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!

4. Chapter 4

The Gods were cruel. This was a fact, as far as Joanna was concerned. If they were not, the thing in front of her, wearing her uncle's face, would not exist. Ever since Jon had been carried off by the Cannibal, and Cousin Lancel had lost his hand, it had sat, looking like her uncle, but broken and hollowed out. The joy was gone from his eyes, the mirth vanished, the confidence stolen away. It hurt to see.

Now, their party coming into the gates of Winterfell once more, he looked haggard. Broken. This was not the man who, two moons before, had brought them to The Wall- she and Father had stood atop it, and she'd laughed as he mused about pissing from the edge, if it hadn't been so slippery- this was not the man who had taught her to wield a dagger and how to stab deep, should anyone ever touch her in a way she did not desire. This was a creature that knew it was already dead, and longed to finish the job.

Robb Stark came to greet them, as graciously as any mother could ask of her son, and then she watched his face grow dark as her uncle told him of Jon's death. Bastard or no, anyone who knew Jon Snow and Robb Stark for any length of time could tell that they loved one another dearly, as well as her uncle and father loved one another.

"Grief is the price we pay for love," her father had once told her, after her childhood dog had died.

"With love comes loss, and sometimes it hurts, but it's always worth it," her uncle had said, as well, helping her dig the grave for Samwise. She had wept many bitter tears at the death of her dog, and her family had given her comfort until she could shoulder the grief on her own.

These lessons would not help her uncle, not now. And they would not save Lady Stark from her uncle's wrath after she crowed happily at Jon's death.

Oh dear. There would be no controlling uncle now. Hells, there might not be any controlling Father, who had loved Jon nearly as much. Well. No point in dismounting. They would stay only as long as they needed to let her uncle vent his rage and to show off one of the wights, and then they would flee, her uncle unable to stomach the thought of another moment near Lady Catelyn.

"Good? Good, lady Stark? You say good?" Her uncle began, rising to his full height. Most people didn't realize how tall her uncle was, at first. He slouched often, happier to read than to fight, often hunched over his desk, or making some advances in knowledge with Qyburn and Sam- but he was almost as tall as Sandor when he stood straight and combat ready. The Loyal Clegane was but a half a head taller than him, though her uncle had wider shoulders. The much ignored Maester* of Casterly Rock had once described her uncle as "Rectangular, when upright", and it was true.

*It wasn't that the Maester was useless- far from it. The man knew what he was doing, was skilled in the vast majority of subjects, and even got along well with Tyvek, but even he was willing to admit that, pound for pound, Qyburn knew more. He actually spent most of his days writing the book he had often dreamed of creating, an illustrated guide to the native birds of the Westerlands, and working on studies of the various animals Tyvek kept in his menagerie, which, for a Maester with two links in Raven keeping and a further six on Animal Husbandry, was very much a dream come true.

"Good, that a child is dead, you limp faced, slack eyed itrout/i?!"

It spoke to Robb Stark's anger at his mother that he did not step to her defense. This had clearly been a bone of contention between the various Starks for some time.

"You take joy in it? In the death of a child? Perhaps you should think, then, you witless worm of a witch, what this grief will do to your children, as they seem to be the only ones that matter to you."

One time, a maid had insulted Cousin Joy, great Uncle Gerion's bastard daughter. The maid had said it would have been better if Joy had died young, rather than grow to be another bastard Lannister causing problems for them all. To this day, Joanna wasn't sure what had happened to that particular maid. She wasn't sure she iwanted/i to know, because there had been screams, echoing from the deepest portions of The Rock, for nearly a week after that. Children, all children, were precious to her uncle, and it was one of his greatest joys in life, to see children learning and growing, helping to teach them. A threat to them was the surest way to bring out the terrible evil her uncle was repressing in his soul.

Now, though, with Jon dead, and Lady Stark having taken joy in it, he seemed determined to let it loose on her, even if for just a moment.

"Perhaps, if praying for it wasn't enough, you should have taken up a blade yourself, struck him down. You might have pushed him from a tower, if you hated him so. But no, no, not Catelyn Stark. Catelyn Stark is a godly woman, who merely begs the gods to kill an innocent child, then takes joy in her prayers being answered a few years later."

He paused for breath, even as Lady Stark began to try and speak in her defense, yet Tyvek carried on as if she wasn't even there. "You know I was supposed to marry your sister? Oh yes, I was. But then my father got word that she'd laid with some unimportant Lord from the Fingers, in the Vale- that she'd gotten pregnant by him- and he withdrew the offer, even after your father forced tansy tea down her gullet."

Oh, her uncle was going iferal/i today. He was going to drag Lady Stark through the dirt, the mud, and twelve miles down river, for insulting Jon.

"You know what I would have done, if I had wed your sister, and she had a bastard? I would have found the boy lands, or the girl a dowry. They would have been my wife's ichild/i, dear to her and thus important to me. I would have been a father to them, if their own would not. I would have loved them because isomeone has to be kind to those who don't know kindness/i, you venomous, fork tongued, cold hearted witch of a serpent. I would have swallowed my pride and loved them, no matter what. But no, no. Catelyn Stark is a Godly Woman. She prays that inconvenient bastard boys die as small babes, mourns when they don't, and rejoices when they die a senseless death, all her oaths and promises forgotten in the inconvenient interim."

Joanna was duly impressed by the poetic lilt of her uncle's rant. Out here, in front of most of the servants of Winterfell? It would spread like flames in a dry field, the thought that Lady Stark had prayed for the death of her husband's son, bastard or not. Joanna was shocked that her uncle would be willing to potentially burn bridges like this, but then, he'd always loved Jon on the same level that he loved her, or her mother and father- he would go to war for any of them.

"Oh, and let me just, let me just keep going, let me take a guess: You fear that I would want to use Jon to supplant your children, use him as a stepping stone to rule the North through him. Let me assure you that if I had wanted it, I would have made it happen. I know more about the vast majority of poisons than most men dead or alive. I would have had you given something to leave you barren, because oh yes, such poisons do exist. Then a little something to young Bran, to give him the shakes, and a fever, and then he would close his eyes, he would be so tired… and then they'd never open again."

Her uncle was grinning like a madman, now, a creepy, forced caricature of joy. "Then, a slip for Arya, she was always getting into trouble, such a shame that she fell and broke her neck. A fire in the kitchens, a knife in the dark, a note to blame the Targaryens, that would serve for Sansa, and maybe young Robb, too, poor lad, dead to the ambitions of a mad boy across the sea… then a deserter from the Night's Watch needs killing, something spooks Lord Stark's horse, and boom. No legitimate Starks left. Then I ride into King's Landing, Jon in tow, and show him to Robert, and remind the king that there is still one Stark left, even if he has not the name, and look, he looks so like his father… Oh yes, I had a whole plan, should I ever need it," he admitted.

The whole courtyard was silent. Robb Stark looked both angry and thoughtful, like he wanted to rage at his mother and Lord Tyvek both, but couldn't decide which would be first, and so chose silence.

"I know you've never had the occasion to visit Casterly Rock, Lady Stark, but deep within the Rock lies the Stone Garden. My father never cared for it, but from a very young age, I was drawn to it. The Stone Garden is a teeming mass of ancient weirwood trees, growing for centuries without sunlight. I told Jon, when he first arrived to my home, that the Garden was his domain as often as he wished it, to pray to the Gods of his father; or, if he desired, the Sept was open to him as well. He told me, tears in his eyes, do you know what he told me, you heartless mackerel? He told me that you had threatened to have him whipped, if he ever "stepped a filthy foot" in your Sept. But yes, yes, yes, oh Catelyn Stark, she is a Godly Woman, with Love And Compassion In Her Heart."

Joanna watched as her uncle seemed to deflate, just slightly, coming back into control of his grief, even as Lady Stark stared at him, mouth open like the various fish he had compared her to. He stopped standing so straight and firm, and the shroud of grief he had shrugged off momentarily enveloped him once more. He still had his power, his force of will, for just a moment.

i"BRING THEM OUT!"/i he roared.

The cart with the wights in their cages was dragged into view, and Joanna shivered at them as they drew near, passing by to be shown to Robb Stark. She didn't pay any mind to what was said, thinking, instead, of Jon.

She, Father, and her uncle had, once or twice, discussed the idea of her marrying Jon, if he was willing, if she was amenable to it. She might have been, if she was a little less into her fellow women. She had known that from a very young age, which her uncle assured her was normal- he had known of his own tastes from birth, to hear him tell it. Joanna knew how lucky she was, that her mother and father loved her and refused to push the issue of marriage. Uncle Tyvek had flat out declared that, Lord and Head Of House or no Lord and Head Of House, ishe/i would choose her husband, and that was that, as far as he had been concerned.

Still, Jon wouldn't have been a bad husband by any means. They had been friends for nearly a decade now, childhood playmates, her, Jon, Lancel and Sam, and Tybalt, later on. There hadn't been many girls around, just for lack of girls around their age who were available to foster, though they had looked, and asked. Jon though, had been her favorite among them. He had been so shy, when he first arrived to The Rock. Shy, and strange, and new. She'd never met anyone from The North, and she had a natural curiosity in her, from both of her parents- it had only taken her a fortnight to corner Jon and pepper him with rapid-fire questions. That had been the start of it.

Grief was a strange thing, she realized. She had focused on her father, her uncle, Lancel, but this was the first time she had worried about her own grief. Jon was dead. Jon was gone. Her best friend, her brother-in-heart, was dead.

She held onto her tears until they were past the walls of Winterfell, until they had camped for the night, and then claimed moonsick, and gone to bed early. She lay on her traveling cot, face down in her pillow, and she sobbed, long and hard, as she let the grief overcome her for the first time.

In that moment, as her tears lay drying on her cheeks, Joanna made a vow to herself. She would train, more now than ever. She would become a warrior without peer, body and mind, and then, one day. One day soon, perhaps, if the Gods were willing.

She would kill the Cannibal.

"Ah ah, nope, you're a little too far to the right with your wrist. You want to iflick/i the whip, see, like this,"

A crack and a scream echoed in the chamber, Tyvek and the young boy he was teaching watching their "training dummy" sob with, frankly disturbing, blank faces. The boy adjusted his grip on his own whip, then flicked his wrist again, looking to Tyvek for affirmation as their target screamed once again.

"Much better," Tyvek said, making the boy smile with pride and puppyish excitement. "Very good, Ramsay. Very good indeed. Now, focus on the shoulders and the upper thighs, alright? Remember, this is for information, not punishment, so don't let him pass out."

"Yes, My Lord!" The child, no more than seven, said excitedly. He began to whip their victim once more, his strikes calculated and precise in their movements. The man he was whipping was a thief, connected to a larger ring of thieves around Lannisport who had turned to banditry for greater cash hauls. Lord Lannister had given him one hour to extract the names of two of the man's associates from him with just the whip, and had promised him two dragons as a reward, should he succeed.

Though he was small, Ramsay was a fast learner. He never made the same mistake twice. Tyvek had done his best to give him a good life- taking in his mother, finding her a husband, helping to curb the more monstrous parts of Ramsay's personality*- but sadism was baked into the boy from the start of it all. Fortunately, Tyvek had spent his college years, in his first life, at kink clubs and gay bars all around San Francisco. He knew how to teach a sadist to hurt without destroying, and from his own struggles with his inner demons, he had learned to control that intense desire to hurt others.**

*Not, of course, that Ramsay would know any of that. Tyvek had no reason to tell any child in this world that they were a book character, let alone that they were destined to be a monster. Destiny was fickle, and Tyvek would force it into the place he wanted it if it killed him.

**Incidentally, Tyvek had learned to control that urge by having an abundance of abusive parents in his first life, and refusing to be that kind of person. Arriving in the world of George R.R Martin had been a shock, and he missed his friends and his internet, but he had formed the opinion early on that Tywin had nothing on his original father, now that he'd been through a few years of therapy.

The hour was almost up. The thief had been promised both of his hands, and a trip to the Wall, if he kept his secrets from Ramsay. Counterproductive, perhaps, but you only learned to channel your sadistic instincts in a healthy manner by doing it. Since Westeros didn't have Leather Daddies*, it had fallen to Tyvek.

*Of course, it had Tyvek, but he had never done much more in the Leather Protocol side of things beyond learning how to respect himself, and proper aftercare, and he didn't consider himself a Leather Daddy, so neither shall we.

"You can end this," Ramsay said into the man's ear, using the stool Lord Lannister had provided for him to stand on. He was trying his hardest to imitate his teacher's tone, the special one he would use for things like this, the one that made Ramsay want to snap to attention. It was a pale copy, he knew, but he wanted, so much, to impress his Lord, to gain his approval. "All you need to do is give me names. Just tell me who you've worked with the most, to rob the good citizens of Lannisport, and all this will be over."

The man just sobbed, and so Ramsay shrugged, and went back to whipping him. "Wait between lashes- otherwise the old sting will guard him to the new", that's what his Lord had always said, with a chuckle, and Ramsay kept that in mind. Strike, one, two, three, STRIKE, one, two, three, four, five, STRIKE, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, STRIKE, one, two, three STRIKE STRIKE, around and around, until a hand clapped him on the shoulder.

"Time's up, kiddo. You did good."

Lord Lannister examined the man as Ramsay washed off his whip- a knight cleaned his sword, a torturer washed off his tools just the same- then gave Ramsay a smile, and ruffled his hair. "Go get the sea salt poultice. We don't want him getting an infection, do we?"

Ramsay hopped to, cautiously, fetching the jar from the shelf. It was a creation of Maester Qyburn, and it would prevent almost any wound from festering… but it was agonizing to touch without gloves on, even. Out of curiosity, once, not long ago, Ramsay had cut himself on the arm, and used the poultice on it.

He would NEVER make that mistake again. It wasn't a sensation he would particularly wish on anyone, which may have been the lesson he was meant to learn from it, come to think. Lord Lannister was full of lessons like that.

"Good boy, Ramsay," Lord Lannister said distantly, as he pulled on the thick leather gloves you needed to wear to touch the poultice. He took a healthy dollop and began to smear it on the thief's back.

Names began pouring from his mouth a second later, and Ramsay hurried to write them down, quickly and efficiently. His Lord had taught him his letters and numbers himself, and then taught him a cypher of his own creation called "Spanish", so that he could write down facts and not worry about them being stolen by his enemies. It made Ramsay feel special, to know the secret language his Lord had developed. It was in this cypher that the names were written, and their locations and hiding places, and when the thief had dissolved into wordless babbling, Lord Lannister turned to Ramsay, peeled off his gloves, and examined his student's work.

"Hm. Should be easy to find them. Good work, kiddo."

Lord Lannister handed him a single dragon with a proud smile. "You did well. Not quite what we were shooting for, lad, but good enough. You earned this. Now run along, but come back in two days, at midday. We'll have another lesson then."

"Thank you, My Lord!" Ramsay said, bowing with excitement. He rushed from the room, deep in the bowels of The Rock, then to his family's living quarters. He pulled his coin purse from its hiding spot behind a loose stone in the wall, and put his new wealth away, petting his dog with a happy smile.

"C'mon, Blue," he said to the old hounddog, her droopy face looking up at him, tail thumping with affection. "Let's go have a look at the market and see what ingredients we can find for Mother!"

Boy and dog were inseparable from a young age, Blue a sickly runt, and Ramsay just… off-putting, to children his own age. Lord Lannister protected him, and had told him that, if he raised Blue well, he would have a loyal companion who would die and kill for him. Father had agreed, saying that if she lived, she would be a force of nature, if Ramsay showed her the right love.

And he had. Runt though Blue had been, she was one of the biggest dogs in The Rock, now, and the only time she left Ramsay's side is when he was learning to get information from people with his Lord.

In another life, Ramsay Snow is a monster in human skin, vile and violent and cruel. In this one, those have been forged, like a blade, beaten into shape from cudgel to a knife in the shadows. Tyvek had many concerns, many worries, many "did I make a difference"-s, but in this, he was certain. Ramsay Snow was a monster. Ramsay, the son of the cook and the Kennelmaster, was a young child, happy and playful, like virtually any other.

The tourney grounds were truly magnificent, a plethora of sights and sounds and smells. With Lady at her heels and Sandor just behind them, Sansa, Jeyne Poole, and Septa Mordane were able to walk about uninhibited, and buy whatever they desired. Father had given she and Jeyne twenty dragons each, and then given her another fifty, with orders to find her mother a gift from the four of her family members in King's Landing. It was no rich sum, not enough to ransom a nobleman's third son, but it was more than most would hold in their lives, and Sansa was grateful.

There were beautiful silks from Essos, blues and greens and colors that were somehow both at once, and images of a dress for herself began to dance in front of Sansa's eyes, until she saw the price and made an admittedly un-ladylike face. The stall keeper noticed, then laughed.

"You must be from the North- they're the only folk I know who make that face," he joked, not unkindly. "My wife makes that exact face herself. I have the same color in different material, my Lady, worry not."

He bent down and pulled up a bolt of cloth, the exact same color as the silk but much, much cheaper. "This is good, solid Westerlands cotton, my lady. Much cheaper, and it holds up longer, I think you'll find, while also being warmer."

Sansa rubbed it between her fingers, then turned to Sandor.

"What do you think, Sandor? Is it good quality? You're from the Westerlands, you'd know better than me."

Sandor gave her a cheeky grin, with the less scarred side of his face, and then he turned to the merchant. "You get this from the Clegane lands?" He asked, and the merchant brightened up.

"Indeed, friend, I did! The Lord of the House allows his smallfolk to grow and sell as much cotton as they want at half tax, so I get it for a better price than most do, by buying directly from the source."

Sandor examined the fabric with a smug air, then nodded to Sansa. "My people grow and weave some of the best cotton in the Westerlands. You'll only get a better price for it by buying from them directly, and that would be a long trip," he said with no small amount of pride.

"I'll buy six yards, then, and… do you have that color of silk as ribbons?" She asked, thinking about it and running prices through her head.

"I can do a yard of ribbon for two dragons on the silk, my lady."

"Oh good, I'll take a yard of silk ribbon, then, on top of the six in cotton," Sansa requested, the image of the dress she would craft dancing before her eyes. It was the sort of dress that she would pass onto her own daughters, one day, with luck, the way she was envisioning it. Or, if she had only sons, she'd pass it to Robb's daughters, or, gods forbid, Arya's daughters. Ha, that was a thought, Arya with daughters, each one more of a terror than the last. Maybe father would betroath her to Tommen, now that Sansa would not wed Joffrey, the beast; Baratheon blood with Wolf Blood like Arya had, goodness, they'd hear the children in Dorne.

Jeyne had selected a beautiful grey ribbon, and some matching thread, though she bought no cloth.

"We've enough cloth at home to make dresses for my sisters and I to last until my grandsons are serving Robb's," she explained. "But the grey might make a good accent for a few of the dresses I already have."

That was wise thinking, and Sansa said so, as they carried on, Sandor carrying their purchases for them. Septa Mordane had a basket with her, and she kindly carried Jeyne's ribbon and thread, and lunch for Sandor and herself. She was watching their purchases with silent approval, and Sandor was. Well. Sandor.

"Do you want to fight in the tourney, Sandor?" Sansa asked, wanting to be polite. She'd allow it, if he did, she knew her father would approve. But, to her surprise, Sandor shook his head.

"No sport in it. I've been watching them practice- most of them wouldn't be worth the time it takes to put on your armor. Tybalt could wreck most of them with one hand behind his back- me, Jon, and Lord Tyvek wouldn't need either hand."

On other men, it might have been bragging, or bravado. Sandor said it with such cold detachment, though, that Sansa knew it must be true.

"They say the Knight of Flowers, Ser Loras Tyrell, will be riding in the joust," Jeyne said in a dreamy tone, and Sandor shrugged.

"I've seen him joust, and I know he's better than me," he said dismissively as they walked, absently scratching Lady behind the ears. "But I'm not much for the lists. Give me a sword in my hand and I'll kill any man I'm told. The Gods fashioned some men to be Septons, some to be blacksmiths, but they fashioned me to be a killer."

"That's not true," Sansa said with a frown. Sandor had a strange look on his face, but she ignored it and pressed on. "You're noble and true, and honest. The Gods made you to do more than just killing… though you are good at it."

They might have spoken more on it, but then Septa Mordane shrieked. "Arya Stark! Young lady, what are you doing?!" She questioned, and bustled off to where Arya was buying… something sharp and pointy, most likely, off of a lad of maybe fifteen years, selling his Master's wares to passing knights.

"Buying a knife, it looks like," Sandor chuckled in amusement. "Your sister reminds me of Lady Cersei at that age. Absolutely wild. Your sister ever dress up in boy clothes and declare she was gonna be a knight?"

"No," Sansa sighed, "But it wouldn't shock me if she were to. Did you know the queen, when she was young?"

"Aye, spent most of my time with Tyvek, see, after Gregor burned my face- he hauled in the best Maesters and healers he could, on his own coin, to try and fix my face- and he always indulged her in every fancy. Used to sneak her off, late at night, to the deep parts of The Rock, teach her to use swords and knives, and he would say he had two little brothers, sometimes, until Tywin caught them at it."

"Well, ladies aren't meant to wield swords," Jeyne said in a snooty tone, even as Septa Mordane dragged Arya back, the second Stark daughter snarling like Nymeria at her heels.

"Tell that to the Dornish, or Lord Tyvek," Sandor huffed in amusement. "Or to that one," he said, gesturing to Arya as she broke away and ran off from their Septa.

"Mother despairs of her," Sansa sighed. Septa Mordane wanted to chase after her, but also didn't want to leave Sansa and Jeyne.

"Lord Clegane, would you be willing to…"

Sandor nodded, then said "I'll bring her to Lord Stark, she can be his problem," he grunted, even as he eyed the smithing apprentice she'd been speaking to. "Go find out who that Smith she was talking to was for me, eh? I imagine Lord Stark will wanna know, at any rate."

Sansa curtsied, and Sandor took off after Arya and Nymeria, wading through the crowd, until they were out of sight.

"That girl is a menace," Septa Mordane said, but Sansa could hear the affection, behind the annoyance. "I despair of making her a proper young Lady."

"I had a thought, just now," Sansa said, "Of her and Prince Tommen, wed to one another. They'd have nothing but girls, each one more wild than the last, and you'd be able to hear them in Dorne."

The thought made Septa Mordane throw her head back with an un-septa-like laugh, and she kept on laughing until she had to wipe her eyes. "Ooh, oh goodness, I can imagine. She'd have to come and find me, beg my help to try and corral them into shape."

They made their way over to the smith's stall, and he looked at Septa Mordane with a wry smile. "I take it the lady does that often?"

"Far too," she huffed, making him laugh.

"Well, she was a good customer, at least- but what can I do for you, ladies?"

"Well, your name, I suppose," Sansa said. "Our father may want to return whatever my sister bought."

The boy-smith perked up and pointed to a sign, roughly painted onto wood with a shaky hand that wasn't certain of spelling. 'NO RETERNS', it read, 'ONLY EKSCHANGES. SIGN WIL HOLD UP IN SMAL CLAYMS CORT.' Then it had a one, two, and a three crossed out, and '4 TIMES SUCKSESFUL'

"My name is Gendry, I work under Tobho Mott, my Lady," he said, "And Master Mott don't take returns, just exchanges for equivalent value."

Sansa frowned, but then caught sight of the maker's stamp on one of the helms for sale. "My father just bought a helm from your shop, not long ago," she realized. "A sort of… reptilian wolf sort of design?"

The boy, Gendry, brightened considerably. "You're one of the Hand's daughters, then? Lord Stark bought that from me- I was sad to let it go, but I think he was meant to buy it."

"Oh? You made it, not your master?"

Gendry smiled, a little embarrassed at his pride. "Yeah. Master Mott says the only thing left to teach me is how to reforge Valyrian Steel, and, well," he gestured to the sign, "Work on my spelling a bit."

"Well…" Sansa examined the sign, trying to think of something kind to say about it. "It's… your spelling is creative, and, really, no language is unchanging anyways. Maybe it will catch on?" She suggested, making Gendry hoot with laughter.

"I doubt that, my lady, but thank you," he said.

From a way away, they heard someone yelling, distracting them from the conversation. There was a crowd, listening to a screaming septon, preaching a fiery sermon to the gathered smallfolk.

"You'd best head away, ladies, holy sister," Gendry scowled unhappily. "That's one of the Six of Sevens, or so they call themselves."

"Six of Sevens?" Jeyne questioned, but Sansa watched her Septa go pale.

"Kinda a nasty bunch. They say that the Seven want the North… well, their words, not mine, but they want to turn the dire wolf worshipers of the North into good dogs of the Seven. I would say it's all so much talk, 'cept they killed a feller from the Night's Watch a few weeks back. Plus they say other stuff that I won't repeat around ladies, cause Master Mott would box me ears in, if I did."

"Blessings of the Seven on you, child," an increasingly pale Septa Mordane said seriously. Girls, we must get you to the tourney grounds- we can shop more later."

Lady, ever peaceful, began to growl, and Sansa turned. The crowd was staring at them, and then the Septon yelled "See the pagan demons before us, brothers and sisters? See the witch and her Hound of the Seven Hells, see how she corrupts a Septa to walk at her side! You must bring the Seven upon them!"

The crowd began to yell, advancing on them, and then, from the stall, over her shoulder, Sansa saw the head of a Warhammer, held firmly. It had a strange sentence engraved into the side of the head. "I Strike With The Fury Of The Thunder", it said, and from the stall, held out, steady and unfailing, stepped Gendry.

"I'll give you two more steps. This is the daughter of the Hand of The King. You want a war with the North? You go to them. Don't bring it to my house, any one of you. Next man who steps forward, I'll bury this hammer in his chest, and the three men behind him, don't think I won't."

"And so shall we, Gendry," a jovial voice said, Lord Renly and a host of Goldcloaks arriving behind him. The square was burning with tension, and Sansa found she was shaking. A man, either very brave or very foolish, stepped from the crowd, and Sansa screamed as Gendry did as promised, the hammer like lightning as it swung, faster than her eyes could track. Lady howled, charging in, and Sansa felt herself swoon, and knew no more.

Daenerys dreamt of flying, when she was a little girl. These dreams had long faded, but now she found they had returned, after her marriage. She flew through the clouds, her arms heavy with the resistance of the air around her, her chest burning with exertion. She woke from these dreams, as she always had, with a burning longing in her heart.

Drogo had nodded, when she told him of it, after their wedding, a few weeks away from Pentos.

"You would be a khal, if you had a cock," he had said, nodding. "I had dreams as that, as a child. I was a stallion, running through the sky, and so I will be one day again, when I have died. My dreams ceased when I became a khal, and thus will yours stop, when we have conquered your foes."

Did she have foes? Truly? Daenerys wasn't sure. The Usurper, obviously, but… he wasn't her foe specifically, was he? He hated all Targaryens equally. She knew she should hate him, in theory, but he'd been a distant, shadowy figure for so long that she didn't know if she could. Eddard Stark? How could he be her foe? Even Viserys agreed, he was in the right, for he had not known his sister had not been stolen. He had protested the "deaths" of Rhaenys and Aegon. He was no true enemy of their family.

Tywin Lannister? Perhaps, but he was long dead. His sons? Apparently not. Tyvek Lannister, she was told, had been one of her brother Rhaegar's only friends, and had raged against his father's actions. Jaime Lannister was a Kingslayer, an oathbreaker, but… they had been told why he had done it, and none of them could disagree. Tywin's youngest son was a dwarf, married to a smallfolk woman, and happy in his brother's shadow- and, it was said, completely brilliant.

"I met a dwarf, once," Drogo said after she had told him this. "Ugly little man, with mismatched eyes and squashed nose. He said that knights have swords, Dothraki have horses, but a dwarf must have his mind, for it is his best weapon- and then I realized he had a knife to my manhood, and we laughed, and shared a drink, and sent him and his guards on their way."

She was still incredibly cross with Viserys, and Magister Mopatis, but Viserys was her brother, and she loved him, though she had left both he and Ser Willem in Pentos. Ser Willem would not make the journey to Vaes Dothrak alive, and that was their destination. Drogo had explained what would occur, and Dany found herself curious about the experience.

Her wedding had been… almost fun. And, she couldn't deny, she'd been given a queenly gift by Magister Mopatis. Three dragon eggs, one black, one bronze, one green. She could feel a heat from them, when she pressed her palms to their stony exteriors- it grew stronger as she did, she thought.

The khalasar didn't know what to make of her, she knew. She was an enigma, an unknown factor. Never in the history of the Dothraki had a khaleesi taken her husband to be on such a chase, and never had she beaten him, knocking him from his horse. She kept his braid, pinning it to her dresses, a mark of her skill, and Drogo's hair was, slowly, beginning to grow back. Dany found that she liked to rub her hand through the roughly cut hair, after she and Drogo lay together. They had already fought another Khalasar, after the Khal had seen Drogo's hair. Drogo had brought her the dead Khal's scalp, and she kept it.

"A sign of my husband's might- I am honored to wear it as a testament to your strength." She had told him, and he had grinned wildly.

At night, when Drogo had fallen asleep within their tent, she rose, and she would put her palms upon each of her eggs in turn, their craggy surfaces biting into the dry skin of her hands, little flecks of blood seeming to disappear between their scales. She did not fear what he would say, for he knew her to be a daughter of Valyria, and that Magic was strong within her veins, but this was… private. Like the times when she was a small girl, and she woke from nightmares. She would run to Viserys, and he would tell her of their parents, and their brother, and he would sing to her in the tongue of her ancestors. This was private as that had been, a moment of quiet love that could not be shared with another.

She would sing to the eggs, barely following a tune, promising them the world, if only they would hatch. The idea of hatching them was consuming her, it sometimes felt. Her nephew Aegon would one day be the king who took back the Iron Throne, his little brother the greatest Hand since Orys Baratheon. Viserys had crafted a way to turn salt water into drinking water with only the sun and a series of tubes and mirrors. What had she done, yet? What would history say she had brought to the Restoration?

"Let it be dragons. Let us ride dragons once again," she whispered to the black egg…

And the egg began to crack.

"I WANT HEADS ON PIKES," Robert was yelling. "You hear me, Renly, you spineless faggot?! Heads! Pikes!"

Then he paused, and shook his head. "No. I'm sorry, little brother, that was uncalled for. You proved it today, you're far from spineless. Ned's right, I need to act like Stannis. I need to think, and be calm, or I'll see the FUCKING FAITH MILITANT RISE UNDER MY REIGN!"

Well, Ned thought, Robert was trying. He turned to Gendry, wanting to look the boy over for himself. The lad was pale, but he wasn't shaking, and his gaze was clear. It was a good sign.

"You went above and beyond," he said quietly. "House Stark will not forget that."

"Only did what was right, m'lord," the boy said humbly, but Ned shook his head.

"You've no idea how rare that is, lad. You have my thanks. As soon as she awakens, I'm sure you'll have Sansa's thanks, as well."

Lady had growled at Lyanna, when the great dire wolf mother had tried to get to Sansa, but she had let Gendry scoop Sansa up, and had allowed a shaken Sandor Clegane to take her without a peep of complaint. She'd even shown her teeth to Ned, her mistress's own father, but the Hound had been able to carry her to her chambers, where she now slept.

Riots had broken out in the city- religious riots. The Faith Militant was rearing its seven pointed head, snarling and spitting, and they were finding themselves hard pressed to put it down. Renly and the Goldcloaks had sallied out against the rioters thrice, and thrice had they been sent back to the Red Keep with their numbers reduced.

"And where's! Ned, Gods, who the fuck is this?"

"Uh, m'Gendry, y'Grace?" Gendry said cautiously, and Robert looked at him like he was seeing a ghost.

"Aye… aye. A good, strong name," Robert said, sounding haunted for a brief moment. Then he shook his head and turned to Ned. "We need to crush this, Ned, smother it in the crib. It can't spread any further."

"Agreed," Ned said, mind going rapidly to find a tactical solution to the riots. "What we need is some great show of force, to take back control of the area around the Red Keep, and the gates to the city, so that we don't find ourselves trapped like rats."

"Remember how all us lads used to make rats fight each other, back in the Vale?" Robert asked. "You, me, Elbert and Denys? I don't care to repeat that old game with us as the rats, Ned."

Then he raged away, shouting orders, Ser Barristan trailing in his wake.

"I don't worry so much about making trapped rats fight," Gendry muttered to himself. "I worry about when they learn to like the taste of rat meat, cause it's all they've had to eat."

What an ominous point.

Arya ran up to him then, and Ned was forced to catch her as she leapt into his arms, babbling excitedly about Gods alone knew what. Then, without warning, she dropped down, went "Hi, Gendry, Sansa is awake you should come see her, she was asking about you!" and bodily dragged him off without so much as a by-your-leave, Nymeria nipping at his heels to move him along faster.

That girl… Lyanna come again, and then even more wolfsblood tossed in beside.

"What am I to do with that girl, hm," he asked his own Dire Wolf. "She's far too wild by half for a marriage. She'd be a hit in Dorne, but we're not Dornish, are we?"

Lyanna huffed at him, seemingly amused, then padded away to do whatever it was that she did, when she was away from his side. Ned thought it might have involved eating rats from around the Red Keep, because there weren't any to be found, anymore. He was fairly sure all of the wolves had something to do with that, though they seemed to get on with the cats of the keep fairly well, and had dominated the hounds in the kennels.

Robert paused as Lyanna passed, offering her a pat on the head with a chuckle, calming down immediately in front of her as she passed him.

"Right, no more namby pamby, I'll do it myself," he declared. "Every man and boy of fighting age in the Red Keep is to be armed and armored, and we ride out and put this damn riot down! I'll not have it, not in my city, not during my reign!"

Well, that was that. Ned began calling out orders to his own guards. Robert had said every man and boy, but they wouldn't leave the Red Keep undefended, either, and so Ned set his own men to the task of drawing lots for who would stay, and who would go. He himself would go, for he would not let his friend and king go into battle alone; but it would be the height of foolishness to leave his daughters unprotected, and just as stupid to not bring a good showing of his own men. Four hundred guards he'd brought, the maximum legal amount, but every man in his household was of the North, and could match blades with any foe well enough.

Fifty Stark men to hold the Red Keep, twenty guards and thirty other men to leave as spares, plus Clegane, if he didn't join in the subduing of the riots. He was probably worth ten men just by himself, and wasn't it a shame he wasn't of the North? What a warrior he was! What a loyal guard! A more loyal bannerman you would be hard pressed to find, if Tyvek was to be believed.

That would be enough to protect his household, if not the whole Keep. Good.

An hour or so later, he found Gendry in the forge, cautiously fitting what looked like plate armor over Lyanna's neck as Arya watched on with excitement, the mother dire wolf giving her chosen human a long suffering look that seemed to say "Can you believe this nonsense?"

"Dare I ask, Arya?" He said, and his daughter lit up.

"Father! I had Gendry make armor for Lyanna, so she can go into battle with you! He said it isn't the best work he's ever done, but that I didn't give him much time to do anything better, and that it'll hold for a battle or two at least, but that it's so ugly he doesn't want to be associated with the work, and"

"Breathe, child," Ned sighed, trying not to laugh at his youngest daughter's antics. She was right- the armor was rather rough shod, a few pieces of dented armor quickly forged together, hardly even polished, but… there was still something behind the thrown together look, and it wasn't as if there wasn't armor for boar hunting hounds, right? "And go to the Tower of the Hand. You must stay there, while I ride out."

She looked like she wanted to protest this course of action, but Lyanna gave Nymeria a nip, and Nymeria obeyed, dragging Arya away by the sleeve.

He turned to Gendry and nodded at the armor. "Tis ugly, but the work looks solid, for being made of scrap. If we live through subduing these riots, I'll commission a full set for her."

The lad looked relieved. "I am sorry about this, m'lord. The little lady is…" he trailed off, and for a moment, Ned thought the lad looked almost smitten, but then he said "Uh, forceful?", and Ned began to laugh.

"Oh, she is. You've no idea, lad. Go get armored up like the rest, then come back to me. Stay by me, lad, and we might both get through this."

They rode out half an hour after that, a force of nearly two thousand men. His three hundred and fifty, Stannis and Renly's four hundred each; near two hundred Lannister men under Kevan Lannister's chosen leftenant; and four hundred or so under Robert's household. Gendry was at Ned's side, Warhammer on his back, and Ned couldn't help but compare him to Joffrey. Tall and broad to average and skinny, black hair to blonde, stoic even in his terror to, well. The fit Joffrey had thrown at being made to come with was unmanly, frankly. It didn't bode well for the Kingdoms, if they couldn't get Joffrey under some form of control.

Gendry had never ridden a horse ("I used to ride my master's old donkey, 'fore I got too big," he'd said, eyeing the horse cautiously), but for a first time rider, he was doing well enough. Ned thought the lad might have been praying, for he was mumbling something to himself, but then he caught the lad's words and had to suppress a laugh. He wasn't praying, he was listing off the steps to starting a forge in the early morning hours, and he looked so much like Robert trying to remember all the prayers to The Seven that Jon insisted he had to learn by comparing them to fighting moves that Ned wanted to weep for the nostalgia of it all. Robert, even at his most battle thirsty, had never stopped doing the same before each fight, up until the Greyjoy Rebellion.

Robert was at the head of their forces, resplendent in his armor even now, the stag antlers rising above his head. Renly and Stannis behind him, to his left and right, their helms almost identical to his, and Joffrey just behind them… it was almost poetic in a way, but a part of Ned felt angry that it wasn't Gendry up there. He didn't even ismell/i like a Baratheon.

Where had ithat/i thought come from? He'd have to examine that, after the battle.

He looked down to Lyanna, and even her slapdash armor looked gorgeous in the moonlight, with the glow of the torches bouncing off of it. She looked at him and gave a canine grin, as they got nearer to the rioting. There was a septon, standing above the crowd on a pile of rubble, screaming his sermon, directing the crowd to tear down the whorehouse they stood in front of, to drag the whores out to face justice.

"The only justice is the King's Justice, and I'm the King!" He heard Robert bark angrily. "All of you go home now, or you can go meet the Seven tonight; that's Justice for ya!"

A few very wise souls seemed to slip away into the night, but the vast majority of the crowd stayed put. Brave of them, if not incredibly stupid.

"Morons," he heard Gendry mutter. "Everyone knows there's nothing the King likes more than smashing in people's skulls."

Someone from the crowd threw a broken hunk of brick, striking Renly's horse, and then the charge was on. The Kingsguard circled tightly around Robert and Joffrey, Ser Jaime striking faster than the eye could follow, killing any man who slipped past Robert's defenses. Ser Barristan was like lightning, Ser Morrigen dancing like the crow of his sigil.

The crowd of rioters surged forward, and with a howl, Lyanna surged to meet them. Unwilling to let his wolf show more bravery than him, Ned shouted "Forward, Men of the North, forward!", and drew Ice.

Most men believed that Ice could not be used in battle, too big, too unwieldy. They thought it was ceremonial only, to make the Starks look good in front of their bannermen.

Those people were idiots. No Stark worth that name would ever commission a blade that couldn't be used in combat.

Though he could not see himself in the fight, Ned knew he was no slouch with his blade. He'd been told by men that they would rather to go hunting in winter than to face him angered and armed; right now, he was very angry indeed. He had been dealing with rising religious unrest in the North for nigh on a decade now, and he was getting sick and damned tired of it ibefore/i his daughter had been attacked, before the daughter of his steward had been attacked and nearly raped. Now?

Now he was furious. Now, there was a very good chance that he would do what he should have done ten years ago and tear down that damn Sept, stone by stone. He'd use them to start the construction of a Keep for Jon at Sea Dragon Point. Jon Drakestark had a good ring to it, didn't it?

Ned swung Ice in an arc around his head, steering his horse with his knees and lopping the arm off of one of the rioters, and then Gendry was thrown from his horse; Ned watched him stand, grab the man who had knocked him down by the head, and throw him like a ragdoll. An arrow bounced off of Lyanna's armor as Ned cut a rioter in half- lengthwise- and then he took an arrow to the side with a grunt. It wasn't a deep wound, from what he could feel, just a lucky shot that had slipped through the plate and into his padding, and so he ignored it.

Gendry had fallen behind, but Ned could see, when he looked, that he was doing just fine on his own, protecting a young lad with a thin sword that.

Wait.

That was no lad. That was.

"ARYA FUCKING STARK!" Ned heard himself roar, even as he killed another rioter. Damn that girl! Damn his sister, coming back to haunt him so, her ghost whispering mischief to his daughter at the worst time. Part of him wanted to be proud, because she was doing igood/i, that was the worst part. She was at least as good as he had been at her age, if not a little better, and with no training to boot. If he didn't strangle her after this, and marry her off to a wildling just to be rid of her nonsense, he would have to get her some actual training.

A crude spear came at him, and he cut into it once, twice, three times, then cut off the arms and head of the man using it, wolfsblood rising in him as he cut his way towards his daughter, determined to keep a circle clear around her.

Except as he got closer, he heard her shouting out numbers, and Gendry shouting others back.

"Ten! Eleven! Twelve!" She called with every rioter she killed, her sword like a snake, switching from hand to hand as needed.

"That one isn't dead, you cheat!" Gendry called, even as he swung his hammer and knocked the heads from two rioters in one blow. "You're only at eleven to my thirteen!"

Arya ducked under his arm and killed one, two, three rioters, grinning up at him. "Now you're only at thirteen to my fifteen!"

"Your fourteen, you mean!"

They were clearly doing well enough on their own, but. Still. He was going to wring her neck, after this was all over and handled.

The mob was breaking, now, running away and dying in little dribs and drabs; Robert had killed the septon preaching to the crowd, and that had broken this particular group. It was just a few stragglers left, and Ned stabbed Ice through one as Lyanna padded up to him, mouth red with blood and Nymeria scruffed in her jaws, looking contrite.

Lyanna looked up at him with a glare that seemed to say "You see this shit? Yours is out here too, this means", and Ned sighed, petting his wolf on the head between her ears.

"I know, I see her. In fact, she and I will be having a very severe talk now."

Arya had her back to him, excitedly babbling to Gendry as she cleaned off her sword. She didn't notice his approach, though Gendry must have, for he said "You know, your Lord Father is probably going to send you to be a Septa, after this."

"Nuh-uh, Father won't know I snuck out, as long as you don't tell him."

"Hm. Don't think I'll have to, m'lady," he said, amused, as Ned grabbed his wayward daughter by the wrist and shoulder, lest she stab him by accident. "Indeed you will not, Gendry, for I have eyes and ears. You should go and rejoin the rest of the men, Gendry. I have to teach my daughter a lesson."

Arya gulped, looking afraid, and Gendry whispered "Good luck" as he slunk off, knowing not to get between them for what was about to happen.

Ned would admit, when telling Robert the story the next night, that he didn't remember most of what he said to Arya at that moment word for word. He knew the outline of it- why would she do such a thing, she could have been killed, or raped, or raped and killed, none of them would have known it had happened, what did she think that would do to her mother, to him, to iJon/i?- and he knew that at one point he called her a "irresponsible, devil may care, waxy eared, slack jawed miscreant of a daughter"; the rest? An absolute mystery to him, unto his dying day.

He remembered with perfect clarity, though, how he had pulled her stolen breeches down and proceeded to bring the wrath of the North down on her bottom, even as she shrieked and kicked and sobbed in his hold, until he had set her upright, hiked her breeches back up, and frog-marched her to Wylas.

"Take fifty men and get her back to the Tower of the Hand, and then ikeep her there/i, if you have to sit on her to do it!" He snapped, passing her off. "If you have to clap her in irons, by the Gods so be it!"

Then, he found Gendry with his eyes and motioned for him to follow. The lad obeyed, and Ned brought him with him to meet Robert.

"You did well, lad," he said as they walked. "Thank you, once again, for protecting another of my daughters."

"Was more her protecting me, m'lord," Gendry blushed. "Got snuck up on and next thing I know, this little bundle of sharp bits had the guy that did it on the ground, bleeding from places a man ain't meant to, if you catch me?"

Ned knew what the lad meant, oh aye, he did.

"Realized it was her about half a second later and figured I should keep her close, so I told her we both had one kill, so we should see who got the most of them."

Ned smiled because yes, he could see that working on Arya.

The King had taken over the brothel, for the moment, using it as a base of operations and a hospital for the injured, one of whom was Ser Barristan, who had taken a blow to the gut meant for the king. It was shallow, praise the gods, but that meant they were down a Kingsguard.

"There's rioters at the Mud, Lion, and River gates, yet," Renly was explaining to his brothers. "Fewer in number, but better armed, and more disciplined, to boot. I sent twenty five of my men to nip at the bunch by the Mud Gate, to try and reduce their numbers."

"I sent thirty of my own men to the Lion Gate," Stannis added, frowning down at the map of the city the brothers had laid out on a commandeered table. "Though I split my forces to maintain order, and a path, between here and the Red Keep."

"Good thinking, both of- Ah! Ned! Good, c'mere and tell me what you think." Robert said, noticing him.

Ned went to his side, and a Maester bundled over to remove the arrow from his side- it had bruised him, under his mail and padding, but no worse- and examined the map. Tiny markers had been placed on it, to indicate groups of rioters that they were tracking. The biggest concentrations were at the aforementioned gates, and around the Great Sept of Baelor- near ten thousand, in total- but the Goldcloaks had managed to join forces with their own, meaning they had the more controlled, focused rioters outnumbered by half.

"Don't suppose we can't let them smash Baelor's?" He asked, only half joking, but it made Robert laugh.

"Bah, I wish. I don't think Stannis would mind it if they did either!" Robert laughed, and Stannis, to the shock of everyone in the room, shook his head with a smile. It was small and almost no more than a quirk of his lips, but it had happened.

"I think Renly would mind it even less," he said, and Renly almost fell from his chair.

"Stannis, did you, did you just? Was that a jape?!"

"No- now focus."

Ned looked at the map a little deeper, then to Gendry, an idea forming in his head. "Gendry! Come have a look at this, lad, tell us what you think."

Gendry came to the table, cautiously, looking at the lords and the king before him, then down to the map. He had a very serious look on his face, almost the same as Tyvek had, during a strategy session during the Greyjoy Rebellion, and pieces began to sort of… slide into place, in Ned's brain.

"We need to clear out the Sept, first," Gendry said, firmly, after a minute or two. "It's a symbol to people. If we take control of that, it says that the King commands the faith, and that this rioting and looting is against the orders of both men and the Gods."

Robert was looking at the boy kind of funny, but he nodded. "That's not a bad point. That's not bad at all. How would you do it? No wrong answers, right now."

Again, Gendry thought, then looked to Ned. "What would you do, Lord Stark?"

"Split the forces into three- attack from the West, South, and the East, drive them away from the Sept and into the other forces."

"Box them in, sorta?" Gendry asked, and Ned nodded. "Right… Lord Renly?"

"Uncle Renly, like I said last time, lad," Renly said with an affectionate smile. "And I would agree with Lord Stark, though I would say to split the forces in four, and go from all four cardinal directions."

"Lord Stannis?"

The middle Baratheon brother looked at the map and, after a moment, said, rather brutally, "Light a fire to the North of the Sept, close them in from the south, east, and west. They can die in combat, or risk running through the flames, if they don't surrender."

Gendry looked at the map again, then to Robert. "I like Lord Stark's plan the best, y'Grace, but you're all forgetting that the Great Sept is on top of a hill. We would have to fight uphill the entire time. That's supposed to be harder than regular fighting, right?"

The three men looked at him, and Robert began to grumble about the Gods cursing him with Joffrey.

"Gendry has the right of it," Ned said. "We'd have a slog of it, but then, better to do it now, when we have the numbers and we're fresh."

They dickered about it for a bit, but in the end, they went with Gendry's suggestions, and they rode out once again.

They were in Valyria. This was, according to Jon Snow, A Very Big Deal. It had once been, he had explained to her, the greatest empire in the history of the world. Dragon Riders, magic workers, slave-keepers, they had been all that and more. They sounded like a nasty bunch, and Jon had agreed with her.

They had flown to the very heart of the once great empire on the back of Cannibal, with enough food and water to last them two months. Of course, according to Cannibal, it wouldn't take anywhere near that long to do what they needed to. What, exactly, that was, she didn't know. She just knew that the dragon said it had to be done, and that both of them were coming with. You didn't argue with something that big.

Well. Jon did. But then, Jon was good looking but stupid.

When they had first landed, Jon had gone into a smithy with a couple of sacks and his fancy sword, along with Ghost, leaving her under the protection of Cannibal, who, it should be said, took that job very seriously. There had been a clattering, from the smithy, some yelling and yipping, and then finally Jon had emerged, looking satisfied with himself, both sacks full of various treasures, and a Valyrian Steel breast plate for both of them, as well as a set of daggers, some half finished swords, and more scrolls than she cared to question. It was, according to him, a kingly haul that would make him so rich, his grandchildren's grandchildren would still be rich in a few hundred year's time.

Now they were standing in the center of a ring of hills, and Jon looked… hollow. Like he was grieving something.

"These used to be mountains," he said after a moment. "They were called The Fourteen Flames, and this was where Valyria was born. This is where my father's ancestors were born, where Daenys the Dreamer saw what was to come. Did she see this?"

He looked at the mounds, one after the other, an unspeakably sad look on his face. "Could she have understood it, if she did?"

Ygritte watched him, curious as to what was going through his head.

He looked up at Cannibal, who nuzzled their human with affection, before holding their head down for Ygritte to climb on.

"This part of the plan?" She asked, and Jon nodded.

"Aye. It'll be alright. Just go with Cannibal," he told her.

So with Cannibal she went, the sky-death climbing higher, so that Jon was almost a speck beneath them… and then they let loose a torrent of flame onto Jon. Ygritte was aware she was screaming at Cannibal to stop, clinging onto Ghost's neck to stop the dire wolf from flinging himself from the dragon's neck to get to his master, but she couldn't have said much more about herself in that moment. Below them, lava began to bubble up from the mounds, gentle streams of hissing, popping molten stone.

Some flowed towards the ocean, steaming as they met water, and some stayed upon the land, rivers of flame cleaning away poisoned plants, the dead and cursed materials turning to ash in their wake. All this, and still Cannibal burned Jon, the heat so intense that Ygritte felt her lips begin to crack and bleed, even so far from the source and protected by the width of Cannibal's skull.

A new mountain began to rise up, in the center of the ring of hills, where Jon had stood, and faced his death. It grew impossibly fast, slicing through the air, forcing Cannibal to fly even higher, breathing fire on it the whole time. The heat was so intense that Ygritte was forced to close her eyes and shield her face with her arms, lest she be burned. Because of this, she couldn't say how long it went on, only that it seemed to last forever, and that ash began to settle in her hair and on her exposed neck, giving her small burns where it touched her, like pops of grease or burning fat.

The heat began to subside, after a time. Ygritte was able to look up and open her eyes, finding that Ghost was now a deep black, from the ash that had settled on his fur. Below them lay a virtual paradise of rivers and soft mosses, the mountain in the center of it all standing like a godstree in a forest as Cannibal banked to land on the top. Ygritte slid from their neck as they uttered a mournful grumble, Ghost snuffling, trying to catch a scent, gave a low howl that sounded like a sob. Ygritte herself wanted to scream, but found it wouldn't come.

She shouldn't care. She'd known Jon for less than a moon turn, less time than she had known Byll, even. She shouldn't care, but her heart was in pieces.

Jon had told her about his life, and she had told him about hers. She knew Arya and Robb as well as she knew Jon, she knew Lancel and Joanna, and Sam, and Bran, Tybolt and Rickon. She knew what Jon had wanted to name his children one day, all of them, however many he had. They hadn't lain together, no, but she knew him as well as she could know any man. She'd only been half teasing when she told Jon they were married now, for he'd stolen her farther than any man of the Free Folk ever could have.

She was on her knees, watching Ghost, hope draining from her heart. All of it, gone. Jon's life, just to what, turn a bunch of hills green? It was shit. Horse, bull, dog, it was all shit. She couldn't even look at Cannibal, because she didn't trust herself not to try and attack them, so great was her rage at the unfairness of it all. Jon had trusted them, damn it! Had called the ancient monster his friend, his soul match, as surely as Ghost was, and they had killed him! Sacrificed him for what was, in the grand scheme, nothing!

Keening, Cannibal took to the sky, gaining height, leaving she and Ghost at the peak of the mountain.

"Good! Go on! Get away, you murderer!" She yelled, collapsing back onto herself with a sob, even as the tears refused to come. Why did this hurt so much?

"C'mon, Ygritte, I'm just fine," a voice said from behind her. "Don't be mad at Cannibal."

She stood, whirling around, nearly falling as familiar arms caught her, keeping her upright. She looked up, refusing to believe it.

But so it was. Naked, yes, with red, fever flushed skin, bald as a baby, he was, but it was Jon, in all his glory.

Ygritte shrieked and punched him in the face, and then, to the shock of them both, she kissed him, long and hard.

"Don't you do that shite again, Snow!" She threatened, and he hugged her.

"I promise, no more death fakeouts," he swore, kissing her again, more softly.

Then, he smiled. It was a mischievous sort of smile, full of wild, animalistic joy.

"What do you think about bringing the fight to the Others?"

"This is going to be a disaster," Grandmother groused, and Willas couldn't help but to agree.

Lord Tyvek had been nothing but polite to the entire family, charming, collected, friendly. He got on well with Garlan and Leonette, he was pleased with Margaery's intelligence as much as her looks. He was, on parchment, the perfect match. But.

"He's a mummer of the highest order, and I don't know what end he's working towards," Grandmother said, quietly, and yes, that summed it up rather nicely. Tyvek Lannister was hiding something from everyone around him, maybe two or three somethings, and it wasn't just his preference in his partners, which was sort of a kingdoms-wide open secret. Sort of like Loras and Renly, everyone except father pretty much knew.*

*Mace Tyrell was very proud of the fact that he'd known about Loras liking boys before his mother had. He was the first out of the entire family, in fact, but he loved his son and didn't care. Mace Tyrell was not as stupid as his mother thought, you see. He'd not said a word, to anyone other than Loras, about the whole thing. All he had said to Loras was "Don't tell anyone I know, I want them to keep thinking I'm stupid so I don't have to do as much work. Also, I still love you, son.", and that had been the end of it.

It was one day before The Wedding, full of last minute preparations, but Tyvek and Margaery were not taking place in that particular bit of chaos. Instead, they were walking through one of the many, various rose gardens, one of the flowers tucked into Margaery's hair, plucked without disturbing petal or thorn by Tyvek's deft fingers. Willas and his grandmother could see them, from this high balcony seat, though hearing them was out of the question.

"What do you think they're discussing?" Willas asked. "I'm rather curious."

"Hm," Grandmother grumped. "He's a dissembler of the highest order, but he's a Lannister, as well. I would imagine it's a practical conversation, whatever it is, and I'm sure Margaery will tell us at dinner, tonight. One last family dinner, before her wedding."

"Speaking of practical, what have you heard about that Ramsay of his? I know you've set spies to it, don't deny."

"Another worrying thing. You were right about his eyes, that boy is a monster; Tvyek's pet as surely as the Mountain was Tywin's. I also can't even find a rumor about him that could be held against either of them."

"But you have heard Rumors Of A Sort," Willas questioned, looking at his grandmother seriously. "Or you wouldn't have specified that none of it could be used against them."

"Smart boy. Yes, rumors, and not a salacious one among them. He goes to the North, to Bolton lands, to discuss some costal trade rights with Roose Bolton. He brings his hunting hounds and his kennel master with, because he wants to add some good northern stock to his dogs."

Well that made sense. The Westerlands had plenty of snowy mountains, and got cold enough, come winter. Breeding in some northern blood wasn't a terrible idea. Goodness, Willas had bred in a few dogs from the Stormlands that were meant to swim, and they'd adapted incredibly well to the sands of Dorne. Dog breeding was a tricky hobby, you could never tell what would suit a line well until you'd seen it a few generations in.

"While he's up there, his Kennel Master marries a woman, brings her back, and a few months later, she's visibly pregnant. No real issue there, nothing of any real note, is there? Why, then, does a Lord Paramount take such interest in a random cook's son? Why does he make her his head cook, over fifty or so undercooks from the Westerlands? It makes less than zero sense."

"You won't like the idea I'm pondering, grandmama, so don't call me a dolt, or hit me with one of those withering glares of yours, but. He might just be taking an interest in the boy because he wanted to create a loyal monster. He isn't the first smallfolk child Lord Lannister has seen to the education of, now is he? Look at what he's done with Lannisport. You confirmed for yourself he's not into children, in such a… distasteful… manner, did you not?"

Ollena Tyrell snorted in amusement. "No, he's not. He made it illegal for any brothel in the Westerlands to operate with anyone younger than fourteen present, and he's enforced that ifirmly/i. He had one of his own men ripped apart by horses. Tied one limb to four horses each and then had them pulled right off. He's his father's son in many, many ways, even if old Tywin would have hated to say it."

Turning his attention back to the garden, he saw that they had stopped, and Tyvek was petting that great beast of a cat that was Margaery's childhood pet. That was a miracle, damn near.

"Though I suppose he can't be all bad, if That Particular Demon likes him," Grandmother mused, giving Balerion the usual level of respect she was known for. How often had she and Balerion sat, side by side, judging everyone? She could whiffle on it all she wanted, but nobody in the family was immune to Balerion's charms.

Later that night, the whole family, save Margaery and Loras, was sitting for their final family dinner. Loras was in King's Landing, and would miss the wedding, but he'd be serving as Margaery's sword once she and Tyvek arrived in the Capitol. Margaery was…

Bursting through the doors and throwing herself into her chair with a huff, clearly unhappy. When the food was served, and the servants cleared away…

"Why are all the good men gay or wed already?" She bemoaned. "The things I'm likely to have to do to get him to lay with me- and he was honest about it! I can't even be angry at him for it, because he's been honest with us from the start!"

Angrily, she snatched up a handful of fries and munched on them. As surely as Willas had predicted, they had become a nightly presence at family meals.

"We're stuck with him now," Grandmother said, enjoying a bite of cheese. "We can't get out of it without ruining your reputation, my dear."

She gestured to the table then, a wide sweeping, open palmed thing. "And see the abundance we feast upon tonight! Not a traditional Reacher meal before us! This cheese your father and I are both stuffing our faces with? We can only import it from the Tarlys, due to fat Sam's fostering with the Lannister. The fries we've all grown to love in the last three months? A new and exciting Westerlands dish from the kitchens of Tyvek Lannister himself! There's nothing on this table, currently, that wasn't thought up in a kitchen in the Westerlands. Whatever hand Tyvek Lannister is playing, we've played right into it. Now we have to go along for the ride."

"Indeed you do," a cool voice said from the shadows, Tyvek Lannister emerging like a Lion from long grass. "And believe me, it will be a iwild/i ride."

Onto the table he slapped a human head. Mother began to wretch, dry heaving, and Father and Garlan looked ready to draw blades on the man; but then the head opened its eyes and began to try and hiss at them. The eyes were a beautiful shade of glowing blue, but Willas found himself filled with an irrepressible revulsion at the sight of them, and he knew Garlan must have felt the same, for his little brother had pushed Leonette behind him with one arm. His chair had flown behind him, and Willas wanted to vomit. It was a deep, visceral reaction- mother had vomited already, and Margaery looked like she was about to follow- and an instinctual voice inside his gut told him to kill the thing in front of him.

"Hm. I did wonder if you would react like this- the Hightower blood is strong in all of you, clearly," Lord Tyvek said, amused. "I love it when I'm right."

He grabbed a handful of fries, then made a happy little sound when he found a bowl of gravy, pulling it closer to dip them in it. "Ramsay, my sweet boy, if you could… take care of the head? Don't destroy it, I'll need it later."

Willas repressed a yelp as that creepy little cook came from the shadows as well, pulling the head into a sack, bowing to his master as he retreated from the room. Immediately, the urge to vomit began to dissipate, the relief almost palpable. Tyvek looked at them all, then, gauging their reactions.

"Well? Sit, sit. I'll explain what's going on, and how we're going to save the world together."

Looking out at the lands beyond The Wall, Victarion resisted the urge to tremble. He pushed it down, crushed it beneath his heel. He was still Ironborn. He was still a man of the Iron Islands. He was no craven, and he would not let himself give into the screaming desire to run as far and as fast as possible.

Besides, he had a duty to the living. Craster's wives and daughters and daughter-wives (a thought that still made him gag. He didn't think even Euron would have gone that far) had all sort of attached themselves to him, for better or worse. They called him Otherbane, now, and Crasterbane, in tones verging on worship. It was almost uncomfortable, how they looked to him, but then, it made dealing with other Free Folk a little easier. He and Benjen Stark had been kept busy, to that end. First Ranger and former First Ranger alike had been back and forth over the Wall, negotiating and making peace.

He'd dealt with a lot of Wildlings; Free Folk, over his time at the Wall- and some before, when he was a Captain- but never at this scale. This was thousands of people every few days, and somehow, he was supposed to make them keep the King's Peace when they didn't have any conception of what that even meant? Drowned Gods tits, this would kill him before the Others did.

The lift cage was coming up, if the crackling and cranking were any indication, and sure enough, he could see the rope moving. It was too early for a shift change- he'd taken a double watch- but sure enough, it was one of the Frey boys, come scuttling up to him.

"Lord C'mand'r wants ya, Ser," the lad said. He was one of the younger Freys on the Wall, having practically grown up as a Brother of the Watch, but as Freys went, he was a decent person. "I'm to take yer watch, Ser."

Victarion scowled, but clapped the boy on the shoulder, nodding. "Stay warm, boy," he ordered, heading down in the winch. An unexpected meeting with the Old Bear? It was probably about the Wildlings, then. A big bunch of them were due to arrive in the next day or so, from what reports said. If they had arrived early, it wasn't by passing his watch point.

The lift cage always seemed to take forever, but Victarion had never been a man afraid to be alone with his thoughts. Up until he'd been captured by Tyvek Lannister, in fact, he hadn't been afraid of anything. Victarion knew he wasn't a bright man, but he was a brave one, and a strong one. He wasn't afraid to die. He had killed one Other, he could kill more, so he didn't fear the Others, or their armies of the undead, the swarming corpses of untold thousands.

He feared Tywin Lannister's son.

Euron had been an abomination, sadistic and cruel. He had raped Aerion many times when they were children, yes, Victarion would say it. Euron was a monster, but… he'd never, to Victarion's knowledge, kept a man alive just to eat pieces of him while he watched.

"Oh, do you want a taste?" That was a phrase that haunted Victarion's nightmares. "It's cooked just right, I think you'd like it. Euron? What about you?"

Yes, Victarion was afraid of Tyvek Lannister, and he would die being scared of him. He was man enough to admit that the man turned him into a craven.

He made for the Old Bear's solar, and found

"Theon?!"

"Uncle!" His nephew said with a grin standing. They embraced, and Victarion looked at the boy- man now, really- taking in his features. He looked like Victarion remembered Quellon looking, before the stress of having Euron for a son aged him. He looked happy and healthy, and well cared for.

"Look at you! All grown up! Theon my boy, what are you doing here?"

Victarion knew he was closer with Theon now than he might have been in another life. They were the only Greyjoy men left in the world, and Theon the only one who would be able to carry on the name. That meant something.

"Just a visit, uncle- Lord Stannis tasked me with making a delivery of those dragonglass arrows you ordered, and gave me leave to come see you, when I asked him. I'm only here for the day, Uncle, but…"

"It iis/i good to see you, my boy," Victarion said honestly. "Letters just aren't the same, I'm afraid."

They spent the day together, uncle and nephew. They sparred, they spoke of sailing (Victarion's heart clenched when he realized he hadn't gone sailing in nearly a decade and some change); they spoke of Asha, of Theon's friends (not a Real Noble among them, and all the truer for it), of life on The Wall.

And as night began to fall, just before Theon was due to leave, Victarion showed him their wight. It was kept in a cage, iron hooks forced through the gaps between its bones locked to heavy chains. They had taken off a leg and had driven iron nails into its eyes, lest the Others see their works through it, and it's frozen guts bulged out of its belly like a grotesque mockery of the chains that held it upright.

Theon vomited, and not a man, woman, or child among them said a word against him for it. Many of them had done the same or similar, when they had seen it.

"What… what in the name of the Drowned God is that?" Theon asked, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, coughing up a bit of bile and spitting it out onto the ground.

"It's a wight," Victarion said with a sigh. "A foot soldier of our ultimate enemy. You see we're bringing the Wildlings across the Wall? These are part of why."

"Does the king know about this?"

"Not yet," Victarion said, trying to hide his shudder. "Tyvek Lannister plans to tell him in person. He brought a few other bits of these with him."

"Tyvek Lannister? The Butcher of Orkmont? That Tyvek Lannister? He was the one who killed Uncle Euron, wasn't he?"

And hadn't ithat/i been a nasty bit of business? All the thralls freed and armed, children under ten taken and given to the Faith of the Seven to raise to be anything other than Ironborn; girls under eighteen sent to the Silent Sisters… and everyone else killed. And not just killed. If it had been clean, Victarion might have called it fair. But the rest were told to either take the Black, or they were impaled. They were impaled like a forest of bodies and then, still screaming, they were lit on fire. Orkmont had burned for seven days and nights, before the fires went out.

Victarion had been there when Robert Baratheon had heard about it. He'd watched the man laugh, and then slowly realize that no, his good-brother wasn't japing. He'd killed off an entire island, just to prove a point.

"The very same," Victarion scowled, and Theon gave a shudder.

"I heard he was dissatisfied that the Drumms surrendered peacefully, after that. He wanted Red Rain, it's said."

"Hmm. Tywin Lannister's blood runs strong in him, clearly. It's true."

This part was going to hurt to say.

"But now we have to work with him. All of us. We're alive, and we must work together if there's to be any life at all."

They parted then, Theon mounting his horse.

"You saved my life, you know, lad," Victarion said, clapping Theon on the knee before he began to ride. "That knife you sent me all those years ago? Dragonglass kills em. I owe you for that, my boy."

Then he fingered the handle of his ax and grinned. "And this ax of mine is thirsty for the flesh of Others. You tell that friend of yours who made it how pleased I am, lad."

Theon grinned. "Daegon always complains about putting his blood and sweat into his work and getting nothing but more work in thanks. I'm sure he'll be glad to hear you haven't got any complaints."

He sobered, then. "I'll tell Lord Stannis about this, uncle. If Lannister hasn't told the King, I'll make sure to tell Lord Stannis."

"Good lad," Victarion said. Then, Theon rode into the falling darkness. Victarion watched his nephew go, fading into the shadow, then nodded to himself and went to get some supper.

Winterfell was a hive of activity, and Catelyn Stark was party to none of it. Though she could see all that happened in the courtyard from her high window seat, she could hear very little, and effect even less. Robb had put her in her rooms and forbid her from leaving. Robb, her own son, had imprisoned her. For her safety, he said, for a great number of Northmen were very unhappy with her, but she knew the truth.

She was up here because iRobb/i was unhappy with her.

They'd had words, after Tyvek Lannister had left. Harsh, public ones that had seen her confirm that, yes, she had prayed for Jon to die when he was a child, as was her right as a scorned woman forced to tolerate his presence in her home. Harsh, public words where Robb had angrily said that if she would pray for the death of one Stark, perhaps the rest of them were in danger as well- and not long after, she'd been escorted to her chambers and locked in tightly.

That had been a moon turn before. Now she watched as Bolton men rode through the gates, Lord Domeric Bolton at the head. He dismounted and knelt to Robb, and then they hugged, excited to reunite. Both of them had fostered for a time in Barrowtown, with William Dustin and his wife, who was Domeric's aunt. Robb had only been there for three years, but he had developed a close relationship with both Domeric, and Harrion Karstark, who had also fostered with the Dustins.

Rickon and Shaggy Dog were at Robb's side to meet Domeric, though why Domeric Bolton had come to Winterfell, she did not know. To see the wight, perhaps? She didn't know, and from her prison, she had no way to tell. He knelt to greet Rickon with a very serious handshake, extending a hand for Shaggy Dog to sniff, before Robb led him away.

She was going to go mad with boredom up in this tower, not knowing what was going on, and denied even her sewing materials, lest she try and sneak out a message, somehow. How little her own son thought of her! He kept Rickon from her, even! From her littlest child! Like she was a threat to him, to her sweet little boy!

She had to get a letter out to Ned, somehow. Robb had cut off her access to the outside world, yes, but there had to be a way.

The maids, maybe? Not likely. Robb had assigned two deaf girls to be her maids, to keep her from communicating with them properly. Where he'd even found them, she couldn't guess well enough to say. She hadn't known of any deaf girls near or in Winterfell, and these thick, swarthy girls were as Northern as you could get, South of the Wall. You couldn't really even call them maids- they didn't dress her, they just came in, changed the sheets, and took her laundry away to be washed. The guards brought her her meals, though those were of good quality still, at least. Sometimes Robb would send up a freshly prepared trout, in the Riverlands style she still loved, all these years later. Only twice, so far, in her month of imprisonment, but it was a sign that he did still love her, she thought.

The worst of it was the boredom. She had no sewing materials, no way to write. All she had been given was a book of Northern Genealogy, as it related to the Starks. It was meant to mock her, she thought, for it was specifically about the Stark ibastards/i who had risen to be Lords in their own right. Brandon Snow, brother of Torrhen Stark, had been made Brandon Stark before he fled to Essos to found The Company Of The Rose, his sons to take the name after him.

Tommard Snow, son of Theon Stark, founded House Whitestone, though they were now nearly extinct. Theon's other bastard, Morra Snow, a daughter, had married a third-born son of House Umber, and their descendents still ruled Bear Island in the form of the Mormont family.

Old Nan was the bastard daughter of Lord Rickard's grandfather, even- it seemed there was no end to Well Placed Stark Bastards- even Lord Rickard's father had a bastard son, Jonos Snow, who had taken the Black and been granted the name of Stark when he did so. The book was as thick as her lower arm, from wrist to elbow, and each page traced the lineage of a Stark Bastard. There were hundreds of them in the history of the North, and the book claimed that House Stark loved their bastards because a bastard had founded their house and their line.

House Stark, the book claimed, was descended from Brandon the Builder, who was known as Brandon Flowers, once. A son of Garth the Greenhand, trapped in litter most of his life, his legs withered and twisted up on themselves. The founder of the House was a Bastard- even the family name came from the Tongue of the First Men. iStyrark/i, the book said, which meant "The path of the crow's flight". Straightforward and directly to the point, the ancient founder of House Stark was said to be, and his Child of the Forest wife may have been moreso. Maybe all of that was why the family kept their bastards close, the author posited. They had never forgotten their origins.

The author had a page of his own, in the massive tome. Maester Rodrik Snow, son of. Son of Rickard. He had not grown up with his siblings in Winterfell, but he had known his father, who had doted on him and had paid for him to go to the Citadel, and kept him in coin the entire time he was there. He served now in the keep of House Mormont, in a twist of irony even Catelyn couldn't miss.

This had been the book Robb had allowed her to read, in her captivity. She must have read it twice, by now, cover to cover, and some sections three or four times by themselves. There were… salacious things said, about some of the Stark Bastards, and a part of her couldn't resist the gossip, even if it was now centuries out of date. Many of them had gone to Essos and joined the Company Of The Rose, it seemed- and every one of them that did bore the name Stark. Every Snow who left to take the Black went with the name Stark on their shoulders. Every. Single. One.

And. The author left a note. A note that made her wish to weep, for some reason she could not identify.

iMy Lord Father told me, the day I was to leave for the Citadel, that though I would give up my name upon joining the order, that from Winter Town to Oldtown, I would sail with the name of 'Stark', as every Snow before me who had joined the Night's Watch had. 'You are no knight, my son, no warrior, but you have earned the name of your ancestors as sure as any other,' he told me. I swore that I would be worthy of his faith in me, and the faith of all my ancestors in all their bastards. I hope that one day, a future Snow shall read this and take strength in it./i

And then, below that, in the unsteady, shaky hand of a child, another note that made her wish to throw herself from the window, if she focused on it too much.

iI, Jon Snow, son Eddard Stark, son of your father, Lord Rickard, do on this date in the year 289 AC, vow to prove myself worthy of all Snows who came before me/i

8,025 BC (approx): Cannibal hatches for Brandon the Broken, bastard son of Garth Greenhand

8,000 BC (approx): the first Long Night ends. Brandon the Broken, on Cannibal, mounts a successful assault against the Night King, driving him and his forces back. Brandon and other First Men, the Giants, and the Children of the Forest work together to build The Wall, and The Night's Watch is founded. House Stark is founded, and Brandon takes the image of his Child of the Forest wife's second skin as his sigil upon their marriage.

7,990 BC: Winterfell is completed, and Brandon builds the Hightower and Storm's End for two of his brothers.

7,915 BC: Brandon the Broken, now called Brandon the Builder, dies. His son, Brandon, becomes the King of Winter, and Cannibal leaves a single egg beneath the catacombs of Winterfell before flying beyond the Wall to keep Vigil against the Others.

800 BC (approx): Valyria founded. Dragons bound to serve Valyrians alone, rather than choosing who they hatch for. Cannibal is given prophecy by the spirit of Brandon the Builder about how to free them, but must wait. Burns Hardhome in their rage and grief.

001AC: Targaryen Family essentially rules Westeros. Company Of The Rose formed.

258 AC: Tyvek born. Regrets it immediately.

265 AC: Cersei and Jaime Lannister born. They don't regret it, as they are actual babies, not 40-ish y.o men reborn into baby bodies.

272 AC: Tyrion Lannister born, Joanna Lannister dies. Tyvek swears to protect his siblings with his life, and love them if he has to kill every king in the world to keep them happy.

279 AC: Rhaenys Targaryen born on New Year's day.

281 AC: The Tourney of Harrenhall. Jaime joins the Kingsguard. Rhaenys is given her kitten, Balerion. Aegon, son of Rhaegar and Elia, born.

283 AC: Robb, Jon born. Lyanna dies in childbirth. Robert marries Cersei. Theon Greyjoy is one year old.

284 AC: Robert and Cersei's first son is born, black of hair, blue of eye. "Dies" shortly after. Tyrion meets Tysha and weds her in secret. Joanna Lannister born at the very end of the year.

286 AC: Joffrey born. Tyvek has Jaime rendered impotent to prevent other incest bastards from his siblings.

288 AC: Tywin Lannister dies.(Chapter One)

289 AC: Greyjoy Rebellion. Euron Greyjoy dead by Tyvek's hand. Tyvek commits the Orkmont Massacre. Jon goes to the West to be Tyvek's squire.

293 AC: Events of Chapters 2, 3, 4, 5 and 6 occur

294 AC: Chapters 7, 8, 9 and 10 take place

296 AC: Chapter 11, Chapter 12, and Chapter Thirteen occur. 2 weeks later, Chapter 14 occurs. Chapter Fifteen occurs. Chapter 21 occurs

One week later, Chapters Seventeen, Eighteen, and Nineteen occur concurrently.

One month later, Chapters 20 and 24 happen. At the same time, Chapter 29 occurs.

One week after that, Chapter 22 occurs. At the same time, Chapter 23 occurs.

Chapters 25, 26, and 27 occur. Chapter 30 occurs. Chapters 33 and 34 occur.

Chapter 31 occurs during the fifth month of 296 AC. Chapter 43 occurs at this time as well. Chapter 45 takes place at this time

Chapters 32, 35, 36, occur. Chapter 38 also occurs at this time.

Two weeks later, Chapters 40, 41, and 42 occur

One month later, Chapters 37 and 44 take place

It was strange to think that Tyvek was married now. Wedded and bedded. His good-brother was a sword swallower, just like Renly was, but unlike Renly, Tyvek had, in the end, picked out a wife to at least pretend to fuck. They'd gotten the Raven that he and the Imp, and his new bride, and the Imp's wife and daughter, were leaving Highgarden with all haste. They would take a ship to The Arbor, and then from there to King's Landing.

The Raven had brought other news. Dark news that even Varys had not known about. It seemed that the members of his Small Council were getting nothing but bad news, these days. Stannis had lost his wife to a fire when she tried to kill his daughter, that poor, ugly girl, and now… now Ned's bastard was dead. Killed, it was said, by a dragon that had come from beyond the Wall, where an even greater threat lay, as they had predicted. It was madness, all of it.

Stannis was back to Dragonstone now, Gods only knew when he'd come back. He had never… liked, Selyse, but he'd done his duty to her. He'd taken care of her, hadn't he? He'd loved her better than Robert had loved Cersei, at any rate! And Shireen, gods, to have her own mother try and burn her alive for some unknown madness?

And now Ned, like a walking ghost around the Red Keep, at all hours of the night. Nightmares in his bed at night, screaming about Lyanna that would wake the whole of the keep. His littlest daughter was worse. She'd been so much like Lyanna, so spirited, so wild! So free of fear and grief and now she was nothing. Where was she? None could say, save those who would not. They'd been close, her and the Bastard, Ser Jaime had said. It broke Robert's heart in a way he didn't know it could be broken, to know that she was dying inside from the death of her favorite brother.

He'd never been close to his brothers. Never, never. Oh he loved them, but. Well. He was man enough to admit that his love was painful. Gods, look at Cersei. He'd hated her, as much as she'd hated him. He been ihappy/i when she died, and why? Because she wasn't like Lyanna? That wasn't her fault! He'd regret that unto death. He'd been thinking about her more lately, now that…

No. Don't think that, not yet. Time (and Tyvek) would tell. Best not to hope yet.

He thumped over to where Ned was sitting on an out of the way step and flopped down next to him, thrusting a wineskin of the Good Stuff into his arms. "Drink, by command of your king," he said when Ned grumbled at him, and he resisted the urge to laugh when Ned spat it all out in a wild spray.

"Sip, don't quaff- that's whiskey, that is," Robert said in as gentle a tone as he could manage. "I use it when I start forgetting Lyanna's face."

Ned drank again, more carefully, then gagged at the taste. "This is awful," he said, looking for all the world like he wanted to scrape the remnants of the taste off of his tongue.

"Aye, I think that was the idea," Robert mused. "Keep you from drinking too much of it."

At the very least, that seemed like something Tyvek would do. His good-brother was never overly fond of drinking to excess (something about being a "mean drunk"), and he had created this particular drink.

They sat in silence, then, just. Sitting. Two friends, silently grieving together. The Stark household was somber, the whole thing. There wasn't a lick of joy to be found, not with their liege so broken.

Robert tried to imagine being this broken if one of his own children died. To his shame, he found he couldn't. Mya, his little girl from the Vale? He hadn't thought of her in years. Edric was more Renly's than his, at this point. He had two little bastards at Casterly Rock, he thought, on a maid there. Tyvek had promised to see to their educations, and they'd be what, five, now?

He knew he wouldn't mourn like this if Joffrey died. Did it make him a monster, that he hated his heir so? That his first thought, upon hearing of Ned's boy's death, was that he would be willing to trade Joffrey for the lad? It wasn't right, but it was true. He would have. Not Tommen or Myrcella, but Joffrey? Joffrey he would trade in a heartbeat.

He didn't think Ned would take him saying that out loud very well, though, so he held his tongue and sat with his friend as he grieved.

"I was going to make him a Lord when he arrived," Ned said, finally. "I was going to see him Knighted, then make him Lord of Sea Dragon Point- he'd be a shield against the Ironborn, that way- and I was going to help him find a wife."

A sob seemed to pull itself from Ned's chest, half strangled. "I'm sure there would have been a Lord with a daughter or a cousin or two, willing to wed them to him. Bastard or no, my blood was in him. With a choice bit of land behind him, he could have made a good marriage."

"I could have married off Mya to him, eh?" Robert suggested. "Wouldn't that have been fitting?"

They both sighed, then, and Ned took another swig of the whiskey. "This burns something awful- it's from the Westerlands, isn't it? I remember Lord Karstark ranting about it at a harvest festival a year or two back."

"Aye, it is. Tyvek made a whole hullabaloo about it, once he had it down right."

Ned huffed, taking another sip. "I can't even be rightly angered with the man. Who plans for a fucking dragon coming out of nowhere? One that, by all rights, should have been dead years ago?"

Robert nodded, rage in his heart. He couldn't even properly blame the Targaryens, because it was said to be the Cannibal that had taken Ned's boy, and the Cannibal, he knew, had answered to none. He had to settle for raging against a dragon that wasn't even there to rage against, instead!

"We have old, old myths, in the North. It's said that Bran the Builder was once known as Bran the Broken, for he could not walk, and instead rode on the back of a great, winged beast, black as night. A… I forget the word for it, in the Old Tongue. A iblük'rvan/i, I believe the word is. A Skystrider. Myths, of course, but. Jon had loved them, as a boy. He wanted to know all about the founding of our House that he could."

Ned sighed.

"He was my blood and now he's gone."

He looked at the wineskin full of whiskey, then shrugged to himself and began to chug it down, barely tasting any of it as he drank, swallowing gulp after gulp until the whole thing was empty.

Ned looked thoughtful for a moment, then passed the wineskin back to Robert. "Fuck, that burns, Robert. C'mon. You. Me. Training yard. I need to beat the shit out of something, and you're the strongest man here, by my estimate. And," he teased, "you like getting hit anyways."

Robert barked out a laugh, and they went down, towards the training yard.

"Hammers? Swords? Staves?" Robert asked as they came nearer, but Ned shook his head as they put on the training padding with the aid of several various unassigned squires. "What, then?"

"Fists," Ned said as he pounced viciously.