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!

5. Chapter 5

"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.

Dany held Drogon in her lap, stroking the little dragon's head as she sat beside her husband. The little dragon was growing noticeably every day, and spent his time hopping between Dany and Drogo, who thought his tiny, reptilian namesake was the greatest thing he'd ever seen. She held a hand on her stomach, for she knew, in her heart, that she was pregnant.

She had not yet told Drogo, for it was early, and she was young. Anything could change yet, in the time between now and their arrival to Vaes Dothrak. She had not told him, but, she thought, he knew anyways, in the same way she knew.

Before them feasted the khalasar, newly expanded. In two weeks they had clashed twice more with other khalasar, and twice more they had come away the victors. Word was beginning to spread of her dragon, she was told, and she stroked Drogon's tiny head.

"Dracarys," she mumbled, holding up a piece of raw meat between her fingers. Drogon cocked his head, then gave a happy warble and let loose a wave of flame. Dany felt the warmth, but did not burn. She hadn't burned since Drogon had hatched, no matter how hot the fire grew. She doubted even the heat of a forge would concern her now, and whispers of magic followed her everywhere, now.

She could hardly deny them, of course. She had hatched a dragon, the first Targaryen in almost a century and a half to do so, and she couldn't burn. She knew of nothing like that from the family history, or the history of Valyria in general, and yet it was true. Indeed, had not Aerion Brightflame died drinking Wildfire? Did not many of her kin perish in the flames of Summerhall, even as her brother Rhaegar was born, brought into this world by Ser Duncan the Tall of the Kingsguard? It was all undeniably magic.

Many of Drogo's bloodriders had burned fingers, for it had become a game to them, to try and feed Drogon as she did, a test of endurance. They would laugh at the pains, even if it meant they lost the tip of their finger or even a thumb, and Drogo would laugh with them so hard that even Dany would find herself smiling at the antics.

Before them, that morning, had come a messenger and a sellsword to guard him, from the Seven Kingdoms. Dany was wary of the sellsword, Bronn by name, for he served Tyvek Lannister, and did not deny the nature of his work, even as he ate with them at their fires.

"Killin', robbin', pretty much all of it, and I'm paid pretty well for it," he said, eyeing up one of the women as he did. "Finding people who need finding, which is why I'm here with you, now."

"Oh?" Dany asked, Drogon raising his head at her tone. "I thought you were meant to guard Lord Tyvek's messenger."

"I was," Bronn piped cheerfully. "But weren't where his Lordlyhood thought you'd be, so now I'll be getting extra money for having to do extra work. That's why I like the old Flesheater and the Imp so much, very firm on people getting paid fairly for the work they do, they are."

"Flesheater?" Drogo asked, looking to Dany for confirmation of the word.

"Oh aye, bit of a nasty habit but it ain't the worst I've known lords to have. Some like fucking little girls, some like fucking little boys- I knew one Lord that liked fucking idead/i little girls- Tyvek isn't for any of that, but he likes eating the sweetmeats from his enemies. Found that out meself during the Greyjoy Rebellion."

Dany translated to Drogo, and he and his bloodriders spat into the flames, then rubbed a bit of dirt onto their chests.

"This Tyvek Lannister is a spirit-taker, a sorcerer," Drogo said. "Surely it must be so. We have given our word to hear his message with safety to his messengers, but they must go come morning."

Dany nodded, translating for her husband, and Bronn shrugged. "We can go now, far as I'm concerned. It's a letter, and you can read better than I can, I would guess."

He nudged the messenger, who, shakily, passed over a thick envelope. It weighed nearly a pound, and Dany raised a brow.

"Your master does not expect a reply from me?" She questioned.

"Nope," Bronn said, popping the p. "Told me as much, at any rate."

Then he stood, bowed respectfully to Drogo and Dany, then mounted his horse. He nodded to them once again, and they both rode away.

A few moments later, Drogo laughed. "The sorcerer's man stole our plate!" He laughed, and his bloodriders laughed with him, for skill like that, to mount a horse with a plate full of food and not be noticed, was worthy of a laugh, not scorn.

Dany looked at the envelope, then, petting Drogon, she broke the seal, opening it. The letter was only a few pages, but as she opened it, a large, metal disc tumbled out. She examined it, but could not recognize its design, and so began to read the letter.

iPrincess Daenerys Stormborn/i

iYou do not know me face to face, and I do not know you, beyond the words of my agents, but I knew your brother, Rhaegar. We were friends- outside of my siblings, Rhaegar was my/i first ifriend- and I was one of the first people to hold his daughter, Rhaenys. I have been watching over you and your brother, from a distance, for many years. I loved Rhaegar as a Brother, and could not do anything less for you and still say that honestly./i

Daenerys took a moment to process this. She'd been right, those times she suspected Tyvek Lannister of being she and Viserys's benefactor.

iI hope this missive finds you well, and safe. I believe that, by now, you will be married to Khal Drogo, if my agent's letters reached me in time? If so, I offer my congratulations on your wedding, and my gift is this. Take this medallion to any representative of the Iron Bank, and you will have access to your account, which I set up for you many years ago. It has, at the time of my writing, nine hundred and ninety six thousand Gold Dragons worth of gold, silver, and jewels, as well as land deeds and other items, including some of your mother's dresses. I have similar accounts set up for all your remaining kin, but as you are the first to wed, you are the first to be given access to your account. Whatever your endeavors, I wish you well, and hope this account will serve you well./i

iYour friend,/i

iT/i

Daenerys couldn't process all of the emotions she felt, in that moment. If this was true, if it was no trap, then she was richer than even some Kings had been. She had pieces of her family history waiting for her, beyond the stories Viserys had told. Drogo looked at her with concern, but how could she even begin to explain?

She went to bed that night and realized, very quickly, that she was dreaming. She was cold, so cold it burned, surrounded by nothing but white. Drogon was just behind her, but she could not turn to look at him. She was naked, she realized, except for iron bands around her neck, wrists, and ankles, with a chain dragging ahead of her in the snow from each. The chains went as far into the distance as she could see, and she found herself moving against her will, following them. She was so cold.

She noticed around her other people, soon enough, also nude. Men, women, children, all bound as she was, all moving forward. Someone in the crowd was screaming, and Daenerys realized it was her when she saw that every person around her was a living corpse, and so was she. Burning blue eyes turned on her as one, each corpse giving a rictus grin as they swarmed her. Dead fingers pulled at her, spreading her open, roughly invading her mouth and her womanly parts as they dragged her down, down, down, into an abyss of darkness.

She woke screaming, Drogo wrapped around her trying, desperately, to keep her from thrashing herself to death. She was on the ground, in the dirt, and Drogon was screaming angrily into the night, just outside their tent.

Marriage, and the death of his favorite squire, had not been kind to Tyvek, but it was still good to see his big brother, Jaime mused. Tyvek had always loved him, more like a father than Father had been, even; had been the one to give him his first knife, to teach him how to flip a bigger foe over his shoulders in a fight. If it wasn't for Tyrion's existence, Tyvek would probably have been Jaime's favorite brother.

It was Tyrion that he was sitting with now, in his chambers in the Tower of the White Sword, sharing a few bottles of wine. He'd dismissed Tommen and Bran for the night, and told them both to train on their own tomorrow, for he would be in no shape to do much more than groan, and they deserved better than that to learn from. Bother the King, if they found him, he'd likely be happy to fight them.

"Be honest, Tyrion," Jaime said after his first cup of Arbor Red was drank. "How is he?"

Tyrion winced.

"Oh, that bad?"

"And worse, I'm afraid," Tyrion agreed. "He's taken Jon's death very hard, we all have, but. Well. Tyvek worst of all. Lancel lost his sword hand, you heard?"

"Yes, Uncle Kevan was cross about that, though I assume less so after hearing how richly Tyvek plans to reward our dear little cousin."

Taking a swig, Tyrion nodded.

"Well, between that, Jon's death, and getting married, our dear brother is something of a shadow of his former self. There's almost no light in his eyes, anymore. He keeps turning to where Jon used to stand behind him, to tell him some jape or another, and it kills him a little more each time. He isn't sleeping, he's barely eating…"

"Oh dear. He wasn't fucking the bastard, was he? I know Ty would hate that implication, but the vultures around this city will assume it anyways, so I have to ask."

Tyrion laughed, then shook his head. "You and I both know how poorly our brother reacts to men who like children. You might have noticed how he handled the late lord Lorch?"

Oh yes, Jaime recalled that particular incident. Recalled it well. Gelding the man, chopping off his hands, his nose, taking out his tongue and eyes, it had all been rather vicious.

"Being a Lord doesn't get you out of justice, just ask Amory," Jaime said, quoting his brother on the subject, making Tyrion chuckle.

"Ah you do remember!" Tyrion joked, chuckling into his wine. "I think we'll have to remind a few people about that, but that answers your question, I'm sure."

Jaime nodded, taking a sip of his own drink, then gesturing for Tyrion to refill it. His little brother did so, then sighed.

"Really it's Joanna I'm worried about," he said with a frown. "Jon was her best friend, outside of. Well, no, she and Joy aren't incredibly close. Jon iwas/i her best friend, and I'm afraid his death is killing her."

"iThey/i weren't fucking, were they?" Jaime asked, confused, given he'd thought his niece was a, well, the way Tyvek was, only for girls. What was the term for a girl sword swallower who was into girls? Did it even matter? "I thought Joanna was…"

"No they weren't, yes she is, we're very subtle, in this family," Tyrion said sarcastically.

They drank in silence for a few minutes, and then Bran's Dire-wolf came into the room, giving them the puppy eyes that both he and his master were so skilled at. Jaime reached out and pet him on the head, absent mindedly, scratching behind his ears. Bran had yet to name the beast, unable to come up with anything fitting, but it was probably the best behaved of the Dire Wolves, outside of Sansa's monster. The wolf eyed Tyrion unhappily, but settled down after a moment. It was better than the other wolves had done to Tyvek, at least. Arya Stark's wolf had to be muzzled, lest it take his brother's throat out, and frankly, the youngest girl Stark was just as bad, which probably didn't help Tyvek's grieving.

"How are you and Tysha holding up," Jaime asked, curiously. His brother and his good sister had been trying for a second child for years, without success, and he knew Tysha had seen Jon as her son as surely as if she had birthed him. "This can't be easy on either of you."

"It hasn't been," Tyrion confessed. "We had watched him become a man, and then we watched a giant dragon, from out of history, snatch him and his wolf right up. And all the chaos around. Well. I can't say yet, King's orders, but I imagine you know what I'm referring to?"

Oh yes, Jaime knew, and it made his blood boil. The idea that someone might have abducted his first nephew, for some unknown and nefarious purpose…

Cersei had wanted to name the boy Tywin, Robert had wanted Steffon, but had said they could name the next one after his father. So they had named the boy Tywin, after his maternal grandfather. He'd been a big boy, and a happy one, with a fuzzy head full of black hair and piercing blue eyes the same shape as Joanna, his namesake's wife. He had been a handsome boy, nearly six months old when the sickness had taken him.

If it was, indeed, a sickness.

They had opened Cersei's casket in Casterly Rock, Tyvek said, and then he had asked Robert to dismiss Jaime from his presence, promising to tell him the next day. He wished Tyvek hadn't. He could have lived a thousand years without knowing that they found fingernails embedded in the lid, deep, desperate scratches carved into the gold. Could have lived a thousand years without imagining how Cersei had suffered, waking up in the darkness of her casket, screaming out her final breaths.

But he did know, now, and it would haunt his dreams for the rest of his life. If he was a betting man, he would bet on that.

There was a knock at the door, and in strode Tyvek, a bottle of Dornish Red in hand, eyes haggard. Bran's wolf snarled, but then seemed to realize what was going on, and subsided with a whimper, padding over to nuzzle the elder Lannister's hand. Tyvek dropped to his knees with a sob, wrapping his arms around the wolf's neck as he cried into the ruff of fur. Jaime exchanged a look with Tyrion, and they both went to their eldest brother's side, rubbing his back between his shoulders, as he had done for them when they were younger.

"I should have been there," he hiccuped, snot running down his face. "I could have warned him, I could have"

He fell silent, sobbing once again, the bottle of Dornish Red falling to the floor from his limp grasp and rolling away, thankfully already empty.

Once more, the youngest Lannister Brothers exchanged A Very Important Look, and then Tyrion nodded and grabbed the attention of a passing squire.

"Go to Maegor's Holdfast and inform the Steward's wife that the Steward and the Lord of House Lannister will be staying with Ser Jaime in the Tower of the White Sword tonight, right quick, lad," he commanded, then returned, shutting the door.

"Tyry, you're a good boy," Tyvek mumbled into Bran's wolf's fur. "I'm sorry I'm not a better brother."

Tyrion hugged his brother firmly, then, shaking his head. "Between you and Jaime, there's no man with better brothers in all the Seven Kingdoms than I.*"

*strictly speaking, Loras Tyrell was closer to his brothers than Tyrion was, but then, they'd never had to protect him from a father who wanted to throw him into the sea, so it really wasn't something you could measure, was it?

Tyvek squeezed Tyrion close then, even as Jaime helped him to sit on the bed, and frowned when he felt the mattress. "Jay, you need… this is gonna be so bad for your back. Poor Barristan, poor Jaime… don't worry I'll. I'll have. Qyburn will get you a better mattress, baby brother," he slurred, knocking their foreheads together lightly, like an affectionate cat, leaning back against the wall of Jaime's room.

"What am I gonna do?" He mumbled, mostly to himself. "I'm so tired… I'm so tired. It doesn't matter. I'm so tired…"

Jaime drank once more, then sat next to Tyvek on the bed, shoulder to shoulder, and handed him a cup full of wine. "Do be kind enough to not spill on my bed as we drink our worries away," he said teasingly, helping Tyrion climb up at his side to drink with them.

And so they drank for most of the night, Tyvek slower than either of them, but by the time they drifted off to sleep, all three brothers were well and truly drunk.

She hated Tyvek Lannister, and if she could, Arya Stark knew she would kill him. It wasn't the sort of thought Father would encourage her to have, but she had it anyways, and Father had been too quick to forgive Tyvek Lannister for Jon's… Jon being…

She lay on her side, curled around Nymeria, and sobbed into her wolf's fur, cursing Tyvek Lannister, dragons, the Gods both old and new, any and everyone she could curse, she cursed within her mind. Grief cut like a sword, she had found, like Needle, the sword Jon had given her. It wounded you, deep in the guts, and refused to let you die, even as you screamed in pain and begged it to let you go. Never before in her life had Arya had cause to grieve, for she had never known loss, before this.

She had wandered about for a few days after she had been told, face pale and eyes blank, unable to process it. Then she had retreated to her room and had refused to leave for a fortnight now, not for Gods or country. The first day she had smashed… everything, throwing everything in her room about, even the heavy furniture, somehow, barricading herself in her chambers. She hadn't eaten yet, even, though hunger gnawed at the edges of her belly to the point of nausea; the thought of eating when Jon was dead made her sick. The thought of iliving/i while Jon was dead made her sick, let alone eating. She wouldn't even go out to see Father, not even when he had commanded her in his Lord's Voice. He'd physically carried her from her bed, the other day, but she'd bolted as soon as she could, back to the safety of her bed.

She wanted to go home and curl up on Jon's bed, even if it wouldn't smell like him. She wanted to be near his things, near the little pieces left of him.

There was a knock at the door, but she ignored it, because none of it mattered anyways. Nymeria perked up her head and growled over Arya's shoulder, but Arya shushed her, intending to pretend like there was nobody at the door, and like she wasn't in her room.

Footsteps behind her, as the door opened and closed, and then a chair scraping along the floor.

"You don't have to turn around, you don't have to look at me, I won't even ask you to come out of your room," the person said, and Arya rolled over, shooting up with a snarl to punch the speaker in the face. Tyvek took the hit, rolling with it, smiling softly. "You punch like Jon did when he first got to Casterly Rock, kiddo."

Nymeria leapt at him, but Tyvek caught her with one hand, tucking her limbs under her body, pinning her to his side with one arm, one hand holding her mouth shut. He held her as she thrashed about, until she was forced to go limp from the lack of escape routes. Tyvek showed no emotion on his face the entire time, until she calmed, and then began to pet her, gently, between the ears. Arya glared at him, but the glare rolled right off of him, and finally, she sat on her bed once again, and he sat in the chair with a sigh.

He set Nymeria down, and she rushed back to Arya's side with a whine. He looked like he was struggling for words, unable to decide what he wanted to say.

"I wish it had been me, too," he finally said, and Arya felt herself feeling sympathy for him. "I wish we didn't have to have this conversation at all, I wish Jon had been there for my wedding, I wish he was here, right now. He wanted to teach you to play guitar, like I'd taught him, and he wanted to teach you how to use your sword. iI/i wanted to help him teach you how to use a sword, because you've got a drive in you that most knights would kill for their squires to have."

He paused, and Arya noticed he was about to cry until he wiped his eyes and took a deep breath.

"I talked to your father about it, and he agreed with me. I'm having all of Jon's effects brought from Casterly Rock, and… and they'll be yours. There's a few things that were meant for other people, and I'll be delivering those to them, but. The rest is yours. Everything other than what he was wearing when… when he was taken… is going to be yours."

Arya realized she was crying when he gave her a handkerchief- fresh, thankfully- and she felt shame that she couldn't stop.

"I'll go, now. But. If you ever want to talk about him, Lancel and Joy were two of his best friends, and I know they miss him. They. Well."

He left, as he'd said he would, and Arya took a moment to think about what had happened. She wanted to hate him still. Every part of her iburned/i with the desire to hate Tyvek Lannister, but. She couldn't. He hurt over Jon just as much as she did, somehow. But then, Jon had been close to him, hadn't he? He'd loved Jon like a son, so why wouldn't he grieve Jon as much as she did? She didn't want to think about it, didn't want to admit it, but it made sense, and she looked at her hands, forcing herself to work through her feelings. She didn't have to like him, didn't have to trust him, but. She didn't have to want to hurt him, either. He was already hurting, just like she was, over the same thing.

That thought carried her from her bed and into the hall. She looked this way and that, and spotted him near the end of the hall. She ran to catch him, hugging him from behind, and he dropped to her level, holding her as she sobbed out every bit of grief she could.

Everyone in the Small Council chambers was staring at the torso as it shrieked, and by the various reactions I could guess, vaguely, what was going to happen.

Robert would swear and throw himself from the table to thrash about the room, check. Varys would go white and begin to sweat, check. Uncle Kevan would keep his councils, as expected, Renly would pale, then laugh- checks all around for them. Ned would get very quiet and ithink/i about what this meant, check, and Pycelle would bluster and demand the body for study. Check.

"Gladly, Grand Maester, I have others in my possession, though I have to insist we remove this from the room before we discuss what's to be done about it any further. I trust not that its masters are not listening in through its ears."

I gestured to Ramsay, and he came forward, putting it back into the chest we'd been keeping it in- a chest of my own design, in fact, that kept it from decaying by using water to keep it nearly frozen. Qyburn and I had designed and built twelve such chests, and, as long as it was kept out of direct sunlight and given fresh, cold water every twelve hours, it would keep the wight cold for months. Once it was gone, I sat back down, waited for Robert to sit, and then steepled my fingers above me on the table. The trick to showing you were in charge, I had found, was to act like you were. So, channeling Vetinari, I met Robert's eyes, and very bluntly said my piece.

"This, gentlemen, is our ultimate enemy. Not Targaryens, not the Faith Militant, not even the Blackfyres, if they ever returned. We are, every man among us in this room, alive. Living. That is all that matters."

"This is why the Night's Watch is letting Wildlings south of the Wall, isn't it?" Varys asked, probably louder than he had meant to, but I nodded anyways.

"Yes. This is the main army of the Others, and yes, Lord Stark, I do mean ithose/i Others."

He nodded, lost in thought, and I refocused my attention on Robert.

"Robert, this goes beyond every war you and I have ever had to think of facing," I lied, having known this was coming for a number of decades now. "The Faith Militant are an undeniable issue, I'd be a blind fool to not see that. I wear no motley, and my eyes are fine, my Maester assures me. We have to crush them in the cradle before they put us in the grave, but we imust not lose sight of what is important/i. We are all alive, and that means we have one, singular, nigh unstoppable enemy. I've been beyond the Wall. I've seen these things in action, and I've seen how terrified the Free Folk are, each and every one of them."

"You said inigh/i unstoppable, my Lord," Varys questioned. "I assume you know the means to kill these… Others and their wights?"

"Fire and obsidian are our best bets," I explained, now truly in my element. I had them all hooked, and Robert was a textbook case of untreated and unmanaged ADHD. If I could hook him, the rest would follow, and my good brother was like a fish, right now. "They're the most common way to do it, at any rate, and the ways I've confirmed for myself, by my own experiments, to work."

I sighed, then forced myself to pull back, just a little, on the melodrama I was naturally predisposed towards. "I suspect that Valyrian Steel could do it, but I lack the ability to test that for myself, at the moment. I hope you might help me with that, Lord Eddard? I believe Ice might put the wights to death as well as anything else, and if it can, Valyrian Steel just became infinitely more valuable."

I knew it would work, of course, but I couldn't just outright say it. I had learned, over the last few decades, that you couldn't just hand information over to the good people of Westeros. You had to guide them, mold their thoughts the right direction. You think it was easy, to distract a man of Qyburn's intellect with almost-but-not-quite-wild-goose-chases? To distract Tyrion Lannister, one of the smartest men in Westeros iwithout/i my modern ideas and influence? Of course it wasn't! I did it anyways, and I think they're both happier for it, but do not think, for a moment, that it was easy. I had to let the Small Council think I didn't know that Valyrian Steel would work, so that they would be willing to test it for themselves!

"But let us set this aside for the moment. We can do little else until we know more, and I have several agents around the kingdoms doing research on the matter." They didn't need to know that one of my agents was Samwell Tarly, and another was Olenna Tyrell. That was for me to know, them to discover, or not, in their own time. "Let us, instead, discuss the potential succession crisis we face."

Robert nodded, eager to get to the meaty bits of the issue. Eager to get to the point where we could get rid of Joffrey, so to speak. Well, I was too. I wouldn't ever be able to order his death, even if he got to his most monstrous, I knew that about myself, but. Neutralizing him now? That I could work towards.

"Succession Crisis?" Uncle Kevan questioned with a frown, and I nodded. "Pardon my saying so, but… what succession crisis?"

"Joffrey may not be the eldest surviving child of Robert Baratheon and Cersei Lannister," Ned sighed, rubbing his face, and I resisted the urge to crow at him basically doing my job for me. "It may be that Prince Tywin still lives."

I kept a subtle eye on Varys, and sure enough, I caught the gleam of recognition in his eyes. He knew that we were onto him, but he didn't know if we were onto him for other schemes, or if we even suspected him in this one. Ned and I were playing a dangerous game, now.

The issue, I suppose, is that Book and Show treated Varys so differently. The Varys of the books is a genuine monster, though not so much as Petyr Baelish, or Ramsay Snow (and boy had I dodged a bullet with that one!); the Varys of the show is a genuinely good man who, I think, would be disgusted by his book self, if they met. I could see Book Varys killing a small child without remorse, just to fan the flames of instability, but I couldn't see Show Varys doing it, and. Well.

I didn't have any way of telling, yet, which I was dealing with. Some people looked like they had in the show, others matched their book descriptions. Tywin had been the spitting image of Charles Dance, but he'd had the mutton chops and bald head of the Tywin of the books. Rhaegar had looked nothing like he was shown to in the show, and Lyanna Stark even less so, in the brief moments I had met her at the Tourney of Harrenhall.

So I'm going in very nearly blind, in regards to Varys. I have educated guesses, yes, very good educated guesses, but I cannot know for certain. It's going to be a very, very harsh game of cat and mouse.

But I got my look at Gendry, last night, right before I had gone to speak with Arya. He had been a wrench in the plans that I wasn't expecting, but I could work around him. I could add him in, and it would cost me nothing, so long as I worked to keep him alive. Because he had my mother's face, underneath that Baratheon coloring, and he was my nephew.

Now we just had to break it to him, put him in as being above Joffrey, get everyone to accept him, keep him safe from Varys, determine where Varys stood, and what he stood to gain… Oh, and the ice zombie apocalypse.

Though the secret to making more Valyrian Steel was still, as of yet, lost to the ages, Jon knew he now had more of it than he would ever need in his entire life, if he and all his descendants wore armor of it every day of their lives from birth to death. He had enough of it that he could make armor for ten of Cannibal, if he knew how to rework the stuff.

Like Lord Tyvek would say, save it for later, focus on what you can do for now.

'For now' currently meant taking care of the various refugees who had been showing up from what had once been the wastelands of Valyria, now saved from the madness of The Sorrows, or cured of the Greyscale scars that had been slowly but surely absorbing their bodies. There weren't a lot of people, maybe only fifty or so, but they had developed a solid little settlement going, two months in. The first crops had been planted.

Crops! In Valyria! The first crops planted in Valyria in some four hundred years! It was a heady thought, to realize that right now, they were all doing something that nobody had done, in all the ages since the Doom.

He was being hailed as King Jon, though he had no real desire to be a king. Kingship was in his blood, yes, but actively being king of anything had never been his plan. It hadn't, as far as he was aware, even been a plan in Lord Tyvek's Long List Of Incredibly Important Plans, Plots, And Schemes*.

*The Long List Of Incredibly Important Plans, Plots, And Schemes was actually on the cover of the little book, which Tyvek carried with him at all times. It was not, however, full of plans, plots, schemes**, or anything else of the sort. It was, instead, filled with hundreds upon hundreds of technical drawings for machinery that "Won't be possible for another two or three hundred years, at this rate" which could, supposedly, one day change the world. Jon had seen the inside of it once, and it had made his head spin, how complicated some of the ideas were. Sam, however, had called the whole thing a work of unparalleled mad genius, so he'd apparently understood more of it than Jon.

**It was filled with Schematics, however.

And yet they called Jon a King, and so King he was, like it or not. And that meant that now, he had to make a decision, as King, on whether or not his new country (if their little settlement could even be called such) would be going to War. It wasn't that he wanted a war- he was raised too well to actively seek or desire War- but there was a ship full of slavers in his waters, and they were a threat.

"They come, sometimes," Vallorum had explained to him. Vallorum had, long ago, been in training to be a Maester, before he'd caught Greyscale. Though he had no chain, he was as close to a learned man as their little colony had, and Jon knew, from Qyburn and Sam shaped experience, that a chain did not a Maester make. His advice, and ability to heal most common ailments with very few supplies, was greatly appreciated in their little colony. "They come to collect beasts for menageries, or Stone Men, to throw at their enemies to spread the infection. If they find a man in the Sorrows, they take him as a slave."

The ship was nearly to the shore, now, and Jon made up his mind, summoning Cannibal.

Cannibal had taken up living within a massive cave system, deep within the central mountain, and, to Jon's shock, a Weirwood had begun to grow at the mountain's peak, guarded by Cannibal. It helped them both to bond even closer, and faster, and now they could sense one another halfway across the world.

So when Jon summoned Cannibal, the dragon knew exactly what he desired. Their bugling cry echoed across the fields between the mountain and the harbor, and Jon could imagine the screaming of the men on the ship as they swooped down, scooping up the ship from the water in their massive talons, hardly even scratching the wood. One brave, or perhaps desperately stupid, soul leapt into the waters below with a scream that Jon heard more through Cannibal's ears than his own.

Cannibal set the ship down, in the middle of the burgeoning settlement, then seemed to think for a moment before tipping it onto its side and standing over it, like a reptilian Titan of Braavos, their massive jaws blazing with potential flames.

The bastard Valyrian of Astapor, and probably a dozen other languages besides, echoed from the ship, and then, Jon watched with something like vague amusement as the crew pushed a man forward. He stumbled down, cringing at the sight of Cannibal, and Jon whistled to the dragon, catching their attention.

iGood work, Cannibal. Pull back the flame, you can step on him if he tries anything-/i then iyou can eat him

/i

Cannibal purred in contentment, and Jon went closer to the man, who yelled at him in angry Bastard Valyrian. Jon spoke High Valyrian- Lord Tyvek had insisted he learn to speak, sing, read, and write in it- but Low Valyrian was a different beast in its own way. He'd be able to guess his way through a conversation, but. Well. Not very well.

Behind the man came a young girl, maybe eight and clearly a slave. Jon felt himself grow angry at the sight of an iron collar around the neck of a child, younger than Arya, and Cannibal reacted to their Rider's anger.

The man spoke, and Jon caught every other word. Then the child spoke.

"This one is the translator for the Good Master Kraznys mo Nakloz. This one's Master bids you to surrender yourselves, give up your dragon, and live to serve as slaves."

That tracked with what Jon could understand, and he nodded.

"What is your name, child?" He asked, softly, keeping Ygritte from surging forward to kill the "Good Master" herself.

"This one is Missandei of Naath," she said. "This one is its Master's translator."

"Do you wish to be free?" Jon asked softly, and the child nodded, very slowly.

That was good enough for Jon, and through him, good enough for Cannibal. The massive dragon bellowed, scooping the screaming Good Master up in their jaws, throwing him into the air, jaws snapping shut with a bone rattling CLACK!, not even bothering to burn the body as they licked their lips in satisfaction.

There was an echoing silence, then a massive cheer from the ship. Several voices screamed, but then a great mass of chained bodies came forward, falling to their knees and weeping in relief.

Jon spent hours with them all, helping to strike off their chains, to pile up their collars before Cannibal, and he basked in the cheer that went up as his partner burned the pile of iron into nothing more than a bubbling, steaming lump that had fused to the ground.

Missandei had been essentially adopted by Ygritte, who had managed to (thankfully) round up a shirt for the child, who looked so… relieved to be free that Jon wanted to weep for her.

Now, still gathered around the lump of steel that had once been their slave collars, Jon asked every member of the settlement to vote. Would they go to War, against Astapor and the other Free Cities? Would it be only against Astapor? Would they defend themselves only?

Around the circle it went, and Jon nodded at the choices all had made.

They were at war against Astapor.

Lady moved silently, tail swishing behind her, down the halls of the Red Keep. She was hungry, and her human was peacefully sleeping, protected by Burned One. It was time to hunt.

She passed her siblings and nuzzled them with affection. Fierce-leader-brave-heart stood, coming with her, leaving Warmth-of-kin behind. Fierce-leader's human had been sick for almost a moon, now, sick in her heart, and had needed Nymeria at her side- but now she was ready to eat, and so the sisters went, side by side, into the woods, which were contained within the Keep.

Some creatures within were off limits to them, they all knew. Fat-human-leader-King's second son, who was kin at heart to the human of Warmth-of-kin, had a pet stag. It wore a coat of rich greens, and would come to its human when called. Though it would be the simplest prey in the small forest, all the Dire Wolves knew it was off limits. There was a massive boar- this, too, was off limits, for none of them were large enough to attack it, not even Mother.

But there was prey aplenty, even still. Wild turkeys, grouse, deer that were not pets; between the food given to them by their humans and what they hunted for themselves, none of them were in any danger of starvation.

The two sisters slipped into the woods passing White-silence's human's alpha, speaking to Oily-greasy-hidden-danger. They had all agreed, in their wolfy way, to keep their humans as far from him as was possible. His scent was muddled and hidden beneath layers of human smell, yes, but nothing could hide from the nose of a dire wolf for very long. White-silence's human's alpha's scent was calm, open. He showed his emotions through his scent, as much as his body language, and he didn't try to hide how he felt on any given subject. They trusted him, for he communicated like one of them.

He reached out as they passed, giving them both a chunk of dried liver. That was another reason they liked him- he had treats for them, every time he saw them. (Nymeria was happy to admit she was not above bribery)

When they got to the woods, they split, and within five minutes had cornered a female deer. It swung a hoof and knocked Lady across the jaw, making her yelp, but then Nymeria had it by the leg, snapping its hip. It went down screaming, still alive as they began to feed.

Sansa woke with a gasp, and Sandor turned to her from his place by the door. He cocked a brow at her, and she shook her head.

"Just a queer dream, Sandor, nothing else." She assured him, and he nodded. Ever since the riots, he had been her constant companion, ever present, even more than when Joffrey had tried to kill her falcon, back in Winterfell. His scarred face was a comfort to her, in a strange way- she wasn't even sure when he slept, if she was honest- his Vigil unending. "Do you know where Lady is, by chance?"

"Hm. Wandered off about an hour ago, after I woke up. Looked hungry." He grunted, and Sansa nodded, slowly. How very odd, that she would dream of being Lady going for a hunt, then wake up to find that she had done so.

She summoned her maids to help her dress, then, and Sandor left the room for the briefest of moments, nodding to Septa Mordane as they passed one another.

"You have received an invitation to lunch with Lady Lannister, my dear," Septa Mordane told her happily, handing over an envelope.

Sansa felt her heart clench, for just a moment, at the sight of the parchment. It was the crisp, high quality Westerlands stuff, the same as Jon's letters used to arrive on. For a moment, grief threatened to overwhelm her, at the thought of things she had done, and things she hadn't said. She forced it down, but she grieved for Jon, in that moment, just as she did in all the moments she thought of him. It would be, she thought, a quiet shadow for the rest of her life.

She opened the envelope and sighed at the beautiful script of the invitation. Lady Margaery had gorgeous letters, thick and looping in a way most parchment didn't allow, and the invitation was painted around the edges with beautiful roses. It was what Sansa had thought the South would be like, before she had been introduced to The South as a whole, so it made her wary- but then, Jon had trusted Lord Tyvek, and Lady Margaery was now Lord Tyvek's wife.

In this, Sansa decided, she would defer to Jon's judgment* until she knew enough to make her own.

*Sansa didn't know it, but at that very moment, a continent and a half away, Jon was telling himself to pretend to be Sansa, and remain polite no matter what.

So she accepted the invitation to lunch, and broke her fast with Father and Arya, both of whom looked rather gaunt, still grieving Jon in a much more visible manner. Father was reading a heavy looking book, making notes, distracted from his food; but he approved of her attending lunch with Lady Margaery, and told Arya to go with, and be on her best behavior. It spoke to Arya's still boiling grief that she didn't fight him on it, merely accepted that she would be attending as well.

As they finished breakfast, Lady and Nymeria came into the hall, letting their mother groom them affectionately before returning to Sansa and Arya's sides. Nymeria had blood on her snout, and Arya used her shirt to wipe it away. It was a move that would have Mother and Septa Mordane on her back, but it was surely better than letting Nymeria run around coated in blood, wasn't it? Lady, of course, was already cleaned off blood, knowing to clean herself off well, as a proper lady should.

In the time before the luncheon, Sansa worked on her knitting. She had picked the hobby up from Jon, who had learned it from Lord Tyvek; she wasn't as good as Old Nan, yet, but she liked to knit caps, for the guards and their families. She couldn't go very fast, yet, either. Jon, she had seen, could fly like the wind when he knit. His needles moved like he was a wind up toy from Mir, meant to knit and knit and knit. This was for Hodor, so it would use more yarn, but it was well worth it, for so loyal a guard. She was using better quality yarn, as well, given he iwas/i head of the household guard.

While she knit, she had Septa Mordane read to her, from the Seven Pointed Star, on the subject of grief. The Seven guided one in all things, and the Book of the Stranger spoke of mourning.

"Rejoice, ye faithful, for The Seven have given life to all the world, and when life is taken, that life returns to The Seven. Faithful, and those pagans who are true and honest, and who serve The Seven in all but name, will be reunited in the Seven Heavens. Grieve only the temporary absence of the one you loved, and turn your heart to showing love to others, that they may not go unloved. The Stranger comes to lead all to their final fate, and takes all good souls into gentle arms of peace. Be honest, and just, and rejoice that those you love have joined The Seven once more, so that one day you may join them as well."

Sansa paused, looking up.

"Do bastards get into the Heavens, when they die?" She asked. She needed, suddenly, desperately, to know. Would The Seven accept Jon? Jon, who had loved her? Who had taught her to knit with patient kindness, who had helped her to take her first steps, who had always taken his time to write individual letters to all of his siblings, despite the effort and cost- would The Seven welcome him into their arms? "Will… will I see Jon again, one day?"

Septa Mordane frowned for a moment, but it wasn't an unhappy frown. It was the frown Maester Luwin wore when thinking deeply on a subject, that Father wore when listening to the smallfolk when they had a conflict. "If they devoted their lives to The Seven, then yes. Indeed, there have been Bastards who became High Septon, the Voice of The Seven- it would be foolish to think ithey/i could not enter the Seven Heavens, yes? Your brother was a Bastard and a pagan, but he served his Master well, he had no ambition to usurp any of you. He was charitable and just, the same as your Lord Father. You will, I believe, see Jon when you arrive to the Seven Heavens."

Sansa sat quietly for a moment, then smiled. It was a sad smile, and she felt tears prick her eyes, but Lady stood and began to kiss her cheeks, and Sansa found she could hardly cry with a half-stone heavy Dire Wolf in her lap, trying to make her happy.

Soon after, she left to attend the luncheon, escorted by Sandor, as always. Arya was with them, in a dress, by some miracle, and Lady and Nymeria walked sedately by their sides. They came across Lord Tyvek as they walked, and Sansa curtsied, just as a lady should.

"You must both be going to Margaery's lunch, then?" He asked, smiling at both of them politely. "Don't tell her I told you, but she's been quite looking forward to having you both join her- be careful, or you may get pulled into one of her charity runs down to Flea Bottom."

Arya grinned, impishly, and Lord Tyvek raised a brow.

"Dare I ask? Have you been sneaking off to cause mischief? No no, tell me not, I can see it in your eyes, young Starkling," he laughed, until he caught a look at Sandor's face. "Sandor, when was the last time you slept more than three hours at a stretch?"

Sandor grunted behind her, and Lord Tyvek scowled. "Lady Sansa, would you please tell my oldest surviving friend that I would like him to ikeep/i surviving, and that he should go to bed and sleep for the next day or two? I didn't spend all that money trying to fix his face for him to ruin it by not getting enough sleep."

"I slept four hours about a week ago, and I'm getting at least two a night," Sandor growled, and Sansa turned to him with concern.

"Sandor!" She exclaimed. "Please, Ser, you must go and sleep, lest you fall ill."

"I'm fine, Little Bird," he scowled, but Sansa, now that she knew to look for it, could see how exhausted he was, and wanted to weep.

"Please, Ser. For my sake, if not your own? I do not wish to see you brought low," she said, almost begging.

Sandor scowled at her, then at his liege lord, then down at Arya.

"iBehave/i, he ordered her, then he looked at the wolves. "Do inot/i let her out of your sights."

"I'll escort them to the gardens, Sandor," Lord Tyvek assured him with a soft, affectionate smile, sending his friend away.

He sighed, fondly, as Sandor went around a corner, then offered both the girls an arm. Sansa was shocked to see Arya take it graciously even faster than she could. Clearly, Jon's affection for his foster father was a good enough seal of approval for her.

"That man," Lord Tyvek said. "Stubborn as an ox, and gentle as a mother moose, with the people he likes, but ask him to admit to the weakness of needing to sleep, or eat…"

It was said with affection, deep affection that colored the tone all the way through. Sansa was almost shocked, that a man could feel that much affection for another who was not their kin, but then, why not? Did The Seven not command people to love one another?

"How long have you known Sandor, my Lord?" Sansa asked as he escorted them to the garden for the luncheon.

"Sandor and I have been friends for oh, goodness, since before Tyrion was born. Let me see, I was fourteen when Tyrion was born, so I must have been about ten when Sandor and I met. He was about six years old, and had just been burned, when I summoned him to come and be my companion. I needed someone near my height to spar with, who was also near my skill level. So he came to the Rock, and we've been friends ever since. Then I put him in charge of Jon's daily martial training; he's much more patient about teaching swordplay than I am; and now I've leant him to you as a sworn sword, Lady Sansa, and I suspect he and I will be in the Seven Hells before he comes to serve at my side once again."

This he said with a laugh, showing he was far from unhappy with that turn of events. "You'll find that's the best part of Sandor, though. Once you have his loyalty, you have a one man army that will never fail, nor falter."

They arrived at the garden before Sansa could ask more about Sandor, or his history with Lord Tyvek, the sounds of laughter and soft music coming from within. Lord Tyvek paused, then his face went almost pale, for a moment.

"Ladies, I believe I shall escort you in," he said, and of course the offer was accepted. They followed the sounds of music and merriment until they came into the opening where the luncheon was being held.

"I could not ask for more than this time together, I could not ask for more than this time with you," the bard sang quietly, strumming his guitar, and Lord Tyvek's eyes grew distant, Sansa noticed. He began mouthing along to the words of the song, and when the bard, a young Reacher, by the look of him, finished playing, Lord Tyvek applauded politely.

"Ladies, wife, I present Sansa and Arya Stark," he said politely, eyeing the bard, who eyed him curiously. Then, to the bard, he gave a question. "Young man, if I were to ask you what the phrase "Maga" meant, what would you say?"

The bard seemed to grow bright at this question. "I would say, my Lord, that for something to grow great again, it must have been great once to begin with."

Lord Tyvek's whole countenance changed at this, growing bright and cheery. "My lady," he said to Lady Margaery, "I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to steal your bard from this lunch, my dear. Don't worry, ladies, I shall return him to you in due time."

"Oh, what a bother," Lady Margaery said, waving her hand. "But, I suppose, if you must, you must. I do want him back, though."

Lord Tyvek bowed, smiling slightly, just an upturn of the lips. "Indeed, I believe he will be staying with us for a great length of time, my dear," he told her, before escorting the man away.

Then, Lady Margaery turned to them and smiled. "Ladies Stark, I am pleased to see you both were able to make it. Come, come, sit beside me, the both of you. I think both of you can help me get to know my husband a little better," she said, two of her ladies in waiting clearing away to make room for them.

"How" Arya asked, bluntly, flopping into the offered seat with a tone and looseness of body that made Sansa want to drag a hand down her own face for her sister's lack of decorum. "We barely know the guy."

Margaery took no offense, thank the gods, merely laughed at Arya's antics. "Ah, then we are on equal footing, Lady Arya, for I know very little of him myself!" Margaery said, serving them both tea, and tiny sandwiches on little plates, the kind with incredibly dry but equally incredibly soft bread. "Actually, I was hoping you could tell me stories about your brother, Jon- I find the best way to know a man is to know how he treats those in his charge."

Arya wilted for a moment, but then perked up. "Jon sent me letters every week while he was squiring," she said, and Sansa confirmed it. Jon had sent her at least two letters a month, and she wasn't even his favorite sister. She was surprised he hadn't sent Arya more letters, to be frank. "Sansa and I can tell you all about Jon."

So for the next three hours they sat with Margaery, telling her about Jon. Sansa presented the necklace he had gotten her, all those years ago, still her favorite, had described how skilled Jon was at picking out gifts for his loved ones. His kind, knightly nature, learned at his Lord's side, of how he cared for his mount himself, rather than hand her off to a stable hand.

It was Arya who did the most talking, of course. She had cried for a week, when Jon first left to be a squire, and had bitten their mother, thinking that she had been the cause of Jon's departure. Tears welled in Lady Margaery's eyes as Arya spoke, several times, and when Arya finished telling another story (this one about how Jon had given her a sword, and Father would probably laugh, now that he finally could know where Needle had come from, if Sansa cared to tell him), Lady Margaery smiled, a sad, watery smile, and said "You loved your brother dearly, anyone can see. I wish I could have met him- I love my brothers so, you know, I can't imagine losing one."

"We would rather not do it again, Lady Margaery," Sansa said, ignoring how Arya wiped her tears and snot with the back of her sleeve. "We would rather not have done it at all."

Margaery nodded solemnly, petting Lady, deep in thought. "Lady Arya, I hear that Jon left you most of his belongings?" She asked, and Arya nodded with a small sniffle. "He loved you all dearly, all you Starks, then. Thank you for telling me of the man my husband helped to raise."

The luncheon concluded, not long after, Lady Margaery lost in a cloud of thought, but before they left, she invited Sansa and Arya to join her the next day.

"Lady Tysha and I are planning to go into Flea Bottom and hand out food and coin," she said. "I think she and I could both use your company, if you cared to join us. My husband is, thus far, very supportive of my charitable efforts, and I should enjoy the extra companionship from both of you."

So they agreed to join, Arya first, saying that she knew of several cookshops in Flea Bottom that could use extra goods, and of an orphanage she had snuck to, once or twice, and then both Stark daughters made their way back to the Tower of the Hand. Dinner was a somber affair, for they were both still thick with their grief for Jon, and Father was busy with his work, but he agreed to supply them with one hundred gold dragons each, to give out to the smallfolk of Flea Bottom.

Lady walked through the halls of the Red Keep once more, in the dark of the night, out to the Godswood where she had hunted earlier that day, nose itching with an urge to explore. She came across the master of her brother's human and the human girl her girl had spent time with that day, seated on a bench together as the girl cried. Though she was best at reading the face of her own human, Lady could tell both were upset, and so she went forward to them.

"I know I'm being foolish," the girl said, wiping her eyes. "But he was imy/i baby brother, and I never even got to meet him. I won't even be able to name my children after him without suspicion, not by his real name."

"I know, little one, I know," he said, holding her close to him. "It hurts me, t… oh, we have company. Hello, Lady."

He had noticed Lady, and she came forward, sniffing him. He always had treats for her and her siblings, and he offered her one now. Lady couldn't bring herself to take the dried chunk of liver from him, though, and he shifted.

"Ah. Hello, Sansa," he said, and in her bed, Sansa snapped awake.