of your work, aye? I'd like to see."

The lad nodded, slowly, and went to fetch it, returning in a few minutes with a fine selection of items. A knife with a dragonbone hilt, finely carved lions carved into it. A breastplate- simple but of higher quality than Ned had expected. A richly decorated boar spear. A helm in the shape of a dog's head, like Sandor Clegane wore- no, not a dog, a wolf, with slanted eyes and a fierce glare, with teeth like a dragon.

Ned paused at that last one.

"What made you do this?" He asked.

"It was, well," the boy shuffled, a bit embarrassed. "We had a Lord come in who wanted a Lizard-Lion helm, but he died before he paid, so I just… practiced with it, and that was how it came out? It isn't my best work, but I still like it. Especially how I worked the tongue, see,"

And the lad moved closer, shoulder to shoulder with Ned, explaining the mechanism that made it so that, when the helm was opened, the tongue stuck out, and when it closed, the tongue retracted into the lower part of the visor, adding an extra layer of steel to protect the wearer's mouth.

On a whim, Ned asked how much it would cost to buy it, possessed with the desire to give it to Jon. His son would be a man grown, next time he saw Jon- what better a gift to give him?

Though the apprentice had to think for a moment, he finally decided on a price.

"Twenty dragons, milord. I know it's a bit much, but I can't bring myself to let it go, otherwise."

It was a bit much, but then, it was quality work for a one of a kind piece, and so Ned bought it without thought for the fact that most sets of plate armor cost that much for a full set.

It was time, shortly after, to leave, but Ned promised them both that they would be receiving commissions from his household in the future- and that he would likely be along to ask further questions of Gendry later, for, as he said, there was a mystery afoot.

Then, he and Wylas rode back towards the Red Keep, and Wylas asked, after a time, "He's the King's son, ain't he, Lord Eddard?"

Ned thought for a moment, then nodded, very slowly. "Indeed, I think he is, Wyl. I just don't know why Jon Arryn would have any interest in him."

Eddard was just in time for supper, upon his return, and he felt his heart squeeze at Bran's absence from the table. He and Prince Tommen were kept hard at work by the Kingslayer, and Bran was, for now, no longer part of his Father's house until he was knighted, or released from service.

He still saw Bran, of course, and he was proud of his son, of course, but. Well. Ned was closer to his children than his own father had been.

Ser Jaime planned to ride in the Hand's Tourney. Ned would see how Bran was doing then, if he was put into the Squire's lists.

Sansa ate in silence, listening to Arya chatter about how her own day had gone. There was very little of the old antagonism between them, now.

Finally, Ned grinned to himself.

"I think, girls, that I would like your opinion on a gift I plan to give Jon, when we see him next," he said, placing the wrapped helm upon the table. Arya perked up at the mention of Jon- her perpetual favorite, of all her siblings- and the Hound looked on, curious himself. Sansa was excited, even, and the girls came closer to him as he unwrapped it.

Sansa gasped, and Arya squealed in excitement at the sight of it, and Ned chuckled.

"You think he'll like it?"

"Oh father, it's terrible to behold- Jon will be a horror, wearing this," Sansa said, and Arya lifted it to examine it, then turned to Sandor.

"Yeah but will it keep him safe?" She asked, holding it out to the Hound, who examined it. He looked it over, then grunted.

"You get this from Mott's shop?"

"Aye, I did."

"That apprentice of his made it, I would guess, then. Mott's good, but detail work like this is getting to be hard for him- one too many broken fingers."

He turned to Arya.

"Your brother could jump off a mountain wearing this, and his skull would probably still be in one piece when he landed," he assured her, she she nodded.

"Then it's perfect!" She agreed, excitedly taking it back from the Hound and giving it to her father once again.

They went to bed, not long after, and Ned sent Vayon Poole after Lord Renly, to summon him, if he was able. He'd ask the youngest Baratheon about Gendry, see why he had met the lad. There was a mystery before him, and he planned to get to the bottom of it, one way or another.

They had left the walls of the city well before the breaking of dawn, just the three of them. Ser Jaime led the way atop his great, grey stallion, and Tommen and Bran followed behind on their ponies, fog kissing their cheeks as they rode. Ser Jaime seemed to know it well enough to walk the path blindfold, and so Tommen and Bran stuck like tar to his horse's tail.

The sun was now beginning to rise, and Ser Jaime doused his lantern, letting it hang low against his horse's side, bouncing as it walked. They kept the silence, enjoying the sounds of the early morning away from the stench of Kings Landing.

It was to be a training exercise, Ser Jaime had told them the day before- he would teach them to navigate the forest as Lord Tyvek had once taught him, and so prepare them for a long march and a "shit camp" at the end of it. They had no tent, only their swords, their daggers, and a small hatchet each; Ser Jaime had flint and had brought two blankets as well, but nothing else.

Ser Jaime, Bran would be willing to say by the time they stopped to rest the horses and have some lunch, rode much harder than King Robert. The king had taken the royal party on a long, meandering trip through the Riverlands, even stopping at Riverrun, Bran's mother's house. They had paid homage to his grandfather, who had been overjoyed to see them, even in his illness. He had called Sansa and Arya beautiful, and Bran handsome, and said he was proud of them. He had even risen from his sickbed to give them a tour of Riverrun, and to attend dinner with the King. He had wept at the beauty of Sansa's voice when she sang a song written by Lord Tyvek.

Ser Jaime, Bran was finding, would have ridden straight from Winterfell to King's Landing with as few stops as possible in between. Ser Jaime rode like Father did, and it was strangely comforting.

Which was good, Bran thought as a crow cawed at him from a tree, because his thighs were on fire, and he needed whatever comfort he could get.

"Alright, you two," Ser Jaime directed them as he slid from his saddle and tied his horse to a low hanging tree branch. "Tie up your ponies, then go find wood for a fire."

Both squires hastened to obey, taking extra care with their knots. Ser Jaime had shown them how to tie most basic knots, and how to untie them when you couldn't see them, and expected them to be good at them from now on. He'd be very unhappy with sloppy work.

Then, limping just a little, Bran and Tommen made their way into the Kingswood to gather firewood. First was twigs, to act as kindling, then larger sticks. Bran and Tommen both carried an armful of these, and between them they pulled a large fallen branch, dragging it on the ground behind them.

These piles they presented to ser Jaime for inspection, and he pronounced them as "Good enough, for lads your size", and then he took them off the road and into the forest proper, showing them how to set a rabbit snare.

"Tyvek used to take me on little excursions like this," he told them with something like wistfulness in his voice. "Your mother, as well," He said to Tommen. "He said that, if anything ever happened to us, we should at least know the basics of surviving by ourselves long enough for help to find us. He even took Tyrion on a few, despite Father's objections."

"Grandfather didn't like Uncle Tyrion?" Tommen questioned, and Ser Jaime looked at Bran for a moment, then seemed to decide something, and sighed.

"No, he. Well, he died when you were… You hadn't even been born yet, Tom, you had about a month left before you arrived- so you wouldn't have known that Tywin Lannister never iliked/i anything about anyone who wasn't a perfect Lannister. He didn't like Tyvek, he wasn't supremely fond of me, since, well, I was just the spare, not the heir. Cersei was a girl, so he didn't care what she wanted out of life, unless it was what he himself wanted for her. But… You both know how it can be dangerous, for a woman to give birth?"

Yes, Bran recalled worrying about that, when Mother had been pregnant with Rickon. It had been Jon, on a visit from the West, who had comforted him about the whole thing, soothing all of Bran's frantic worries with a kind word and a firm hug.

"Well, so it was for my mother. Tyvek was the only easy birth she ever had- he practically climbed out, she used to say. Cersei and I were harder, and she took a few years to recover. She died, bringing Tyrion into the world. She made Tyvek and I swear to love him, and watch out for him. 'He will not learn the cruelties of the world from us, mama, I swear,' that's what Tyvek told her. She slipped away a few hours later, and Father never forgave Tyrion for it. For being a dwarf, and for killing mother. It wasn't his fault, of course, no more than it would be the fault of any other infant, but that never stopped father from hating him."

Bran had never met Tywin Lannister, but an uncomfortable wellspring of hate welled up inside him at the thought of anyone hating kind, gentle, intelligent Lord Tyrion. Lord Tyrion, who knew more stories than even Lord Tyvek, it seemed to Bran, and who had always taken the time to share them, when they had all been at Winterfell.

"Well that isn't fair!" he exclaimed angrily. "Lord Tyrion is, is… that isn't fair!"

Tommen nodded angrily, and ser Jaime laughed, ruffling their hair as they got back to the horses. "You're good boys, both of you, and you're right, it wasn't fair. Tyvek and I tried to love him even more to make up for it." he said.

Then, he forced himself to get cheerful again. "Now, let's get a fire going. You lads ever started a fire before?"

He showed them how to do just that, and then sent them to check their traps, while he watched the fire.

Bran's snare was empty, as was the one Ser Jaime had set, but Tommen had caught a large, juicy looking rabbit in his. He sniffled a bit at the sight, for Tommen was much kinder and more sensitive about such things, but they cut it down, and brought it back to camp with them nevertheless.

"A fine catch, Tomm, a fine catch," Ser Jaime declared it. "We'll eat well, today, like Kings."

Both boys laughed at this, and then watched Ser Jaime skin it, gut it, and ready the meat. Into a pot it went, with a bit of wine and a sprinkle of salt, and the wine smelled sweet as it began to smoke, the fat from the rabbit popping. They paid close attention, for both knew that, in the future, Ser Jaime would expect them to be able to make the meal themselves.

"Shame we ain't got no taters," Ser Jaime mumbled to himself, chuckling a bit.

"Taters, Ser?" Bran questioned as Tommen laughed, the statement clearly an inside joke of some kind.

"Taters! Po-ta-toes, Bran! Boil 'em, mash 'em, stick 'em in a stew- oh, you've never been told the story of Sam and Frodo, and their quest to destroy The One Ring, have you? Well, that will be for tonight, then, and not the whole thing, it takes too long, but we can begin."

"It's Myrcella's favorite," Tommen said. "iMy/i favorite is The Aristocats, of course, but The Lord Of The Rings is good too."

They ate well that night, as Ser Jaime had promised, a thin rabbit stew that, after a long day of hard work, tasted like a little bit of the Heavens, and they slept under the stars, smoke drifting off of the fire as Ser Jaime opened up his tale.

"In a hole in the ground, there lived a hobbit. Not a wet, nasty hole, full of half eaten bits of food, and pieces of worms, but a warm, dryhole. It was a Hobbit Hole, and that meant comfort…"

iFor the night is dark, and full of terrors,/i Daegon mused. Nevermind that those terrors took the shape of fire worshiping cultists who wanted to burn everything that wasn't a representation of their fire god.

"Lord Stannis doesn't seem to realize that we survived the madness of the maddest Targaryen madmen on this island by knowing how and when to put a stop to that nonsense." He said, quietly, as he slipped through one of the many, many natural caverns under the keep of Dragonstone. Word had come down, from the oldest of the smallfolk on the island, Gram Ellis. The fire priestess was burning people. She had to go.

"It will be you, Dragonseed," she had said, voice creaking like rotting timbers on a ship."It's to be you, if it's to be done. The stars have changed their dance."

So here he was, dressed like a guard, slipping through the tunnels under the castle. They were giant tubes, holes in the earth from forth lava had once flown, now hollow places, stinking of sulfur, like untended wounds in the body of the world. Men were like maggots in these tunnels, and never had Daegon felt smaller.

He prayed to Balerion, king of the Gods of Valyria, and courage came back to him, chasing away the thoughts of failure and death. His body was flesh, he was not. He would carry on, he knew, if he failed, and his body was killed. Those left behind would mourn, but he would go on, one way or another.

And so he carried on, without even a candle to light the way. The tunnels would have been a smuggler's paradise, if anyone other than a Targaryen (or a dragonseed) could safely use them. They were filled with pockets of noxious gasses that would kill any other man, and burn their lungs, yet Daegon could walk them safely. He could see nothing, and kept his left hand on the wall, until he passed by The Great Claws; three deep gouges said to be left by The Cannibal as it laid eggs, which served as a landmark under the tunnels. He was getting closer to the exit, he knew.

"Thirty paces north, ten steps to the right," he reminded himself, and then he pressed on. He kept his eyes open, though it made no difference. Lord Stannis had a former smuggler at his beck and call- any smuggler worth his salt would have known to check for tunnels, and he may have told Lord Stannis to set a guard. He'd see them coming before they saw him, if anyone patrolled this deep.

Thirty paces… he let go of the wall and turned to his right. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten… nothingness. There was no wall, there was nothing. Daegon took a moment to breathe, then took another step, forcing down the bite of panic he felt in the back of his throat. Eleven, twelve, and… a wall. An anchor of stone in the darkness, his steps still that of a lanky teenager, not yet a man full grown. He was not lost, he was not doomed to wander the tunnels forever, only the rats to feed on, and the Mad descendents of mad Targaryens to feed on ihim/i, like the stories said would happen.

"Don't go thinking about that, dumb dumb," he scolded himself, carrying on with his mission. There was a grate in the wall a few paces ahead, he knew, which could be wiggled loose and rotated ninety degrees, which would unlock the door to the tunnel that would lead him into the castle proper. It was said that it had been that path the Targaryens had taken to escape the island, during the Usurper's Rebellion, though Daegon was too young to remember the Rebellion, and wouldn't have known the Targaryen's anyways.

Still, like all Dragonseeds, he was proud of the kingsblood in his veins- his mother was the daughter of Aerys, bastard or no- and tonight that blood would serve him well.

He found the grate and, when he twisted it he could see dim lights from ahead, and he felt the flow of the air around him change. It smelled fresher, cleaner, up ahead now, and so he pushed on, into the doorway that had revealed itself.

It led him into a small room that gazed out into what must have been part of the kitchens. He took a deep gulp of fresh air and forced himself to relax. He thought of the lesson he'd learned from his uncle, a sellsword who did most of his work in the Westerlands- his other uncle, not his uncle Shitspear- and felt himself grow calm once more.

"You walk in nervous and they'll peg you in a second," his uncle had said. "You walk in like you're meant to be there, and nobody will question a thing. Anyone asks questions, you're new and still learning your way around, then hit em with the 'Actually, I'm looking for such and such spot, can you tell me where it is?', and you can skid right by, no issues."

That was what he did. When the kitchens emptied out, he slipped out, took another breath to calm himself, and stepped out of the kitchens, into the main keep. He walked the halls, making sure to act like any guard might, keeping his… distaste for the keep, and most of its occupants, off his face.

It wasn't that Stannis Baratheon was a bad Lord and Master- he was a hard man, yes, but he was rigid in his lawfulness. Everything he did followed the law to the letter, and there was something to respect, in that. He wasn't kind, but nor was he cruel. He asked nothing of anyone that he would not do himself.

His wife was a right fucking terror, though. She kept her miscarried sons in jars, it was said, and treated those beneath her like dirt. She was every bit the prissy, snobby, hangdog hag that nobles were said to be, and she was mad, to boot, mad with her fire God and her fire priestess and her fire fire.

That was why Daegon was here. It had been decided that it was time to declare the island for Targaryen blood once more. Rumors had come, that Danaerys Targaryen had wed a Dothraki horselord, that Viserys had made a way to turn ocean water into clean drinking water. Word had come to the elders of the island, through dreams and signs, that Cannibal had taken flight once more, and had chosen a son of Rhaegar as his rider, who would be their king.

It was simple. Kill the fire priestess and the lady of the house, lure Lord Baratheon back to Dragonstone, take him hostage, take over the island, hold it steady. Daegon had his part to play, and he would play it well, then fade into the background once again. He had no dreams of power, or fame. He liked his simple life, and it was all he wished. He would do this task, and then go home.

He saw the Fool, up ahead. Poor creature, everyone knew the story about the Mad Fool, who jingled and danced and sang mad tunes, only friend of Lady Shireen Baratheon. Sure enough, the fool was dancing, skipping down the hall and cackling. Daegon ignored him, for he was no threat, and the fool jangled past, singing.

"The dragon flies in the North my Lord, North my Lord, North my Lord! The shadows dance in the North, my Lord, and a king shall claim his crown!" He sang as he spun, grinning madly across his grotesque, tattooed face. "The King will claim his crown your Grace, crown your Grace, crown your Grace! The king will win his crown, your Grace, and the Queen will hatch her sons!"

Hm. Ominous, but it fit with what the elders had dreamt of. All the more reason to listen to them.

Hatch her sons, though, that was a weird turn of phrase. Maybe, ha, maybe Rhaegar's son would marry Danaerys after her horselord dropped dead, and she would hatch dragons.

Daegon laughed to himself as he walked, shaking off the uneasy feeling the fool had settled into his gut.

He walked the halls, like he was on patrol, sharing a nod with a few other guardsmen, who treated him as if he was just another guard like them. Uncle Bronn had been right, you really could get anywhere if you acted like you were meant to be there.

He found the guest wing easily enough, warmer than the rest of the keep from the constant burning of braziers, the fire priestess clearly immune to the heat in her fervor. Daegon strode down the hall with great care, hearing speech from one room, the sound of quiet murmuring from one voice, and loud, excited shrieking from the other. Daegon guessed it was Lady Selyse and the fire witch, discussing one thing or another, and that was good. It made his job easier, at any rate.

It wasn't that he cared, one way or another, who sat on the throne. It was all the same to him. Targaryen, Baratheon, they were all one, to him. He would work, he would pay his taxes to the tax collector, and then the taxes would go to the king, no matter what family name that king possesed. But. But.

But the elders cared. The elders, in whom the blood of The Dreamer still ran strong, they cared who sat the throne, and Daegon was a loyal Dragonseed.

He readied himself. It was meant to be poison, tiny crystals in a little glass vial in his cloak, which would choke the life from their victims. It was meant to be poison, but hells, a blade would kill just as well as anything else.

A scream echoed from the room, a child's voice. "Mother, please, no!", and then, another instinct took over Daegon's soul. Hell, he was meant to be killing people anyways.

He burst through the door, drawing his knife, and on instinct, he threw it, striking Lady Selyse in the eye. She screamed, then dropped, like a puppet with strings suddenly cut, crumbling to the ground. There was no time to react, though. The fire priestess had a torch held high, and she was nude, red hair draping over her breasts. Shireen Baratheon was tied up beneath her, bundled sticks surrounding the child, and the fire priestess smiled.

"That is a shame. Still. You are, I fear, too late. The child will burn, and we will wake dragons from stone. Stannis will be reborn as Azor Ahai, and"

"Oh shut iup/i!" Daegon snapped, and he threw a punch, striking her in the temple. He caught the brand and threw it onto the fire witch, then scooped Shireen up in his arms as the room caught fire. He ran, not thinking of the consequences, down the hall, yelling "Fire! Fire! Murder! Help!" as he ran, until another guard was found, who ran to fetch someone to put out the fire.

In the chaos, Daegon set Shireen down, giving her to an actual guard, and then he slunk away, back to the kitchens, and back into the tunnels. He felt… alive. He felt like a God, like he could swim from Dragonstone to King's Landing, or even White Harbor.

He felt like he could crush any enemy that came at him, and he didn't know why. Maybe it was the high of success, getting his blood pumping, but he nearly skipped from the tunnels, to the home of a whore he knew. Whores had been banned from the island, but, well, where there's sex and money, there are sex workers. He paid Lyra her usual fee, and then, they went all the rest of the night, and a good chunk of the next day, before he collapsed on top of her with a satisfied grin, and they slept until night fall. When they woke, Daegon found himself hard again, and Lyra eyed his cock, then shrugged, took some more of his money, and they went until morning once again. Daegon didn't know where the energy was coming from, but he knew he was enjoying it. Enjoying it, and that he would ride it as long as it lasted.

When he (finally) returned home the next day, his mother gave him A Look, and he blushed sheepishly, then told her what had occurred. She nodded, then cuffed him upside the head.

"You don't say?! Idiot son of mine! Dumb! You gonna break your poor mother's heart? You're tearing me apart, Daegon! Now you sit, and I'll cook you something to eat. Look at you, you're all pasty, I'll make you something with plenty of garlic." She scolded him.*

*Daegon's mother, being from a world without Italy, could not be Italian. But if you taught her to speak the language, and plopped her down in Italy, she would blend right in without any effort, down to the accent, if/when she learned to speak English because her son joined the mafia and they needed someone to run the restaurant that served as their cover operation for their money laundering.

Daegon ate, three whole plates at his mother's insistence, and then resumed his work, carving knives and arrowheads. He'd had quite the order for arrowheads come through. Some man from the Night's Watch had commissioned him to make ten thousand of them, give or take, and the money would sit very well in Daegon's purse, his mother's purse, his father's purse, and the purse of everyone else he could trust to not cheat him of it.