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!

6. Chapter 6

Prowling the training yard, Victarion corrected the stance of a young boy, one of the newest recruits from the Westerlands. Give Tyvek Lannister his due, the man knew how to get recruits for the Night's Watch. This boy had to be no more than eight, but he'd come to swear his vows nevertheless, leaving the ten dragons reward to his older sister, from what Victarion knew. The boy was a quick learner, too, a deft hand with the ax. To lessen the workload for Alliser Thorne, Victarion often found himself roped into training the younger recruits and the youngest of the Free Folk. To his shock, he found he enjoyed it. He'd have never thought of teaching children as a joy, back when he was a Reaver of the Iron Islands, but then, he'd learned a lot about himself, up on the Wall, most of it surprising.

The boy corrected his stance, and Victarion nodded with approval before moving onto the next of his students. This one had fiery red hair, and was a beast of a girl, apparently something she'd gotten from her father, the Giantsbane, as he was called. He was some sort of chieftain, and had three wives and some thirteen young daughters. Beyond that, he had two grown sons who bore a strange resemblance to the Lord Commander, both of whom had two wives of their own, one of whom was a skinchanger, or warg, as they called it. Her animal was an ice bear, or at least, he had heard Giantsbane joking about "A she bear for the son of a she bear!"

This particular daughter of the Giantsbane liked hitting things, clearly, because she'd come to the training with a heavy wooden warhammer, and had been dropped off by her mother while trying to hit one of her older siblings with it. Victarion eyed her stance, then moved to attack her with his training ax. She blocked his swing, but then he kicked her in the back of the knee, and down she went.

"You're too stiff, keep loose, all of you!" He barked. Being Victarion Otherbane had its perks, because all of the children hastened to obey, making him smirk.

He watched them train for a solid hour before finally chasing them off to do… whatever it was small children at the Wall did, to keep out from under foot. Likely similar to what children all around the world did, not bother keeping out of the way at all.

Still, they were out of ihis/i way, at least, and Victarion entered Castle Black, ready to enjoy a hot meal. The food was getting to be better quality, of late- word of the Others had traveled as fast as Tyvek Lannister could send it (pretty darn fast), and a royal decree had ordered that half of all taxes from the smallfolk was to be sent to the Wall "in its time of greatest need". The words had reeked of Lannister's influence, but given he was eating fresh bread three days a week, now, and quality stuff, too, Victarion couldn't find it in himself to whinge about the how's and why's of the whole thing.

The free folk, as it turned out, were masters of making food stretch- no shock- but also of making it taste fucking good when they had nothing. Today's stew was a far cry from the watery stuff of old. It was rich and thick with the fat of five or six different types of meat, and Victarion found himself loathe for the day he would have to go back to eating swill again, should he survive the coming war.

One of his girls settled down next to him as he ate, and he ruffled the child's hair affectionately. She was deaf, and had mostly avoided Craster's attentions. She wasn't the first deaf-mute that Victarion had met, and she'd started picking up on the hand signs of the Ironborn quickly enough. They were basic gestures that used two fingers on each hand at the most (that iwere/i developed by Ironborn, after all), but the girl was smart as a fucking whip.

"You… stay… busy?" Victarion signed, and she nodded.

"Fixing clothes" she signed back excitedly. "Old-bear says work good."

She really had picked up on the language quickly, once she knew what she was looking for. She was far better at it than Victarion, at any rate.

"Good girl," Victarion signed back, his wrist doing the particular twist that meant it wasn't sarcastic. "How is sister?"

"Thale," she had to finger spell her sister's name, having not come up with a good sign for her yet, "Good. Tired. Want baby out soon."

"Soon come quick, then baby out. Moon turn," Victarion promised.

"Think will name Vika, she say," Jeni teased, and Victarion groaned. It made the girl laugh, that wheezing sound she usually got when she was amused.

Thale had found, once she and the rest of the women from Craster's Keep had arrived at the Wall, that she was a skinchanger, and her wolf came to them now, docile as a dog. Jeni signed at the she-beast, always able to tell when her sister wore its skin, and it huffed before headbutting Victarion with affection and moving on.

"Thale too fat walk now," Jeni signed, giggling. "Send Iceberg instead."

When they both finished lunch, Victarion sent Jeni off and made for the Lord Commander's solar, hoping to find him. He found Maester Aemon, instead, being supported by Mance Rayder. The Lord Commander's office could wait, it wouldn't move any further than it was, and he'd wanted to talk to Rayder, as well.

Mance Rayder… now there was a sore topic if ever there had been one. Some, like Thorne, wanted him dead as a traitor, an oathbreaker. Others (the Free Folk, Victarion, and the Lord Commander) knew that all of that could wait, given the approaching army of darkness. He and Rayder had served at the Shadow Tower together, for a time, and he'd been bitter when the man defected- how dare he leave for the love of a woman, when Victarion had left behind the chance to father sons?- but the bitterness had faded, over the years. Now, it had given way to practicality. Rayder was the only thing holding the Free Folk in some form of cohesion. Get rid of him, and you'd have two hundred thousand men, women and children with no leader, South of the Wall.

Bad idea, that.

"Ah, I know those footsteps. First Ranger," Maester Aemon greeted him. "How fortunate- Lord Commander Mormont wanted to see you."

Victarion laughed a bit. "Excellent timing, then," he declared, nodding to them. "Maester, Rayder."

Then he made the last twenty feet of the journey, knocking on the door.

"Come!" Mormont called, and Victarion entered. He took a moment of glee at the Lord Commander's surprised expression, then bowed slightly. "Greyjoy- that was fast. Come in, sit."

Victarion entered the room, and let the old bear pour him a glass of wine. They sat for a moment, two friends enjoying a drink. Mormont had only been in the Watch a year or two more than Victarion, and they'd formed an unlikely friendship, over the years.

"I'm planning on sending out a Great Ranging," Mormont finally growled out.

"Hm. Chett had said something about that at lunch, yesterday," Victarion said, musing over it. "It's not a bad idea. More intel is always a positive."

"Not just that. A chance to work hand in hand with our new allies. A hundred men of The Watch, a hundred Wild… Free Folk… You'd be in command of the men of The Watch, and The Giantsbane would command his warriors. Think you can get along with him?"

Victarion nodded. "Aye, I could. Was just training one of his daughters, earlier. But I'm not just bringing men with us. I want to bring Thale- she can leave her wolf here and pass messages to you through Jeni."

Mormont considered this, for a moment.

"She's one of your girls, then? You've been rather attached to them all." He said it without judgment, just a simple statement of fact, but Victarion shook his head.

"They're not "my" girls, they're free, that's the whole point of the thing, but yes, I've gotten attached to all of them, that came from Craster. How could I not?"

It wasn't very Ironborn to say, but it was true.

"When do we leave?"

"Two days, I was just discussing it with Rayder. You're to go to Craster's and work your way North from there. If you could determine the best path to the Others from there, working backwards…"

"And kill a few, if we can catch em. I've been sleeping with my ax in my hands and my knife next to my pillow," Victarion half joked.

Mormont grinned, then nodded. "Kill enough of them before they kill us, that's the whole idea. You'll have your pick of men, just make sure you're ready to leave in two days."

"Unrest in the Riverlands, my lords. There are rumors that a group of hedge septons desire to gather an army of followers to burn the Isle of Faces, and the Blackwoods and Brackens are once more at one another's throats."

Ned sighed at the Master of Whispers' description of the quote un-quote Unrest In The Riverlands. Across the table from him, Tyvek was frowning and taking notes on the meeting as a whole, which he would certainly share with the Hand later.

"That's not shocking," Tyvek said. "The Blackwoods are some of the last major worshipers of the Old Gods in the South, so any religious upheaval is likely to affect them most of all; the Brackens would shock me more by inot/i taking some kind of advantage over the fact."

"Indeed," Lord Varys simpered. "And, I fear that despite your lady wife's work, the religious unrest is growing here in the Capitol, as well."

Ned watched as Tyvek sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. The image superimposed itself over the same from ten years hence, and Ned could almost hear him hissing "Fucking /iChrist/i, Rhaegar," as he had all those years ago.

"I was worried you were going to say that, Lord Varys," Tyvek admitted. "If it please the Council and the King, I'll go meet with the High Septon and discuss things."

Renly laughed, and Ned resisted the urge to reach over and smack the young Lord Paramount. They had legitimized Edric Storm as a Baratheon, if he beat Renly black and blue for his blasé attitude…

"You?" Renly asked, amused. "The Faith hates you almost as much as me!"

He laughed again, and Tyvek gave him a cool glare.

"Is that so?" The Lord of the West asked, looking scarily like his father, in that moment. "Shall I break down why that's one of the dumbest things you've ever said, Renly? In fact, I think I shall!"

He pointed to each of them in turn, Varys and Pycelle, Ned and Stannis, then his uncle Kevan.

"Foreign eunuch who doesn't believe in any gods, man of science who doesn't believe in many gods, a pagan, a humorously unhappy man who's now deceased wife worshipped a bloodthirsty Foreign Fire God- no offense, Lord Stannis" he paused, before continuing. "My uncle Kevan is the son, brother, and uncle of Lord Paramounts, but not a Lord Paramount himself, so the faith will likely take offense if I send him, rather than go myself. As for you and I? We're both raging faggots, Renly, yes, but I've been working tirelessly to endear myself to the Faith. They may not like who I get fucked up the ass by, but they ilove/i my money. They love my charitable contributions, they love my motherhouses and my orphanages. They love the Septs I have built. I have been building a relationship with the Faith for nearly thirty years, three decades, all to ensure that they willingly ignore me taking cock up my ass. What have you done, Renly? iThat/i is why I should go."

Ned watched Stannis nod along, and decided that the reasoning was sound.

"Lord Tyvek will go to the High Septon and speak to him on this matter. We've had a virtual war in the streets already, we don't need further fighting, not when we have more dangerous foes to face."

He hadn't forgotten what was coming from beyond the Wall. None of them had, not really, but it was so easy to get wrapped up in the chaos of King's Landing.

"Worst comes to worst, His Grace and I will take a few hundred men and go put this nonsense about burning the Isle of Faces to rest. It would do him some good to get out and fight once again."

"We need to make a decision about Gendry, while we're at it," Tyvek said, and Stannis nodded.

"The boy is clearly Robert's get, that's undeniable, but we need more proof than your belief that he's Cersei's, as well," Renly said stubbornly. "People won't just accept a random bastard blacksmith from Flea Bottom as the next King of the Seven Kingdoms, and you know it."

"iThe boy/i won't accept himself as the next King of the Seven Kingdoms," Stannis huffed, and wasn't that the truth? Gendry scarcely believed he was Robert's bastard, let alone potentially being his legitimate son.

"We have time to get him, and the Lords, used to it. The West will stand behind him," Tyvek said, "And I'm fairly sure the North will, as well?"

Ned nodded, slowly. "Indeed we will. With no offense meant to anyone, Joffrey is… Not fit to be king. Gendry is practical and intelligent, he has his letters as well as Robert did, at that age, despite lacking a proper education. He would need a little refining, but we've had worse kings before. The lad knows how to take advice, and he's polite."

"He also doesn't cut open cats just to see what's inside them," Varys simpered, making Kevan Lannister scowl. Tyvek's uncle was unhappy with the idea of Joffrey being removed from the line of succession, and even more unhappy with Tyvek's suggestion that the blonde prince could be sent to the Wall as a brother- Tyvek said he had it all in hand, though, so Ned left that worry to him.

"It would be lovely if we had a way to take a sample of a man's blood and compare it to another's to determine if they're related," Tyvek agreed. "But since we don't, we have to look at the features on his face. Take Lord Stark and his heir. Nobody can deny Robb Stark is Lady Stark's son, but,"

He paused and pulled out a sheet of parchment, passing it to Stannis. "Lord Stannis, who is this sketch of?"

Stannis examined it, then nodded to the hand of the king. "Young Lord Stark, I would say. It looks like him at the end of the Rebellion, when he relieved Storm's End."

Tyvek smiled. "You prove my point, my Lord- this is a sketch I did of Lord Robb, during the hunt at Winterfell with the king. He may have the Tully colors, but his face is that of his father. Gendry has the look of Robert, but he has Cersei's cheeks, just like she had our mother's. You know who else has Cersei's cheeks? Prince Tommen and Princess Myrcella."

Kevan Lannister sighed, nodding. "It's true that Princess Myrcella has her mother's face- though her eyes, Baratheon blue or not, are that of my brother."

Tyvek chuckled fondly. "Especially when she gets angry- Father never raged much, he was cold, even when tearing you apart, but his eyes would blaze."

"If looks could kill, Gerion would have been dead about thirty times by the time he hit two and ten namedays," Kevan agreed fondly.

Then they all sobered, getting back to work.

"Tyvek, Lord Varys mentioned your lady wife doing charitable works in your name- I know my own daughters have joined her- would you tell us more about that?" Ned requested.

"Gladly, though there's not much to tell, as of yet," Tyvek explained, sitting upright and extracting a little book from his pockets. Leafing through the pages, he found the one he wanted. He gave a quiet and satisfied "Ah, here we are", then began to read from the page. "Fourth day of Sevenmonth, six hundred gold dragons divided between three smallest orphanages in KL; fifth day of Sevenmonth, two hundred gold dragons handed out in Flea Bottom, further hundred spent buying food for cookshops. Seventh day of Sevenmonth, seven hundred gold dragons, seven hundred silver stags, and seven hundred bronze stars divided between seven motherhouses. Tenth day, five hundred dragons sent to Night's Watch, um. Let's see- apologies, my lords, my vision has been getting worse the last few months. My Maester tells me it's part of aging- ah, this is when your daughters joined, Ned, fifteenth day of Sevenmonth, went with Stark daughters to give out gold in Flea Bottom, gave two hundred dragons to orphanages, three hundred to cook shops. Street Septons beginning to praise our works. Twentieth of Sevenmonth, spent two hundred dragons to send food and thirty men to Night's Watch. That's this month, my lords, we've been here for three and the numbers are similar."

That was over ten, no, over twelve thousand dragons in a single month! It boggled Ned's mind, while making his heart glad- so few Lords in the South cared for their people the way a Northern Lord would if he only had the money. It was good to see that his friendship and trust were not ill placed, even after all this time.

"That's quite the amount, my Lord," Lord Varys said, amused but strangely respectful.

"Yeah, well, it's the smallfolk that do most of the living and working and dying in the world, Lord Varys. I don't think it's too much to think they ought to do it with a half decent roof over their heads, and half decent food in their bellies." Tyvek retorted.

When the meeting was over, Ned and Tyvek walked together, through the Red Keep, speaking of the future.

"You know, old friend, not to be too forward," Tyvek began, and Ned knew he was about to be very, very forward, "But I have a few girl cousins, about Robb's age- I don't suppose you'd be against a potential match?"

Ned thought about it, for a moment, considering his options. "Perhaps for Bran, if you know of anyone near his age? I would like for Robb to marry a girl from the North, if possible."

Tyvek took no offense, nodding. "Yes, I suppose that's reasonable. Remind your banners that the Starks have ruled the North for eight thousand years for a reason, and that you haven't forgotten eight thousand years of loyalty. There's what, half a dozen houses with girls of a marriageable age, close to Robb's?"

"Indeed- the Karstarks, Manderleys, the Mormonts, the Umbers. House Reed, I believe, and then a dozen or so minor houses. I had hoped to make a marriage for Jon with the Karstarks, but."

Tyvek gave a sad smile. "Funny, I had hoped to make him a marriage with Joanna, if you didn't grant him lands. That would have solved my heir issues and I could have avoided marriage," he joked. It was in poor taste, but it made Ned chuckle anyways. "But yes, the Karstarks would have been a good choice. I've traded with them quite a bit, the last decade and a half. I had made a fostering offer for the girl, Alys?; but her father wanted to keep her close, naturally."

"I recall that, in fact. Lord Karstark had brought it up, one harvest festival."

Tyvek sighed. "That's the one area I feel I failed in, Ned. I never pushed harder to find more girls for Joanna to be friends with. She loves all the boys, she's friends with all of them, but. Well, can't go back and give her more female friends now, can I?"

"She and Sansa do seem to be getting along well, at least."

"That's true," Tyvek said as they entered the courtyard. Lyanna padded over to them, and he passed her a treat, like he always did to the wolves. "It makes me quite happy, I won't deny it- she and Arya are becoming friends as well."

"Yes, I've noticed that, as well. She's a good influence on Arya, by the way."

"Oh, excellent, I'm glad you think so- say, I've arranged for a Braavosi Water Dancing Master to come and train Joannna in the basics of Braavosi fighting. Would you be against Arya joining? I know Jon gifted her a blade in a similar style to the ones they use."

A Braavosi Water Dancer? That wasn't a terrible idea. It might even install some discipline into her actions, to train with an actual master. And the thin, quick motions would be well suited to her, would they not?

"I believe I will take you up on that, my friend," Ned decided. "If it isn't too much trouble?"

Tyvek grinned at him. "Ned, outside my own family, you Starks are my favorite. It's no trouble at all."

Daegon felt his feet dragging as he entered the door of his family home, having worked all through the night with Hob, and their new, shared apprentices, knapping out spear heads, arrow heads; hells, they had even started to make caltrops with the unworkable bits. The commission would see them in money for most of the rest of Daegon's life, let alone Hob, who had seen nearly sixty five namedays. The money wasn't the issue, it was how big the fucking order was, and how little time they had been given to do it in. He heard voices from inside, and nudged the door open.

"Ma!" He called. "M'home!"

"Is that my favorite nephew I hear?" A familiar voice said, and Daegon brightened.

"Nuncle Bronn!" He said excitedly, as they pulled each other into hugs. "What are you doing here, Nuncle?"

Daegon's favorite uncle shrugged, then handed him a package. "Coming back from a job for my employer, asked if I could stop in and see my favorite nephew and sister. Plus, I wanted to share the good news."

"Good news, Nuncle?" Daegon asked, accepting the package from his uncle, and slowly easing the oilskin wrapping open to reveal a set of leather-bound sketching journals and charcoal sticks. "Oh, these are fantastic, thank you, Nuncle!"

"Good news indeed- I've been made a Lord, for all me hard work. I'll be getting married, right quick, highborn gal, then our kids'll be Lords after me," Bronn grinned, and it took Daegon a moment to process the fact.

"A Lord… iA Lord?!/i"

Laughing, Bronn nodded. "A Lord, and a mighty high one, too. So, you finish up that job of yours, then you come join me at me new castle. Make a knight of you with a fancy name, just like your old Nuncle Shitspear?"

"And wouldn't mother laugh to see that," Daegon's mother teased her brother. They looked nothing alike, save for their eyes. They had eyes of the richest brown, like driftwood, when the seaweed began to dry, features that Daegon vaguely recalled his grandmother having. "Bronn Shitspear, a Lord of the Westerlands."

They all had a good laugh at that, and Daegon nodded. "Aye, if you'll have me, uncle, I'll finish this big order, then come to join you. Be nice to see more of the world than Dragonstone."

Once, when he was very, very young, Daegon's father had taken him to Sunglass, seat of Lord Bar Emmon, for trade, but that had been as far as he had ever been. He'd met Lord Bar Emmon, even, as part of his father's trading- the lord had called him a "stout fellow" with a kind laugh- but he'd never been further out into the world, and that had only been when he was very young, perhaps four namedays old.

"The West, huh? That's where you've been doing most of your work, right?" Daegon questioned. "Lord… Lannister?"

"Right on, lad, smart as always. Could have made a sellsword of you, keeping all these lords straight."

There was inane family chatter, after that, with a hot meal, and good drink. His uncle sang a song by Lord Tyvek called "Time in a bottle", and then mother and father had gone to bed, to leave uncle and nephew to talk.

It was late in the night, to where it was nearly morning, that Daegon finally spoke to his nuncle on the most important matter.

"Mother told you about Lord Stannis's wife and fire priestess?" He asked quietly, and Bronn nodded.

"Something about a mysterious fire, and his daughter nearly died in it too?"

"It wasn't mysterious," Daegon said, after a long, cold moment of thought. "The elders wanted the priestess and the lady dead- a warning to Lord Stannis- and they asked me to do it. I got to the family wing and found them trying to sacrifice the daughter to their fire God."

Nuncle Bronn listened silently, nodding. "So you saved the girl, killed them?"

"Then I fucked a whore for nearly forty eight hours," Daegon said solemnly, timing his reply so that his nuncle was mid-swig and sprayed his wine as he laughed, some of it coming out of his nose.

"You planned that," the old sellsword accused, referring to the wine, not the double murder. Daegon didn't bother denying it.

Bronn thought for a few moments, then said "Well, you got to be a regular old knight in shining armor for a princess, or nearly almost. Think that counts as alright, then."

They said nothing more on the subject, that night, or any of the two other nights his nuncle stayed with them. Daegon knew his nuncle wouldn't tell his family of it, for which he was grateful, and in truth, nothing more need pass between them on the subject. He'd needed to tell someone, just one person, what he had seen, before he could peacefully take it to his grave.

His nuncle and parents departed on the third day of his nuncle's visit, the vast majority of their family's belongings in a pair of sea chests, all save the family dining table, which was going to his auntie, and his workbench, which he would bring with him when he went west.

He wasn't giving up his damn workbench.

He gave his mother the vast majority of his money, trusting her to keep it safe until they met once more. This was to be the first time he was truly away from his family, and so he hugged his parents tightly.

His mother pulled away from him for a moment, after their hug, and held his face between her palms. There were tears in her eyes.

"No matter what you do, no matter where you go, you will always be my son," she told him, and Daegon pulled her in for another hug.

"And you will always be my mother," he whispered into her ear, holding her to the last as she sobbed, until it was time for her to board the ship.

He watched as it pulled out to sea, knowing they would be fine, that this wasn't the last time he would see his parents, and then he turned to go back to work, once the ship had gone from his sight.

Bran sat, shoulder to shoulder with Tommen, both of them exhausted from the day's training, his wolf at their feet almost equally exhausted. Ser Jaime had insisted that he train his wolf as hard as he trained himself.

"If you're not going to name the poor thing, you can at least include him in your training," the knight had ordered, and so they had.

"You hear that we may be going to the Riverlands soon," Tommen asked, panting for breath. Bran, equally winded, nodded.

"Father said that my uncle Edmure's wife has been taken by a bunch of Faith Militant," Bran said. "He said that the King wants to march out today, but that it takes time to gather men for such a thing."

He'd also said that he wanted Bran to stay behind, but that the King had wanted Ser Jaime to bring both his squires with to get a taste for battle. The future, Bran was beginning to find, was up in the air.

At their feet, Bran's wolf whimpered as the boys stood, the two humans and the dire wolf stretching their sore muscles in tandem. Bran groaned, and he and Tommen helped each other stretch their backs even further, bending each other over the other's arm.

"Right, back to it then?" Tommen asked, and Bran nodded, moving towards the logs they had been using. Ser Jaime had them hauling logs around the training yard, on their shoulders, which was an old favorite of the King's, he said. It was, Bran would admit, very effective at making you shut off your brain and keep going.

He hooked a chain to the leather harness Ser Jaime had gotten for his wolf, and the dire wolf whimpered, looking at them both like he'd been betrayed, until both boys shouldered their logs, and all three, human and canine, began to haul their logs once again.

Ser Jaime was busy, that day, meeting with the king, with Lord Tyvek, with Father, even, and so he had told them both to do this for six hours, and then to do it again for another two, unless he or Lord Tyvek came along and pulled swords on them. Since that wasn't very likely, it seemed that the boys would be hauling logs all day.

The worst of it was that they weren't big logs, even. They were small logs, only as thick as their arms, and half as long as they were tall. It made the king laugh when he saw them, talking about his fond memories of childhood, doing the same himself. The king, Bran thought, liked Tommen and Bran much more than he liked Prince Joffrey. It was so foreign a thought, that a father didn't love his son. Father loved Bran and Robb just the same, even though Robb was his heir, and he loved Rickon just as much. Father loved Jon as much as he loved Robb, and Jon had been a bastard, not even trueborn. To not love one of your children seemed… wrong, to Bran, but then, he'd also met, and interacted with, Prince Joffrey.

Lord Tyvek looked at the Dire Wolves with longing. He had a menagerie, Bran knew, with all sorts of animals in it. Jon had told him about it, in some of his letters. Lemurs, the giant apes of Sothoryos, one of the tattooed lizards, bought from the Sea Lord of Braavos. Lord Tyvek wanted a Dire Wolf, yes, but it was a purely affectionate longing.

Prince Joffrey longed to hunt and kill the wolves. He wanted to skin them, to stuff them, to make trophies of them and, perhaps, of their owners. Prince Joffrey, Bran thought, was more likely to shoot an animal full of bolts, than to admire the strength of it.

They had been hauling their logs for another hour, when Ser Jaime and Lord Tyvek came upon them.

"You've even got Su… the poor wolf… doing a workout regimen, Jay?" Lord Tyvek laughed. He always seemed to be on the verge of naming Bran's wolf, even to the point that Bran would dream of him doing it, sometimes.

"Only seemed fair, he might as well have a job, and muscles, if he can't have a name."

Lord Tyvek laughed, then grabbed a training sword from a rack.

"Don't suppose you'd let me test your squires, little brother? If they're off to the Riverlands, I want to see how likely they are to survive."

"We're joining you on the campaign, uncle Jaime?" Tommen asked excitedly, and Bran nodded excitedly. It would be a grand adventure, wouldn't it?

Ser Jaime nodded, then smiled at them. "Right, boys, toss those logs off your shoulders and let Tyvek kick your asses. Yes, lads, we're going to the Riverlands, your fathers and a good four hundred men, between them."

Without hesitation, both boys dropped their logs off their shoulders, and drew their practice swords. Bran took a moment and freed his wolf, while Tommen examined his training sword for any flaws. "Which of us first, uncle?" Tommen asked, and Lord Tyvek grinned.

"Both of you. It's only fair, boys. Neither of you is half where Jon was, and Jon could go toe to toe with Jaime and I."

Then, without warning, he slashed at them both, almost faster than Bran could follow. He scrambled back to avoid the blow and tossed up his sword to block, suddenly feeling like he imagined a mouse did, when pinned in a corner by a cat. Tommen tried to press an attack, only for Lord Tyvek to grab him by the neck with one hand and toss him into Bran. He sent them both tumbling, and they scrambled to stand up.

Lord Tyvek waited, circling them, until they were on their feet, and then he struck again. Bran and Tommen both moved, catching his blade on both of theirs, and he watched them, curious, before he grinned and caught Bran's wolf, mid-leap, with his free hand, flipping the dire wolf over his shoulder and flat onto the sand, before shifting his sword to lightly slap both boys across the face with the flat of it.

Bran's eyes filled with tears that he refused to shed, his cheek stinging, and Lord Tyvek nodded at them. "Dead, and dead, both of you, but. You lasted longer than Jon did, the first time he fought me. Good work, both of you."

He turned, clapping Ser Jaime on the shoulder. "Good work, little brother," he praised, putting back his training sword and leaving the yard. Bran thought, in that moment, that he was very glad Lord Tyvek was an ally of House Stark. Ser Jaime was good, but Bran felt that, if it came to a fight between them, Lord Tyvek would pound his younger brother into the dirt without hesitating.

"Well, not bad at all, you two," Ser Jaime said with a smile that seemed to promise suffering in their immediate futures.

He was right. Ser Jaime fought he and Tommen, and he was brutal with them. Not cruel, but forcible. He kept them going, through lunch, long past dinner, until they had collapsed to their knees, almost ready to die.

"Go. Wash up, eat, then bed, right away, both of you. We'll be up at dawn."

Both boys dragged each other up the steps of the White Sword tower, to their chambers, just off Ser Jaime's room, and obeyed his orders to the letter, before passing out in their beds.

He dreamt that he was sitting in the Godswood of Winterfell, his back against the roots of the Weirwood, its screaming mouth just above his head. He couldn't feel his legs, in his dream, and there was a crow in the branches above him. It floated down, perching on his chest, and examined him. Bran laughed, in his dream, petting it.

iHm. You're not ready, quite yet. Very strange. This Lion of the Rock has changed so much. Rest, Bran Stark. Soon you shall fly./i

The Sept was coming down. Stone by stone, the Sept that Ned had built her was coming down. The letter had come by messenger, Ned's seal on it, and a private letter for her within had sealed the fate of the building.

She had prayed for the death of one of his blood, in that building. He would not wish her harm, for she was his wife, Ned had written, but the Sept itself would be erased from existence. It was, he had written, a mistake, to allow a Sept into the heart of the North, and he would see it remedied.

The stones, Robb had informed her with a deep glare, would be used to the Jon Snow Orphan Education Center, where orphans could come and be taught life skills, and learn to live in the North as Northmen, rather than to worship Gods whose followers wished death on small children. He hated her now, her son, her oldest boy, she could see it in his eyes every time he looked at her. He only let her see Rickon when he came with, and he did that very rarely. She had been surgically cut out of her own life, like Alicent Hightower after the Dance of the Dragons, put away as an inconvenience.

She knew nothing more than what could be seen from her windows, or overheard from the whispers of the guards. Maester Luwin told her nothing during his rare visits to her chambers, and Rickon, sweet, innocent Rickon, was able to tell her even less.

She'd seen banners of a great number of lords. The chained giant and the flayed man of the Umbers and the Boltons- she'd seen Domeric Bolton arrive, even- the sun of the Karstarks, the merman of the Manderlys; Maege Mormont had come, and her daughters all with her, save the youngest- that too, she had seen from her window. Her window was her only access to the comings and goings of Winterfell, of the world at large, and it wasn't enough.

Her meals were always more than enough, her care exactly what a woman of her station should be afforded, but she was a prisoner, and it was likely to drive her mad.

So she waited, and did her embroidery, and she read what books Robb saw fit to grant her.

There was a change today, though. Around mid-day, she saw the gates open, and a contingent of what looked like Mountain Clansmen from the Vale arrived. The lot of them eyed Robb and Grey Wind warily, but with something like respect, she thought. Robb greeted the leader, and bread and salt was given to them all, and then, ducking iunder/i the frame of the gate, there came three giants. The shortest of them crouched, still taller than the tallest of the Umbers, and held Robb's arm, dainty, between its finger and a thumb, shaking hands with him in greeting. A giant plate of bread was brought out, the largest loaf Catelyn had ever seen, and even from her window, she could hear the laughter of the giants. They must have appreciated the gesture, if nothing else.

She saw the whole group begin to set up tents, right in the courtyard, even the three giants. Their tents did not look wide enough for them to lay down within, and there was no way the stretched hide would support their weight, should they mean to sit and lean against it. Clearly, these were no Mountain Clansmen. These were Wildlings, from beyond the Wall, and Robb had welcomed them into Winterfell like they were friends!

There was a noise behind her, and she turned, nearly screaming in shock at the sight that greeted her. It was a small, green-skinned ithing/i, with large, almond eyes, it's head cocked at her like a small puppy might.

"What… what are…" Catelyn tried to ask, but she couldn't get the words out. A strange terror had filled her heart.

"I am Leaf," the thing said to her, in a strangely gentle tone. "I am one of the Children of the Forest. You are Catelyn Stark, mother of Bran, yes?"

"Bran?" Catelyn asked, confused. "What do you want with my son?"

"Much and nothing," the thing smiled softly. "I was merely curious to meet you. He would tell me of you, sometimes. I wished to pay homage to you, before I went further South."

None of what it said made any sense, and Catelyn found herself collapsing into her chair, shocked. Prayers flittered through her mind, but she could not find the words to speak them aloud. She couldn't have said why she was so scared. There was nothing threatening about this "Leaf", outside its sudden presence. There was no reason for her terror, yet she felt it anyways.

"How… how do you know my son?" Catelyn finally managed to ask, afraid of the answer.

"We have not yet met, in this life, but my fate is tied to his. In some worlds we die together, in some I die so he may live. In others yet, he gives his life for mine. I go south to find him, and, perhaps, our beloved." Leaf said softly. "You would not like her, but her fate is tied to mine and his as strongly as our own."

Leaf came closer, and took her hand in its cold, child-sized own. It had four fingers, Catelyn noticed, one less than Men did, and four toes upon each of its bare feet. "He has your nose," They said with a small smile, placing a gentle, barely there kiss on Catelyn's brow, and then each of her cheeks. "I must go, now, to the Isle of Faces. I will give Bran your love, when next he and I may meet."

The creature released her from its gentle grasp and seemed to melt into the shadows of the room, vanishing from sight.

Catelyn sat, trying to process what she had seen and heard. None of what "Leaf" had said made any sense.

That night, she gave the maid a note to give to Robb, a request for any books they had on myths of the North. If anything would have the answer, it would be such a book as that.

Instead, the next morning, Old Nan came up to see her. Old Nan had been one of Ned and Brandon's nurses, had helped to care for her own children, had been one of Rickard Stark's nurses, even. She was, some said, as old as Winterfell itself, though the thought of someone or something living eight thousand some odd years old was laughable.

The old nurse paused as she came into the room, then smiled, in that special way old people have, that says they know Something You Don't. "Had a visitor yesterday, did you?" She asked with a toothless smile, sitting in a chair in front of the fire, across from Catelyn. "One of the Children of the Forest, hm? Goodness, haven't had one of them here in over a hundred years, I would say. Not since I was very young, at least. After The Dance, before good old Dunk and that squire of his came to visit us, I should say. Right after… must have been right after the first Blackfyre, I would say."

"You know what it was, then?" Catelyn asked, shivering.

"Oh but of course. The Children used to come here often, when I was young. Maybe not as often as Lords and Ladies, but often enough." Old Nan mused, lost in memories. Catelyn had heard someone once say that all Brandon Starks were the same Brandon, to Old Nan, so many had she seen come and go, and in that moment, the Lady of Winterfell was inclined to believe it. "They can't help it, you know. The Children and the Starks have been interbreeding since before Brandon built the Wall. His father was Garth the Greenhand, who was half man, half God, and his mother was a Child of the Forest. And Brandon's wife, she was a Child as well, same as Lord Ned's great-great grandmother, who was my aunt as well as my grandmother."

"You… you have blood of these… "Children of the Forest", then?" Catelyn interrupted, apprehensive.

"More of them than I do of men," Old Nan cackled gleefully. "My mother was half, and my father full. It's how I've lived so long. If my Eddy hadn't died in battle, he might still be serving the family, the same as me."

The old woman looked wistful, then smiled softly. "But that's enough about me. What is it you wanted to know about the stories of the North? I know so many."

Catelyn paused, then, thinking, said "As many as you can tell," and she watched Old Nan nod, thinking.

Then, the old woman began to speak, and Catelyn listened. Through the night, into the morning, they spoke, and Catelyn, to her credit, began to learn.

Gendry looked at the king. The king looked at Joffrey. Joffrey glared murderdeathkill at Gendry. Father looked at the three of them like he wasn't sure who he was going to smack upside the head first, other than that it wouldn't likely be Gendry (Father was rather fond of Gendry, after all), and mumbled something she didn't fully catch about "Stubborn Baratheons".

"Well, that's that, really, then," The king said with a tone of inarguable finality. "Gendry, you're my heir now, my firstborn, legitimate son, future king, all that. Joffrey, soon as Ned and I get back from the Riverlands, you're off to the Wall. Maybe they can make a decent man of you where I have so clearly failed."

There had been an… incident, earlier that day. Someone, nobody would say who, had tried to poison Lord Tyvek. He had mostly laughed it off, saying that he'd been building up immunities to most of the poisons of the world for nearly twenty years, but even he had agreed it was a serious thing. The king had gotten it in his mind that Joffrey had been behind it, and true or not, had decided to cut off any further murder attempts at the pass. Whether the blonde shit actually was guilty, Arya couldn't say for certain, but given how he had tried to kill Sansa's favorite falcon a day after he'd been betrothed to her, Arya was likely to say that yes, he had probably been behind the poisoning attempt.

Gendry, she noticed, looked like he was about to be sick. Poor stupid. He'd need a friend, she was sure, so as the king wandered away, she and Nymeria pounced, doing their best to drag Gendry away. They were fairly successful, which was rather amazing, given Arya was a quarter of Gendry's weight, and Nymeria not much larger than that herself.

Then the king turned. "Oh, before I forget. You're close with that one, so she'll do for joining the families. I couldn't have my Lyanna, and Joffrey, well, he's off to the Wall, so you'll have to marry her." He declared to Gendry, waving a hand in Arya's direction. To the rest of the court, he added "Arya Stark will be your future queen, so ass kiss appropriately."

As Jon would say, quoting Lord Tyvek, "Freeze Frame. Record scratch. Say that again?"

Gendry looked at Nymeria. Nymeria looked at Arya. Arya looked at Gendry. Father growled out "Godsdamnit Robert" before stalking off after the King.

Father paused, turning, putting a heavy hand on Gendry's shoulder, giving him a small smile. "Welcome to the family I suppose, lad. I think we'll be glad to have you."

Gendry looked as pale as Arya felt, and without thinking, they both fled the throne room. Away, away, anywhere but ihere/i, surrounded by people gossiping and glaring and whispering. Without thought they found themselves in the Godswood, away from prying eyes, and Arya realized, collapsing in front of the bare mockery of a Heart-tree, that she was crying.

"I don't iwant/i to get married!" She spat out, unable to process the idea. That was Sansa's dream, not hers!

Nymeria growled as the thought of Sansa in a dress, exchanging vows with Gendry, flashed into Arya's mind. That, she realized, might be even worse. Sansa would be a good queen but she would never tell her husband when he was being a stupid-stupid, or a regular stupid, and Gendry needed someone who would tell him that.

But did it have to be Arya herself?

"I don't wanna be king," Gendry mumbled in agreement. "And I can't marry you anyways, you're not even ten yet. Blecgh," he said, smacking his lips against his tongue, nose crinkled, like he was trying to get a bad taste out of his mouth.

"We're nobles, stupid. We can get married. I don't wanna get married though."

Gendry looked, if possible, even more grossed out by the idea of marrying a nine-year old, then shook his head. "Don't matter. I won't be king, one way or another, so it won't matter. You don't gotta marry me. And if, if you ido/i have to marry me, then once I'm king, I'll change the laws so that you don't have to stay that way."

Arya thought about that, for a brief moment, then grinned. "You should make it so boys can marry boys, too, and girls can marry girls. If you're the king, you'll be able to do that. If you do, Lord Tyvek will never turn the west from your aid."

Gendry laughed, leaning in closer in a conspiratorial fashion. "Truth be told, I think he and your father might be my closest supporters no matter what I do- neither of them likes Prince Joffrey."

"You can just call him Joffrey, Your Grace, he is your younger brother, after all, and out of the line of succession, besides," a third and familiar voice said, startling them as Lord Tyvek came from behind the Heart-tree, slipping Nymeria a bit of dried liver from a pouch at his belt, like he always did to all of the Dire Wolves. "And while I won't presume to speak for Ned, yes, you'll have my support behind you no matter what."

He paused, chuckling a bit. "Though I wouldn't be against you making it legal for men to marry men, if you wanted to call it a nameday present for your favorite uncle… and Renly, I guess he counts too."

"I think Lord Tyrion might be my favorite uncle, actually," Gendry said, probably teasing. Arya laughed uproariously as Lord Tyvek dramatically grasped his chest and acted like he'd been stabbed, at the comment.

"It's because I got it into Robert's head to make you his heir, as was proper, isn't it? That's fair, I suppose." The lord of the Westerlands teased. "Tyrion is probably my favorite sibling, as well, Gods rest Cersei's soul."

Arya noticed something in Lord Tyvek's eyes when he mentioned his dead sister. She could've almost called it mischief, if she didn't know better. What mischief could be involved with a dead sister? She wouldn't think of mischief about Sansa, if Sansa died. She wouldn't make light of Jon's death. Whatever it was that Lord Tyvek thought of, when he thought of his sister, it must not have been trouble.

"But enough of this sad talk- let us look at the positives! And, if I may, I know a thing or two about making the best of a marriage you're not so sure about work."

Arya snorted, her troubles forgotten for the moment, which, she supposed, may have been Lord Tyvek's plan.

"First of all, though, now you're betrothed, like it or not, so your days of being alone together and having childhood fun are over. No more whimsy," Lord Tyvek said firmly, in a tone that implied he found the idea completely ridiculous. "Secondly, you have at ileast/i eight years before you have to marry each other, I was able to convince my good-brother to agree to that. There will be no 'Younger than she are happy mothers made, and too soon marred are those so early made', I promise. Arya, you'll be at least Seventeen, I promise."

Then he told Gendry, throwing an arm over his shoulder "And besides, Robert may live another two or three decades! You've got plenty of time to adjust to the idea of being king!"

A moon turn and a half later, as Arya, Nymeria, Gendry, and the ragged remains of the Stark household guard, all two men and Septa Mordane ran through the tunnels under the Red Keep, guided by her Dancing Master and The Spider, she spared a moment to curse Lord Tyvek's self assurance that all would be well. The king was dead, father was dead, Bran dead or captured, and Sansa… they'd left Sansa with…

They had been marching towards and through the Riverlands for a sennight, now, a thousand well trained men between them. It was good, to be riding into battle with Robert once again- his friend was focused in a way he hadn't been since the Greyjoy Rebellion, and it did Ned's heart good to see it. It was like old times again. All they needed was Denys, and Elbert, and it would be like they were boys once more, on their way to Riverrun for Brandon's wedding that never was.

The Kingslayer was with them, and Sers Guyard Morrigen and Meryn Trant as well, to be Robert's Kingsguard. As knightly masters for Bran went, Ned supposed that the Kingslayer was the best he could have asked for. For all that he distrusted the man's ability to keep an oath, the secondary Lannister brother looked at Bran and Tommen the same way his elder brother had looked at Jon, and Ned could ask for nothing more.

They were marching to Riverrun, to crush an uprising of the Faith Militant, to rescue his good-brother's wife from being held as hostage by them, to bloody their blades and protect the Isle of Faces. Edmure would be unable to join them, unable to send men, lest his wife be killed, so their thousand men would be all they could reliably count on having. It would be more than enough to smash any and all resistance. Tyvek had cautioned them to send another two or three hundred, just to be safe, but, as Kevan Lannister had pointed out, there was still a great amount of religious unrest within King's Landing itself. Better, he had counseled them, to leave two or three hundred extra men in the Capitol itself to maintain order, than to bring so many men that they were unable to keep control of them all during the fracas.

So. A thousand men, they were, a warband of great numbers. Robert was pleased to be riding into battle once again. iReal/i battle, too, not just half-baked tourneys that would be forgotten in a month's time, he had told Ned and Ser Jaime their first night on the march, the three of them, alongside Bran and Tommen, eating together in his tent. It was like to be an easy battle, Ned thought, for the vast majority of their foes would be untrained smallfolk. High on Religious Fervor, of course, but Faith was no guarantee of success, as he well knew.

On their third day of riding, Robert had summoned him to his side, presenting Ned with a copy of his Will.

"I know you won't like it, Ned, but if anything happens to me, Gendry will need you," he had said as he handed it over.

Ned scanned through the opening, where it listed Robert's many titles, as king. They were all there, good, nobody could contest the Will based off of that… His Will itself made Ned nod, as he read it.

iEddard Stark will remain as Hand of the King for a period of no less than five years, in tandem with Tyvek Lannister acting as Protector of the Realm. Should Tywin Baratheon, having since been named Gendry, die within that period, and have no issue, then they shall remain in those roles for my son, Tommen, until he reaches an age of majority. Should Both Gendry and Tommen pass without issue, then the Throne shall pass to my brother, Stannis, on condition that his daughter, Shireen, wed my bastard son, Edric.

In the event that Gendry becomes King, Tommen is to receive a Lordship and lands within the Stormlands, or Crownlands, as Gendry and his advisors see fit. Edric Storm is, as previously stated by royal proclamation, to become Lord Paramount of the Stormlands upon the death of my brother, Renly. My daughter, Myrcella, is to be married to a Lord of Dorne, who I trust will be well chosen by Gendry and his advisors.

To my first daughter, Mya Stone, in the Vale of Arryn, I leave a proclamation making her the Lady of Stormvale, which I have seen to the construction of, and all the lands within a four hundred acre circle from her seat, as well as my regrets for time lost. I was a fool, Mya, and I can only hope this will make up for the fact.

To my twin bastard sons, living in Casterly Rock under the care of Tyvek Lannister, I leave ten thousand gold dragons each, and the castle of Goldstorm, in the Stormlands, which I have seen to the repairs of.

To my newest daughter, Barra, I leave 75,000 Gold Dragons, and a request for her to be sent to Winterfell and educated in the running of a household by the Lady of the Keep, before Lord Eddard finds her a good, solid, Northern Husband who will treat her better than I ever could./i

It was. Well, it was more extensive than most Lordly Wills were, but then, it was better than Aegon the Unworthy's Will.

"You don't legitimize your Bastards as Baratheons, at the very least," Eddard said, finally, making Robert laugh, food spraying onto his beard.

"Oh aye, Ned, I'm not that stupid, but. Well. I've been a shit father, to all of them. Gods, look at Joffrey! This… well, if I make it out of this alive, which I intend to, mind, then I'll bring all of them to court, and yeah, I'll probably name them all as Baratheons, but. If I do die, I wanted them to have. Something. You know what I mean, Ned."

"Aye," Ned had answered, smiling softly. He'd written his own Will the night before, just in case, and he'd had the Kingslayer and Ser Morrigen act as his witnesses. All he had done, other than to affirm Robb as his heir, was to request that Moat Callin be rebuilt and given to Bran, and for Sea Dragon Point to go to Rickon, as it could no longer go to 'd also asked that they please burn his body so that he didn't come back, given what was coming, from North of the Wall.

Now, they were fully in the Riverlands, and the morale was high. Someone, a few horses back, was leading some of the men in a rousing rendition of The Bear And The Maiden Fair, and, surprising not a soul, Robert had joined in. It always shocked people, to hear how magnificent of a singer Robert could be, when sober-ish. Those Baratheon Lungs, and their accompanying Baratheon War Cries, were good for more than just shouting loudly, if you got him in the mood. Beyond that, Robert knew how much good it did, for men to see their commander going out amongst them, singing the same songs as them, before a battle especially. If you were going to lead from the front, as they preferred to do, then you needed to have men that trusted you to be as brave and true as you asked them to be.

It was their second night in the Riverlands, and Ned had felt a primal calling in his chest and in his loins. He would never tell Cat, he would never let her know, of course he wouldn't, but he found a girl from the Riverlands, and he paid her well for her time, pumping into her, her chest too small under his hands, until he spilled his seed. Guilt ate at him, so he gave her another purse of coins, these Dragons instead of Stags, and then he sent her on her way. He, very proudly, did not call her Cat, did not name her Ashara, in his pleasure, and he slept poorly that night.

The next day, around the middle of the march, Ned felt a bubbling rage in his chest, for a brief moment, and then he heard Lyanna snarl, just to the left of his horse. His eyes followed hers, and then…

"TO ARMS!" he cried out, drawing his blade, regretting sending Ice to Robb for just the briefest of moments. "MEN OF THE KING, TO ARMS!"

Others took up the call, and the Faith Militant Army crashed into them just as the majority of them had gotten their shields up.

Most, but not all. He saw one of the Lannister soldiers Tyvek had sent with them go down, a spear to his gut, screaming in agony as he fell. One of his own men took a blow from a club to the skull, and tried to keep fighting, but was pulled down and killed before anyone could think to rescue him.

He heard Robert laughing as he entered the fray, and he heard the howling of Dire Wolves, pumping in his ears like blood as he let loose a roar of his own. "FOR THE OLD GODS!" he called, making his own men cry out with a great cheer. "FOR THE OLD GODS AND THE NORTH!"

He killed a man, slicing his head almost clean off in a spray of blood, and saw Robert running ahead of him. Ned charged after his friend on his horse, Lyanna going ahead, and in that moment, Man and Wolf were one. His kills were hers, hers were his, they were beyond the bonds of mortal flesh, they were WOLVES, not just in flesh but in spirit!

He forced the Wolfsblood down, back into its cage, but still, his senses felt clearer, sharper. It felt like freedom.

His sword was knocked from his hand, but Ned found that it didn't matter. He pounced on the man that had done it, bashing him in the head, over and over, until it was nothing but a pulpy mess, and then he took up his blade again. He spun, catching a spear point against the cross guard, even as he slit the guts of two men in front of him. Lyanna pounced, tearing off the arm of the man with the spear; Ned silenced his screams forever a moment later.

An arrow flew, hitting him in the shoulder. He hissed in pain and tried to flex his arm, but couldn't. Damn. At least it was only his shield arm, and he did still have feeling. He could feel the blood seeping from the wound, cooling on his sleeve under his armor. It would be fine. Another arrow flew, and he deflected it with his sword, and then Lyanna snapped her jaws on the throat of the man firing at him. She turned, jaws bloody, and they kept fighting.

Fear squeezed his heart, tightly, like a vise, and then he heard Bran's wolf howling. He turned to see Ser Jaime fighting off two men at once, protecting Prince Tommen, who was down on the ground, bleeding from the mouth. Bran was.

Where was Bran? He'd heard his son's wolf, where was his son?

He looked around, forcing down the panic, and called out "Men of the North! To me!" In a hoarse voice. Ten men came to his side, and they pushed forward to Ser Jaime and the youngest Prince of the Baratheon dynasty, even as the Faith Militant swarmed them like ants. Lyanna snarled and snapped, taking off a man's arm, and then Ned felt himself gasping as, instead of falling back, the man stabbed her in the throat before he died. Lyanna collapsed, but she was dead before she hit the mud, Ned could tell, deep in his chest. Bran's wolf howled again, and then Ned heard Robert laughing with sudden clarity.

"I'm coming, Lyanna!" He heard Robert cry out gleefully, fighting a giant of a man, one of the King's arms half way off, dangling from a few strips of flesh. The King was laughing as he died, brought to the ground by another, smaller fighter. Robert died with a smile on his lips, even as he had his head bashed in.

Something struck Ned from behind, and he fell to his knees, twisting himself onto his back as he fell even further. He couldn't. He couldn't feel his legs. Where was Bran? Where was Bran? He couldn't go home without Bran, what would Cat say?

Cat… his sweet Cat… how was she to know that he still loved her when his last order had been to tear down her Sept?

He looked up into the sky and saw a massive flock of ravens, flying above him. They were waiting for the battle to finish so that they could feed on the dead. Maybe they were the same flock who rested in the boughs of the poisoned Weirwood of the Blackwoods. Maybe they would bring pieces of him to their home, to let part of him rest with the gods they shared.

Then, a brief pain hit him in his chest, and Ned Stark never saw anything with human eyes again.

Robert laughed, charging into the unexpected battle, his heart filling with glee. The Kingslayer was right beside him, and Tommen, bless his little heart, was right behind them both, Brandon Stark at his side. Tommen had a war hammer, and little Brandon a sword, little reflections of their fathers. That wolf of Bran's, what a beast it was! It was as vicious as a Baratheon and as powerful as a God. His children with Lyanna would have been like that too, he was certain of it. They would have been strong, would have kept him strong! Even near a decade free of That Bitch Cersei (Stranger keep her soul), he still heard her voice, grating on his ears, every time he did damn near anything. He was finally, at least, bonding with Tommen

I finished examining the child in front of me, then ruffled her hair, letting her hop off of the table I'd had her sitting on. I gave her a piece of dried peach, then turned to my medical companion. "Qyburn?"

My favorite mad scientist turned to me and nodded, a faint smile on his lips. "Yes, my Lord, this one, too. A healthy looking lad," he said, giving the child he'd been looking over a piece of dried apple. "Attentive, as well, he was watching me as I worked."

I knelt before them and gave the boy an envelope. "You bring this to Lord Varys, hmm, let him know you're alright?"

"Yes, m'lord," the girl said, both of them scampering away from us. I sighed, turning to Qyburn, offering him a wan smile.

"Well, that's a relief, at least," I said, and Qyburn nodded. With my patronage ensuring he had never struggled to gain the things he needed for his work, he had more remaining morals than he would have by this point in Canon. I doubt Canon Qyburn would have cared that Varys was using kids without tongues as a spy ring.

"Indeed," he mused, gathering up his tools. "Now to see if all other suspicions you have are correct."

Yes, that was the rub, wasn't it? I was going in blind with Varys, more than nearly any other character, because of how different he was from book to show (not that Qyburn knew that part!), and I had been forced to tread very softly.

"On that note, my Lord," Qyburn continued quietly, nearly silent, passing me a note. I would read and burn it later, of course, but I knew what it was likely to be about. After all this time, I was FINALLY free of the green shadow of a wildfyre shaped executioner's ax hanging over my neck. It had taken nearly two decades of constant work, but I had done it. It was all up, in the North, in a shipping warehouse just outside a barely there port city a day or two's sailing from Eastwatch. When the Others came?

Boom boom.

Wouldn't it be great? Wildfyre, raining down over the heads of the army of the dead, maybe hitting a few of the Others… it was a glorious thought.

But that was for the future. We were only two days out from Robert and Ned heading to the Riverlands, and I still have time enough to prepare, to lay my cards on the table. To gather allies and… prune away my enemies, shall we say?

Tonight would be a fantastic opportunity for just that- I would be meeting with Varys, and he and I would be having a talk. I would get answers, one way or another.

I had never been so happy to have built up my immunity to the vast majority of poisons this world has on offer as I've been these last two weeks.

"Indeed, my friend. Now, I don't know about you, but I could use some lunch, and we're about to hit mid-day! Would you care to join me and the rest of the family for a meal?"

Qyburn smiled, nodding. "I suppose if I wave off and say I have research to do, you'll bodily drag me there and insist I take better care of myself anyways," he said, making me laugh.

"You're learning!"

It was an old argument, of course. We've been having it for years. It's like putting on an old shirt, having this argument.

Before you go accusing me, no, I'm not in love with Qyburn. I've been in love before. I was in love with Rhaegar, I know what being in love is like. I haven't been in two decades, but I know what it feels like, and this isn't it. I won't let myself fall in love with straight people anyways, at any rate. It's just.

It's ilonely/i, being one of the smartest men in the world. It isn't even because I'm actually smart! Drop Tyrion into the modern world, drop Qyburn into the modern world, then drop them back into this world, and I can guarantee they'd leave me in the dust. I have no doubt about that. If you put Qyburn in the modern world, Jurassic Park could be real, if he wanted it to, I'm sure of it. Same with Tyrion. Hell, same with Tysha! Once she'd learned her letters and her numbers, my good-sister had taken off with it- where I was more medicine and technological advances, though, she was more, you know, theoretical physics. Many a spirited discussion had been had at my dinner table, over the nature of the material world!

But so much that came naturally to me were basic impossibilities to them, in regards to technology. I've always been prone to depression, and when it's like this? When I'm surrounded by people but still feel so alone? It gets even worse. Jon's death is like a hole in my side. Lancel's injury mocks me, as if Canon is trying to reassert itself but isn't sure how to do so. I find myself fighting off paranoia, even as things are, increasingly, going my way. I have control of King's Landing, essentially, from the Goldcloaks to the Faith; I can see why my dearly departed father had loved the power of Hand of the King. Being this in control is a dangerous drug. I have to resist the urge, constantly, to go mad with the power of it.

I want nothing more, in this moment, than to be able to do paternity tests on all of Robert's kids. If I had the ability to do that, Gods, I could have handled Joffrey here and now, rather than having to wait for Robert to get back from the Riverlands. I could confirm, beyond my own emotional certainty, that Gendry was Cersei's son, I could stop any naysayers in their tracks!

Well, you know what they say. Wish hand, shit hand, and all that. I would love the ability to do DNA testing, but I don't have it, so I had better get over myself and get back to the work that I can do.

"Oh, I forgot to ask, how goes your work with the midwives?" I question Qyburn as we walk. He'd been working with midwives around King's Landing to improve conditions for pregnant women, both poor and noble, a goal I could, of course, get behind.

"Hm, too early to say, I fear, but they're taking to the idea of washing their hands in boiled wine before the birth, at the very least. We've already seen improvements with infant mortality in that regard, at least."

"Good, good- and you mention that it's all being done in Margaery's name, yes?"

It was, I thought, a brilliant plan, stolen from another ASOIAF self-insert story. I may not have been British (or Renly)*, but I'm plenty happy to take a good idea when I see one. Put Margaery out there as a patron of the poor and the downtrodden, a savior of women and babes, and me as the one behind her. Between her work, and my investments (and Tyrion's work on the sewers years before), the Capitol was starting, slowly, to become less of a death trap. Wouldn't you know it? When people's needs are met in a safe and timely fashion, they have more time to take care of themselves, and less time to be corrupt! Who would have thought of that?!

"Of course- the influx of money certainly helps, on that end."

I nodded, musing over my thoughts. Beyond it being a smart political move, it was a matter of genuine humanity. How many times had I, in my last life, decried the very existence of men such as Jeff Bezos, Elon Musk, of Bill Gates? How often had I raged against the investment bankers who bought thousands of homes, while children died in the streets? How could I have done that and then refused to try and solve those same issues once I found myself in a similar position of wealth? How could I have slept at night if I hadn't? That was the one, singular benefit of being filthy fucking rich that didn't leave a black stain on your soul.

The vast majority of my relatives in King's Landing had assembled for lunch. Tyrion and Tysha and Joanna were arranged to the left of where I would normally sit with Margaery, instead of to my right; Myrcella had joined us, today. Looking at her makes my heart clench. Her coloring is Baratheon, but her face grows to resemble that of my mother more and more every day, something I doubt Cersei would have cared about but made me want to keep her safe and happy all the more. To her right were Sansa and Arya, Lady and Nymeria at their feet, and Sandor just behind, watching the whole group protectively. Really, calling him The Hound wasn't inaccurate. Sandor was meant to protect people, at his core, even if he hadn't realized it all the way, yet. I gave him an acknowledging nod as I sat, smiling at everyone.

"Princess, thank you for joining us," I said to Myrcella as I sat. "It's an honor to have you here."

"I'm glad to do so, my Lord Uncle," she grinned.

Gods, she really did look like mother when she smiled. I smiled back at her, waving my hand. "None of that 'my Lord' stuff, princess, you're family, and I don't insist on that from family."

I paused, as if thinking. "That must be why I let your father get away with it, now that I think of it."

She giggles, and I know the ice is broken. Jaime has written to me about her, and Tommen, over the years. He's closer to them now that they're Robert Baratheon's get than he was when they were his own offspring, and I've gotten several letters about them over the years. The fact that Jaime willingly writes letters is something I'm rather proud of, given the fact that he's got a clear case of dyslexia. I just… have him write in all caps, when he writes to me, and problem solved. Will it probably look a little funny, when historians of the future read whatever entries he makes in the White Book? Undoubtedly! But it spared him the joys of learning to read under the tender mercies of Tywin Lannister's thumb, so I think it's worth it.

"Alright, uncle, but then I insist everyone else gets to skip calling me 'Princess', in that case," Myrcella says, and I smile.

"I think we can all handle that, can't we?"

The rest of the family nodded, and I mentally patted myself on the back. Where I lead, they follow; not from fear, but from love and respect.

"Now, Myrcella, if you've never had a Tyvek-style meal, I promise, you'll quite enjoy it," Margaery said, leaning past me. "Your uncle has all sorts of strange foods he likes, but I haven't had a bad one yet."

"Speaking of!" I declared, clapping my hands above my head. The servants trooped out, carrying the covered dishes. They set them all on the table, removing the lids with well-practiced flourishes, and the scents of half a dozen various food combinations began to waft over us. "Ooh, goodie, pizza!"

Indeed, it was a selection of eight or nine flavors, including… yes! There it was! Hawaiian! I scooped up two slices and gave them to Myrcella before taking two of my own and passing the platter down to Margaery. She skipped it, not fond of barbecue sauce, rather than pineapple, but Tyrion took a slice for himself, as did Tysha, and Joanna took two for herself.

"Now, despite what isome/i people say," I told Myrcella, glaring teasingly at Lancel. "Pineapple absolutely does belong on pizza, and this is my favorite way to do so."

"Pineapple is a desert fruit, my Lord, not a pizza ingredient!" Lancel protested without heat, smiling at me. He grabbed onto the tray as it was passed to him, balancing it skilfully on the end of his hook as he passed it on. (Note to self, fix him up a better prosthesis)

Myrcella watched how we were eating, then tried her first slice for herself.

"Oh, Gods that's…" she paused, trying to process the flavor explosion. "What in the world? This is delicious, by the gods! Father will love this- uncle, we have to serve this to Father at some point!"

I laughed. "Dear niece, once he and Lord Stark return, victorious, I will gladly arrange for this to be served at the feast your father will surely demand- if it was good enough for my wedding, it's good enough for your father's victory feasts, yes?"

The rest of lunch went well- Arya and Sansa were pizza converts as well- and when it was over, I told Margaery that I wouldn't be too dinner, that night, then explained why. She nodded, extracting a promise that I would stay safe.

I have… distant affection, for Margaery. It's very much the "You're the offspring of two of my best friends and I was one of the first people to hold you" variety, but it is there. I'm sure plenty of people in Westeros have made worse matches work with less affection between them. Despite the fact that technically speaking, this Margaery is Rhaenys, rather than the Margaery of Canon, she's still very much the same- kind, loving, charitable, and downright fucking cutthroat when it comes to protecting her and hers- which again makes me wonder if Canon is attempting to reassert itself, in spite of my best and varied efforts.

Varys and I met in my Solar. He came out of a hole in my wall, but then, I had found that particular hidden door about a week ago, and had left it open tonight for just this purpose. Cards, table. We're going into this on as near to equal footing as possible, Varys and I.

"Evening, Spider! Come, sit, let's talk! Can I offer you a drink? I would drink first, so you'd know it isn't poisoned, but then, you know I'm quite immune to the vast majority of poisons and venoms of the world! So! What will you take? Arbor Gold? Dornish Red? Northern Vodka?"

That's it, false cheer, not toooooo campy, you know what to do. Placate, reel him in, close the trap, you've got this.

Varys smiled at me, amused. I imagine that, without Petyr Baelish, he's been quite bored, having no verbal sparring partners. Let's see if I'm up to his level, shall we?

"I won't say no to a touch of Arbor, since you're offering so politely, my Lord," he tittered, like we were friends and allies. Maybe we are, maybe we will be, but not just yet, my fine web spinning fellow. Not just yet.

"I didn't think you would, my friend," I tell him as I pour a glass for him, then myself. I really, ireally/i don't like drinking alcohol like this- I've said it before, and I'll reiterate that I'm a NASTY drunk- but needs must, in this case, and I've broken my rules on it already anyways. "Now, I'm going to assume you read my letter that I had your little birds deliver?"

He nodded, taking a small sip. "Indeed… and I understood your message loud and clear, as well." He said, suddenly very, very serious.

Yes, well, that had been my goal when I rounded up the vast majority of his little birds, beyond checking for kids without tongues. 'I can find your spies at any time… they're alive because it was convenient to leave them that way', and I think Varys understood that message very well.

"Good. In that case, what I said in my letter holds true. I do not wish to be your enemy, Lord Varys. Indeed, I think you and I have similar enough goals that we may even be able to truly call each other 'friend', one day in the future."

"Therefore you made the offer you did. Mutual agreed upon neutrality, and absolute secrecy, for both of us, about any treasons we have committed, up to this point?"

I nodded, taking a swig of wine, barely enough to even wet my tongue. "Just that. I've done my research about you, Lord Varys, and I don't make offers I don't keep. If you ihad/i been cutting out children's tongues, I'd have killed you and been done with it, no matter your goals. But since that particular rumor has been put to rest, that particular threat needs not hang over your head."

He thought my offer over, for a minute, then gave me a more genuine smile.

"I believe we can have an accord, between ourselves, my Lord. Truth for truth, yes, I believe we can do that."

"Excellent- but your efforts towards a Targaryen restoration don't count, I know about them already. That said, how idid/i you convince Viserys to marry Daenerys off to that Dothraki Horse-Lord? I confess that I haven't been able to piece that one together."

Ope, there it was. Caught him on the back foot with that one, just a little bit. Good work, me.

But then he course corrected, smiling even wider. "Oh, this will be fun. Yes, I'll admit to that, but it was very nearly by accident. Truth be told, Viserys suggested it himself, FOR himself. He would marry the daughter of the Captain of the Golden Company and bring them 'back into the fold'. There was the small issue of the current leader of the Golden Company not having any daughters, of course. All Illyrio had to do, really, was suggest that perhaps the Princess could wed, rather than Viserys himself?, and then he did the rest himself."

Huh. That was. Well, color me somewhat impressed. I said as much, and Varys tittered out a small laugh.

"Now," he asked me, "How is it that you snuck Rhaenys out of King's Landing? I know you did, her and Aegon both, but I can't figure it out, myself. It would have made my life much simpler to know it," he groused.

"Oh that? Simple, really. Elia and I had been friends for nearly two decades, you must recall that, almost as long as Rhaegar and I. I told her what I feared my father planned for the children, and she listened to me. I planned almost none of it. She arranged for the dying child to replace Rhaenys from one of the servants. We painted her brown with paste I bought from a mummer and we paid her mother incredibly well. That part. Well. That part I grieve, to this day. Who am I to say that one child's life is worth less compared to another's? But the offer was made and accepted, and I was able to slip Rhaenys out in the middle of the night. Aerys thought I was going to see a boy, and I just… didn't convince him otherwise. Any chance to humiliate my father, as you know."

Those were dark times. I still don't like to think of them, twenty years on. Held hostage to the Mad King and his delusion that I was his bastard son, rather than Tywin's trueborn. Well. I didn't talk about it often (ever. At all. Not if I could avoid it) for a reason.

Varys nodded, unwilling, just yet, to step over that particular line.

"Aegon was easier, honestly. I didn't even need a live damn baby to trick Gregor Clegane with. Elia acted her fucking heart out, up to the point it stopped being acting. We made the swap with him the day that my father came to the gates, and I dosed that kid to the gills with milk of the poppy, then. Well. A friend of mine snuck him out, and I've been getting reports on him once a year, ever since."

I'm not going to say who that friend was, or where Aegon was. Varys hasn't earned that secret just yet. I still might need an ace (or five) up my sleeve, after all.

"And Rhaenys?"

"I'm keeping… an even closer watch on her, you might say? You could argue that certain bannermen of the Targaryens 'Rose' to the occasion to take care of her?"

Definitely not gonna admit that I fumbled that one, and that she was SUPPOSED to go to Dorne, to Oberyn, to be raised as one of his bastards; not gonna admit that I got held back from getting her out and missed the ship that was supposed to take her. Definitely not admitting to that one.

Varys seems… satisfied. My turn again.

"Now, my turn- did you have something to do with my nephew's vanishing act as a baby, Varys?"

But then, he shocks me more with his honesty than he would have with a lie.

"I didn't, in fact. I'm actually trying to put that one together myself, still. I found the boy being raised by a whore who had been indebted to a Lord of the Vale, and he had given her a child to raise. I had suspicions, but no proof, that he was the young Prince, so when she died, it was I who took him to Tobho Mott, but nothing more."

I felt my eyes narrow. "Was that particular Vale Lord a fellow named Petyr Baelish, by any chance?"

Varys gave me an appraising look. "It was you who had him killed, wasn't it?"

I shrugged. "Not soon enough, clearly."

And not painfully enough, either. Tears of Lys had been too good for that no good, dirty, rotten, cunt peddling, child fucking son of a BITCH!

… I can be angry later…

Nah, screw it. I'm gonna be angry now.

I fling myself back from the desk and stomp about the room, throwing various knickknacks around until I smash a chair against the wall and finally feel calm again.

"My apologies, Lord Varys. That was fifteen years of grief sneaking out, but I shouldn't have threatened you with it."

"I believe I understand, my Lord, and won't hold it against you," he promised me.

We spoke for three or four more hours, and then he went back out the way he came.

I was acting Hand of the King, and, if I might say, I did quite well. Empty dungeons? Check, send em to the Wall (except a certain Faceless Man. I might need him, later, so he gets to go home.), pat yourself on the back. Institute small courts so that Robert, and all future kings, can avoid all but the most extreme petitions? Check- added benefit of setting the idea of a Supreme Court in motion- and check.

Late at night, a month and a half in, something. Something woke me up. Bells? Yes, but not just bells. It was bells and swords and screaming.

I was up in a flash, half naked, affixing my sword to my waist. Margaery woke as well, and we locked eyes. "That's from the Tower of the Hand" she said, and let me tell you, THAT got my ass fully awake. I ran to the window- yeah, I'm gonna assume between the bells and the random attack on the Stark Household that something has gone terribly wrong.

"Pants!" I demanded, accepting a pair of breeches from my wife, tugging them on with an unhappy grunt. I looked towards the door. "I'm going to take some men and put an end to this," I growled. I strode towards the door, making to open it, when it was thrown open from the outside. Boros Blout swung at me, and I was forced to defend myself.

Something had gone very wrong.

More and more men poured into my chambers, swarming me. I couldn't pile up bodies fast enough. I'm good, I'm very fucking good, but I'm not thirty-men-at-once good. In a swarm like that, it wasn't long before one of them got a lucky blow to the side of my head. My vision swam, and I fought the urge to vomit, even as I tried to keep fighting. Another blow to the head took me off guard, and I went down, my vision slowly fading to black. Margaery was screaming at the men, but I couldn't understand a word of it.

I woke to darkness. I'm either blind, or this is the Black Cells. Or both, both is entirely possible. Being blind doesn't get you out of being arrested, technically speaking (legally speaking, in Westeros, being blind does get you out of murder charges, though, funny enough.), so it could have been both.

I'm not sure how long I sat in the cell. I know I slept once or twice more, for brief periods of restlessness that left me more tired than I had previously been. Hm. The last time I was down here for any particular length of time was when I was trying to figure out a way to sneak Brandon Stark out, to keep him and Rickard from dying their agonizing deaths. I obviously failed at that, as I've obviously failed at predicting the moves of my enemies, whoever they may have been, in this situation. Joffrey, most likely, but who had helped him? That was the million dollar question, other than "Are my family and my household still alive and safe?", which was slightly more important, as questions went.

If I made it out of here, and they had been harmed… trial by combat. Kill anyone Joffrey sent at me, then, Gods be with me, Loki give me strength, kill Joffrey.

It was maybe a day, maybe two days later that light finally came to me. A torch, not a lantern, and. Ah, Varys.

"You'll be pleased to know, my friend, that I was able to spirit young Gendry and Arya away from the Red Keep," he opened with, and relief flooded my chest.

"My wife and my household?"

"Alive and… mostly unharmed. Joffrey has declared himself king, and what he did to young Lady Sansa and your Hound…"

I felt myself grow cold, then angry. Sandor was one of my oldest friends- he was my oldest friend who was still alive, outside of Oberyn- and Sansa was a fucking child.

"What did he do?" I growled, but Varys shook his head.

"I haven't time to explain. Joffrey intends to force your niece to marry him, and I need to help her escape. Your uncle Kevan has taken Joffrey's side, I fear."

I snarled, tugging on my shackles like an animal. "I'll kill him myself, Gods be fucking damned!"

Varys merely smiled, enigmatically. "You may get your chance. He intends to charge you with treason, and has told all who will listen that he will fight you himself, then mount your head upon the walls. He will come for you after he weds young Joanna, or sooner, if I am able to spirit the poor girl and her parents away."

Yeah, that was NOT going to happen. "You get them away, Spider, far away… and I'll tell you where Aegon is, so we can put him on the Throne together."

She had woken to the sound of Lady growling. Lady never growled, never made any noise at all if she could help it. Lady was aptly named; the best behaved of all her siblings, just like Sansa. Nymeria was wild, Bran's wolf calm but excitable. Shaggy Dog was feral, Robb said; Grey Wind a born leader. Even Lyanna was like father, in a fashion. Ghost had been like Jon, solid and silently dependable.

Lady never growled, but she was growling now.

Sandor burst into the room, and Sansa would say he looked panicked, if she thought her knight was capable of such a thing. He caught sight of her and breathed a sigh of relief, then began throwing a few of her things into a bag. Alright, yes, he was panicking.

"Sandor, what's going on?" She questioned, and he paused.

"We've been betrayed," he said after a moment. "The word just came. The king and your father are dead. Joffrey is making a push for the Throne with help from Kevan Lannister and the captain of the Goldcloaks, and you Starks are in the way. Tyvek… Tyvek will get things under control, but for now, I need to get you out of here, just to be safe."

Sansa wanted to wave his concerns off. They would be perfectly safe, in the Tower of the Hand, with all the loyal Stark Men to her father to protect them… except most of their men had gone with Father to the Riverlands, to quell a Rebellion by the Faith Militant.

And now, if the word was true, Father was dead. Sansa wanted to stop, to scream, to sob, but… what would that fix? If Father was dead, crying about it wouldn't bring him back, and if Sandor was right, her life was in very real danger. She had to think, she had to be practical, even if the idea of being ipractical/i if Father was idead/i made her whole body want to shake and tremble.

She moved swiftly, dressing herself. It was far from the height of fashion, but it was fast, and if Sandor was panicked, if Father was dead and there was treachery afoot, then she would follow his lead. Worst came to worst, they would have packed for nothing. They could come back in a few days and laugh the whole thing off without issue.

There was a clanging in the courtyard below, and Sansa looked out the window. She resisted the urge to scream as she watched a sword go through the guts of one of her family's servants; like thinking about Father, breaking down would do her no good. She took a deep breath to calm herself, if she could, thenshe turned to Lady, grabbing her by the collar and looking her in the eyes. "You have to run. Get away. iHide/i, my sweet Lady. Sandor will protect me, you know that. We will come for you when it's safe."

Lady whined, but then Sansa ipushed/i her, mentally, and the dire wolf obeyed, running out of the room. Sandor watched, then nodded to Sansa. "Smart girl. Hard to hide, with that one with us." He grunted. He shouldered the bag of her things, then checked the halls before nodding to himself.

"We'll grab your sister on our way out, and then we run. I told Wylas what the plan was." He said, referring to her father's captain of the guard.

Except. Except that it didn't end up working like that. Sansa couldn't say how it had all gone wrong, except that it had. It had taken over eighty men to bring Sandor to his knees, and then to clap him in irons.

There had been a Raven watching them as it happened. They were brought to the Throne room, where Joffrey sat, eager, atop the Iron Throne.

"Yes! Yes, yes! Good!" He clapped as he saw them. "The Bitch and the Hound! Just what I wanted! I'll send Robb Stark the little one's head, and the wolves' heads, and you two…"

He grinned, cruelly. "Well, I believe you said you'd rather wed the Hound than me, so let's arrange that!"

That sounded rather… alarming. She was only twelve years old, for one thing, though that clearly didn't matter much to Joffrey.

Sandor snarled, and Sansa watched as he pulled one of his guards in, snapping the man's neck. Joffrey laughed gleefully, then aimed a crossbow at her. Sansa felt her heart grow still. Her vision narrowed, and she spoke in a voice she didn't recognize as her own.

"If you do this, your reign will not last," she heard herself say. "You will sit that Throne only as long as it takes for Sandor's shackles to be removed."

Joffrey wasn't on the main seat of the Throne, she realized. He was sitting on the lower steps, where Father, or Lord Tyvek would sit, or Lord Renly would sit, when they heard petitions from the smallfolk. He sat at the base, like he knew, deep down, that he was NOT the king, that the Throne would reject him if he tried to truly sit upon it.

Kevan Lannister leaned over to speak to his great nephew, a barely disguised look of disgust on his face. He regretted joining himself to Joffrey in this bid for power he had put himself on, Sansa realized. Good. He was treacherous and unfaithful, and she hoped he lost all hope of sleeping well for the rest of his days.

"No!" Joffrey snapped, flinging himself from the steps of the Throne. "No no no no no! If we don't have them, none of this matters!"

He shrieked, like a child having a tantrum when denied a sweet. And that's what he was, a twisted, powerful child, who thought he should be king. Joffrey stomped his feet, hissing and spitting and screaming as he hopped about hot footed in his rage. It was almost comical, in a strange way. It would have been funnier if he wasn't a… how would Jon have put it?

Ah yes, a "Whackadilly nutball", which was a good enough description of Joffrey.

"If I can't be king I can't marry Joanna, and if I can't marry Joanna I can't control the West!" He snapped, and Sansa was pleased to see that Ser Kevan looked, if it was possible, even more disgusted.

Joffrey wheeled back to look at her and Sandor, a demented grin on his face, which grew more twisted by the second.

"But! I can still enjoy ithis/i," he said, aiming the crossbow at her once again, licking his lips in a disgusting manner, like she was a chicken and he a starving orphan. "I can I can I can!"

It was that particular form of late at night where it turned into early in the morning, and many of the members of the court were confused and scared- the slaughter of the Stark Household had raised many from their beds, the capture of Lord Tyvek, Stannis and Renly's households had roused even more into an uncertain wakefulness. There were very few friendly faces in the crowd; some gave her pitying glances when they thought nobody else was watching, of course, but on the whole, they all seemed to have decided, for now, to tie the ships of their fates to Joffrey and see how the waters carried them. She would find no allies in any of them, clearly.

She and Sandor were forced into the Sept of the Red Keep, and Sansa realized what Joffrey meant to do. She had said, back in Winterfell, that she would rather marry The Hound- she had known from Jon that a truer knight could not be found in all the Kingdoms- now it seemed that Joffrey intended to force her to do just that.

She was numb as she was forced to say the words in front of the Septon, the words that would bind her to Sandor for life. What else could she do? There were crossbows aimed at both of them, and at the Septon. He, at least, seemed disgusted with this whole thing; but there were crossbows pointed at him as much as they were at she and Sandor.

If that had been terrible (and being forced into marriage certainly was), what came next was worse. There, in the Sept, Joffrey had served her a "Wedding Feast" where he had served up the heads of some of the Stark guards and servants. He'd given her Hullen's head on a platter, cackling as she vomited all over herself.

Worse still was yet to come, though. Someone, she hadn't seen who, had yelled out "The Bedding, your Grace! There must be a bedding, or it can be annulled!", and Joffrey had icackled/i at the idea.

*******Here begins the rape scene********

Sansa knew she began to scream as she was swarmed. Groping, grasping hands pulled her clothes, tearing the cloth away from her body. Sandor, ignoring his chains, began to fight, trying to protect her. He killed two men with one blow, caving their skulls in with a violent swipe of his hand. They were dragged, both of them, to the servant's quarters, and Joffrey kept his crossbow aimed at her the entire time. Sansa was thrown, roughly, onto a sleeping pallet, and Joffrey cackled once again.

She tried to go away, somewhere deep inside, as Joffrey forced Sandor to lay atop her and rut against her, the crossbow aimed at her the entire time. Sandor did his best to be gentle, she could tell, but it made almost no difference. Someone was screaming and crying- it might have been her- but above her, Sandor refused to look down at her. He was praying as he raped her. He was begging for her forgiveness, swearing to never hurt her again; Sansa wanted to reassure him that it wasn't his fault, that she didn't blame him, but she found that she couldn't do anything more than cry and try to fight him off of her.

Joffrey made them go at it for hours and hours, cackling with joy, until, finally, Kevan Lannister was able to distract him away from them. She lay on the pallet, shivering and wretching. Sandor held her in his still chained arms, rocking her back and forth, apologizing over and over. She wanted to die, she wanted to throw herself from a tower.

"I'll kill him. I swear, he'll never be able to hurt you again," Sandor whispered into the top of her head. "As soon as I can kill him without you being hurt, he's dead."

She just continued to cry. What else could she do, in a case like this? Sandor carried her away, to his own, rarely used chambers, escorted by fifty guards, crossbows trained on them the whole time. He lay her in his bed, forever gentle, and watched her slip into sleep.

The next day she could barely move. Everything hurt in a way she hadn't known to expect, hadn't thought was possible. Nobody summoned her, and nobody came to visit her until nearly noon, when she heard a clattering outside the room, and angry, hissing commands. Joanna Lannister came in, shackled hand and foot, collared like a dog, and dropped to her knees at Sansa's side. She was gentle as she helped her stand, and gentle as she guided her to a copper tub, filled with hot water. The chains on her wrists clanked loudly against the tub, but neither of them commented on it.

Joanna helped her wash, and combed her hair, then helped her dry off. She helped her dress, and she escorted Sansa to chambers just off the side of her own.

"I'm distracting Joffrey as best I can, sweetling," Joanna said softly as she laid Sansa down to sleep once more, a bowl of hot soup next to the bed. She fed it to Sansa like she was a child, taking care of her where she could. "I'm… there are no words to say how disgusted I am by what he has done. I promise that you'll see justice, if I can."

Sansa nodded, blankly. What could make this right?

She found out the next day. Lord Tyvek was dragged before the court, and Sansa watched as he was accused to usurpation, not of the Throne, but of Kevan Lannister's position as Lord of the West. Accusations flew- he was not Tywin Lannister's son, he was the bastard-by-rape of the Mad King- and Joffrey, cackling, sentenced him to die.

"I demand a Trial By Seven," Tyvek said, cold in a way that reminded Sansa of The Wall, or of Father. "You say I am a bastard? That I am no Lord? That I have no right to trial by combat? Very well. But I am still a knight, anointed by the Seven Holy Oils. I have the right to a Trial By Seven, if I can find warriors to stand at my side."

Sandor was beside her, and he stepped forward. "I would stand with you," he said, looking Joffrey directly in the eyes as he spoke. "But this false king has bound my hands."

The septon spoke, then. "Then they must be struck off, Ser, so you may fight at your lord's side.

Lancel Lannister, at his father's side, turned and spat in his face, walking across the room to stand with Tyvek. "My Lord is no usurper, my lords and ladies, and my father is a craven thief. I denounce him, and I stand with my Lord."

"Lancel, son," Kevan began, but Joffrey cackled instead.

"You need four more, uncle, and who here will stand with you?"

"I will," Ser Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers, said, stepping forward. "Lord Tyvek is my Good-brother. What honor would I have if I did not stand at his side?"

"As will I," said Thoros of Myr. Sansa knew his face, for he had fought in the Hand's Tourney. He turned towards Sandor and winked. "Won't even light my sword up for this one."

"Thoros… very well. I will stand as well," came another voice. It was Beric Dondarian, Sansa thought, as he passed his cloak onto his squire.

One more! Lord Tyvek only needed one more to stand for him!

"I will stand against this injustice," came a voice she didn't know. The knight who spoke was well armored, and taller than Sandor, nearly. His whole body was covered, and one could see nothing of his face except sapphire blue eyes. He had a Stormlands accent, Sansa noticed, and was built like a wall.

So seven fighters they were, in all. Joffrey called upon his "loyal Kingsguard" to fight for him- Ser Barristan noticeably absent- the Septon said the proper prayers, and the court fell back, to give the combatants room to fight. Before he left her side, Sandor knelt to her level, and they met each others eyes.

"He won't survive this day. If I have to drag myself up the steps of the Throne, little bird, he won't survive this." He promised her, so soft it might have been a whisper, and she nodded. She tied a handkerchief to his wrist, then smiled sadly.

"I suppose it should be three hounds, rather than a Dire Wolf, but…"

He shook his head, giving her a look she couldn't fully interpret. "A Dire Wolf is better than any hounds you might have stitched, little bird." He said sincerely.

Then the fight began, and Sansa found that she couldn't look away. She had known Sandor was fast, despite his size. She had seen him in action before. She hadn't known that Lord Tyvek was… watching the Lord Paramount of the Westerlands fight, she finally understood why Jon had once described his Master and Foster Father as "A storm on the horizon". Where Sandor moved with brutal efficiency, Lord Tyvek simply… was. He was an inevitability. You could pray that he would change his course, yes, but sooner or later, he would come to you, and he would break you. The first man to charge him died screaming, for Lord Tyvek merely sidestepped his blow, then stabbed him in the crotch before forcing his helmet off, slitting the man's throat.

Joffrey was laughing, crossbow in hand, even as his men were killed. Lancel Lannister was fighting one-handed, with a hand that wasn't even his sword hand, technically; his hand had been lost beyond the Wall, and STILL he was able to hold off men of the Kingsguard. Perhaps he wasn't as smooth as his cousin and master was in combat, perhaps he wasn't as good as Jon had been, but he was still, clearly, one of the top twenty fighters in the Seven Kingdoms, if Sansa cared to guess.

They were winning. By the Gods, they were winning!

Joffrey shrieked in rage and, without warning, fired a crossbow bolt, directly at Lord Tyvek, shouting "Guilty! Guilty, guilty, you're guilty, just die!" as he did.

Except the bolt didn't hit Lord Tyvek. She didn't know who screamed louder. Dorna Lannister? Kevan Lannister? Lord Tyvek? Who could say, other than that they all screamed.

"Lancel!" Anguish from Kevan Lannister.

"My son!" Agony from a heartbroken mother.

"NO!" a single word, a simple cry from a man who had already lost one of the boys he saw as his sons.

Lancel collapsed, crossbow bolt sticking out of his guts, and Sansa knew, somehow she knew, that he was dead before he even finished collapsing.

The septon of the Red Keep was raging, declaring Lord Tyvek innocent, demanding this all be stopped, but Sansa ignored him, watching Sandor. He walked up to the Throne and pulled Joffrey from it with one hand, ignoring the would be boy King's screaming. Her forcible husband turned, looking for her, meeting her eyes. She nodded.

Sandor reached up, putting his hand on the top of Joffrey's skull, and he isqueezed/i, never breaking eye contact with Sansa, until Joffrey's head collapsed in a spray of blood and bone and bits of brain. Sandor let him drop, wiping his hand on his breeches. The court had gone silent, save for the sobbing of Dorna Lannister, and Lord Tyvek dropped at the foot of the Throne, sitting on the bottom step. He looked dead, like he had lost every reason for living.

Sansa watched him speak to the septon, for a moment, both of them looking at her and Sandor. The septon shook his head, and Lord Tyvek sighed, before forcing himself to his feet.

"For treason against the realm, and attempted usurpation, Kevan Lannister, I sentence you to The Wall. You will leave tonight, and go to serve out the rest of your days there. I hope the memory of your son's death, because of your treachery, will haunt you for the rest of your cold and miserable days. I hope the memory of what you caused will eat at you, gnawing away at your soul, if you have one."

Kevan Lannister looked broken. He didn't even fight as he was torn away from Lancel's body, from his wife where she sat, still screaming for her son to wake up, please, please, please, my baby, wake up. Tears were streaming down his face, she saw.

"Any of the rest of you… I'll deal with you tomorrow. If you're gone when I wake up in the morning, it had better be to go to the Wall yourself, if you went along with Joffrey's madness. Stay and. And I'll give you a chance to plead your case in the morning."

Joanna rubbed her wrists as she entered the Sept of the Red Keep, the skin still somewhat tender. She wanted to weep, seeing Lancel lying there, painted stones placed over eyes that were closed now forevermore; she found no tears would come, not even in her most private moments. Her grief was the sharp edge of a sword, finer than Valyrian Steel, and she still found she couldn't cry.

It had been a very trying three days.

Joffrey had been… well, obsessed was a good enough word. Obsessed with her, obsessed with power, obsessed with causing pain. He had been kind, when they were children. Not in a false, In-ony-doing-this-to-get-what-I-want way, but in a genuine, I-like-you-very-much way. They were only nine moons apart in age, she but a little older, and he had spent several moons, after Grandfather's death, as her companion. As she toddled along after her father, or her mother, or her uncle Jaime, all around The Rock, he toddled after her.

Time had turned him foul, sadly. Time and power had made him into a monster from her nightmares.

She wanted to grieve for Lancel without thinking about Joffrey, damn it all!

As she went further into the Sept, she saw her uncle standing the Vigil, and she heard him singing. It was… strange. She didn't know the words, but they tugged at her brain. It was like he was speaking the Common Tongue, but it was… two paces to the side, rather than just being the language. There were similar words, and she thought she could guess the meaning, just from the tone, but she didn't know for certain.

"Goodnight my angel, time to close your eyes, and save these questions for another day…" he sang, the words strange in a way she couldn't place. "I think I know what you've been asking me, I think you know what I've been trying to say…"

Why was he singing in another, mysterious tongue? She knew her uncle had made up languages before, to act as codes. Spanish, Esperanto, these she knew of, but this strange, not quite Common was throwing her off.

"I promised I would never leave you, then you should always know… wherever you may go, no matter where you are, I never will be far away…Goodnight my angel, now it's time to sleep, and still so many things I want to say."

It was a beautiful song, though, she thought, whatever the words were. There was so much grief in her uncle's voice that she could tell what the song meant to ihim/i, beyond the language itself.

"Remember all the songs you sang for me-

When we went sailing on an emerald bay. And like a boat out on the ocean, I'm rocking you to sleep…The water's dark and deep, inside this ancient heart, you'll always be a part of me…"

It was a song of grief, clearly. It… it was probably her uncle's tone, but it was working wonders, for her. She could feel tears pricking at the corners of her eyes, and she wiped at them with the sleeve of her dress."

"Goodnight my angel, now it's time to dream, and dream how wonderful your life will be. Someday your child may cry", and here her uncle had to pause, his breath catching as he sobbed to himself. "And if you sing this lullaby- then in your heart there will always be a part of me… Someday we'll all be gone, but lullabies go on and on…They never die… that's how you and I will be…"

And there they were, tears, hot and burning as they slid down her face, finally escaping. She walked forward, pulling her uncle into a hug. He hugged her back, desperation in every tug of muscle, like he was afraid she would disappear if he let go.

They must have hugged for an hour, perhaps two. She had come to relieve her Uncle of his Vigil, in the hopes that he might go and eat a meal. She knew Ser Loras had stood with him, at some point, in between seeing to Renly Baratheon and his slightly traumatized household. Sandor had joined him for a time, as well, doing his level best to avoid being around Sansa, for her sake. Her uncle, though, had stood his Vigil over Lancel's body for a solid thirteen hours, now. It was almost ridiculous, but she couldn't fault him, nor judge him. It was. It was Lancel. How could they just leave him lying there on the cold stone slab of the Silent Sisters without a Lannister to watch him? And, beyond, who among them could deny that her uncle was one of the greatest warriors in the Realm, after watching him eight lords himself the previous day, after all eight had demanded Trial by Combat? Her uncle had given them their trials, all that the same time, by himself, and had shown off a brutality that shocked even Joanna.

"You must go and eat, Uncle," she chided as they wiped away their tears, and he almost shook his head, but then she watched her uncle deflate with a shaking sigh.

"I suppose you're right," he said. "Food… food tastes like ash in my mouth, but I ought to at least lay down and try to sleep."

Sleep was good. If he was asleep, then…

She saw her uncle off, then waited. She counted to a thousand once, then again, and then she cracked open the door of the Sept, letting Thoros of Myr enter the room. He was followed by Beric Dondarian, who looked grim and serious as he took up a guarding stance at the door.

"And you're certain this will work?" Joanna asked, focusing on Thoros, who merely nodded.

Lord Beric snorted, from where he stood guard. "Oh, it will work. It isn't pleasant, speaking from experience, but it will work. You may not want to be here for this, my Lady. It. It isn't a sight you'll want to see, a man's first moments back on this side.

For a moment, Joanna wanted to argue with him on that, but then. Well, she had heard the rumors about Beric Dondarian, and how he had lost his eye. How he had been dead as a post, before his dearest friend in the world had refused to let him stay that way. They were, in a way, the experts.

So she left the Sept, standing just outside, and when the screaming started, she ignored it. It would either work, or it wouldn't.

Her uncle had told her, had told all of them, a story when they were children. He told them all lots of stories, her and Jon and Lancel and Sam, and Tybolt, as well; but this one was his scariest story, of the fall of the Creeds. It was a warning to let dead things stay that way. "Sometimes, dead is better," her uncle would say, every time he finished the tale. She knew she was playing with things that shouldn't be played with, that she couldn't truly comprehend. She knew that, deep down, and in truth, she knew it not so deep down, too; but it was iLancel/i. She had to itry/i, damn it. She'd already lost Jon, damn it all, she. She couldn't lose Lancel, on top of that.

So she had slipped from her rooms the night before, and had found the drunken Myr-man in his room, sober and staring at a brazier of coals.

"I saw your coming," he had said, quietly. "In the flames. The Lord of Light has blessed me, as of late, with very clear visions, if I can bring myself to look. I learned, over the last few days, that I must bring myself to look, even when I dread too. I knew you would come, when the little Lion fell."

He had told her what he could do, in the quiet of the night, then agreed that he would do it. Not for her sake, exactly, not just, but for Lancel, as well. A life cut short so another might live, he assured her, was magically powerful in a way few other things were.

"Only life can pay for life," he had explained. "But your cousin willingly gave his, for love of your uncle. It will be simple."

The screaming had stopped. Had it worked? Had anyone actually been screaming, or had it just been her grief, or the magic, playing tricks on her?

The door to the Sept was pulled open in a sudden rush of air, and there, wrapped in his funerary vestments, very confused and scared but very much still himself…

Stood Lancel.

iNEW LETTERS DISCOVERED IN WEBBER HALL/i

By Aemon Houndstark

Webber Hall is no stranger to archeological discoveries. Built on the remains of the Dragonpit, Webber Hall has long been one of the top ten, go to places for archeological finds. Casterly Rock still functions as a family home, as does Winterfell- digs on their grounds and within their halls are forced to work around that. Not so at Webber Hall. Once one of the greatest orphanages in the burgeoning United Continents, Webber Hall saw over fifty thousand orphans educated and cared for over a five year period, after the War for the Dawn, and was run by Varys Webber, who had been Master of Whispers on the Small Councils of four kings, and was an active force in the Targaryen Restoration Movement, as well as an active force behind the creation of Parliament.

Now, a series of letters, collected and neatly filed, amazingly preserved, have been uncovered.

"It was a shock," said Maester Sarella Duneserpent, an expert on historical documents. "We thought the letter from Tyvek Lannister to his younger brother that we uncovered at Evenfall Hall was huge, but this is. Well. 'Fantastic' can't even begin to describe it."

Among the letters is a copy of a letter sent by Tyrion Lannister to his uncle Gerion, detailing the events of the Night of Blood and its aftermath, including the death of Joffrey Baratheon, and Tyvek Lannister seizing power in the name of a Targaryen Restoration. Maester Duneserpent intends to present the letters at the yearly Maester's History Conference, this coming Sevenmonth, and then to compile them into a book for later release.

Jon looked at the woman in front of him, the tiny dragon she held hissing up at him and Cannibal. The army of Dothraki behind her watched their interactions with bated breath.

"Um… Aemon?" She guessed, and everything seemed to click into place in his head.

"Daenerys?"

They stood, awkward, neither able to move. Jon had known, distantly, that his Targaryen aunt and uncle, and siblings, were alive, out in the world. He had known it for many years, since the truth of his parentage had been revealed to him. Lord Tyvek had summoned him to his solar and told him the story. How he had arranged, as best he could, for the safety of Rhaenys and Aegon; how he had literally changed the political foundations of Pentos, just to see Rhaegar's siblings safe.

"You know that I do not desire women in a carnal fashion, Jon, and I. Well. Rhaegar was charming, in a way I couldn't resist. I fell in love with him without even meaning to," Lord Tyvek had explained. "Jon Connington and I were both in love with him, funny enough, though I doubt he ever knew it about either of us. You have to understand, though, Jon, that I love deeply, and I love with ferocity. I would move mountains and defy the gods for those I love, and make no mistake that Rhaegar loved his children. Before you were born, he would have loved you, and your twin. Gods, the only time I ever saw him truly smile were when he held Rhaenys and Aegon. You would have been precious to him, and so without even knowing you, you would be precious to me."

So Jon had known for a decade, now, that his Targaryen family lived yet. He had hoped to meet his twin, disguised as the daughter of Lord Howland Reed, before he met the others of his family, but.

He opened his arms, and he and his aunt hugged, clinging to one another like a life raft in a storm. The infant dragon squawked as it was squeezed between them, and then his aunt turned, speaking to the apparent leader of the group she traveled with. It was… Dothraki?, Jon believed, a language Lord Tyvek knew, but not Jon. Common? Yes. High Valyrian, of course, and Esperanto, which his Lord had created for use with some of his spies, these Jon had learned; Dothraki had just sort of slipped by him, falling between the cracks in all his other lessons.

The leader laughed, uproariously, then approached, clapping Jon on the back and rattling off what he presumed was a greeting, looking up at Cannibal with awe. He spoke to Daenerys, who smiled, nodding, reaching up to pet her dragon.

This made the man happy, it seemed, for he pet the dragon himself, speaking to it like one might a favored child. He kissed Daenerys, smiling at her, then down at her stomach before moving away, calling out orders.

iThank you, Cannibal,/i Jon thought to his friend, relief in his soul. After all this time, a piece of himself that he hadn't known was missing seemed to click into place. The Dragon had landed abruptly not ten minutes earlier, allowing the meeting to occur.

Cannibal didn't speak, but a wave of comfort washed over Jon before the dragon took flight.

"Where did you find him?" Daenerys asked in awe. "He. He has to be ancient, older than the Dance."

"They," Jon clarified. "Cannibal is they, not he, and as for how I found them…"

He looked skyward with a small smile. "It was more that they found me, my Lady. I had been at the Wall with my master, preparing for the War, when Cannibal decided it was time for dragons to be free."

He smiled. "He scooped me up, took Ygritte with us because he thought we'd like to… have relations… let Ghost hop up, and off we went." He paused, then rocked his head side to side while rolling his eyes. "He was right about Ygritte and I, though it took a few weeks for us to get there."

Daenerys laughed, calling out to her husband, explaining the reason she laughed. He and his warriors hooted, calling back responses (Jon ireally/i regretted not learning Dothraki when Sam was being taught), which all made Daenerys smile.

"I would love to meet her, one day. I met Drogo when Viserys tried to sell me to him in marriage." She paused, smiling with something Jon thought might be a very put upon and besieged affection. "I outran him in a horse race, then held a knife to his throat, and then I fell in love."

Jon thought about it for a moment, then said "Given how Rhaegar met my mother, I'm starting to think that when Targaryens fall in love, we're incredibly dramatic about the whole thing."

It was the first time Jon had called himself a Targaryen, out loud, or even to himself. Not even after bonding with Cannibal had he named himself a Targaryen, not after meeting Maester Aemon when he was eleven namedays old. He hadn't been able to bring himself to say it. It would have been like letting out the great secret, like betraying Eddard Stark, who was still as much his father as Rhaegar was, if not moreso. It would have felt like betraying the other Targaryens, when he had never gotten a chance to meet them.

Above, Cannibal bellowed, their bugling cry echoing across the plains that surrounded them. The Dothraki looked upwards towards the ancient dragon, who flapped their wings. Jon felt a surge of glee from his dragon, then a burning at the back of his throat like he always did, when Cannibal readied a flame. Sure enough, fire began to pour from their mouth, high above, so hot that it lit the sky ablaze beneath them.

"Are… they… angry?" Daenerys asked, and Jon shook his head.

"If they were, all of you would be dead. Cannibal doesn't even have to burn people- see how they burn the air like that? They can just burn up all the air and let everyone choke to death, if they want. There are benefits to being eight thousand years old, I suppose."

"Eight ithousand/i?!"

"Give or take, aye," Jon said. "Cannibal's first rider was Bran the Builder, though back then, they were named "Can'iva", which means. Well. It means "Eater of the Dead" in the Tongue of the First Men, so really, not much has changed."

"That will be you one day, sweetling," Daenerys whispered to the tiny dragon in her arms. He spread his wings and shrieked, unable to truly fly yet, like he desired. Cannibal landed once more, shaking the ground, and gestured for Jon and Daenerys to climb upon their back.

iI don't care for her being a Valyrian, but… the child should know what it's like to fly with his own kind./i

They flew then, Daenerys laughing, almost desperately, Cannibal taking them in lazy circles around the Dothraki camp for nearly two hours. She was crying, tears of joy, as they landed.

Drogon, her dragon partner, squawked up at an amused Cannibal, then to Daenerys, who nearly dropped him in shock.

"He spoke! Drogon, you, you spoke!"

She turned to Jon, shocked, and Cannibal seemed even more amused, if that was possible.

Jon frowned, looking at the sky. Beyond the shock Daenerys felt, something… something, somewhere, had just happened, and whatever it was had been terrible. He could feel it, though he didn't know what it could have been.

(He would find out, some time later, that he'd gotten that terrible feeling just before the battle in the Riverlands that claimed the life of his father and King Robert)

But he spent the night with the Dothraki, and, with a little help from Daenerys acting as his translator, he found that Ygritte would probably have fit in without much issue. They were a hard and hardy bunch, the Dothraki, used to hard life and violence. Daenerys was working her bunch away from enslaving people, made easier by the fact that everyone knew she was the one who was really in charge, and by the fact that Drogo was likely one of the greatest Khals in the last thousand years.

Having crossed blades with the man after sharing a meal with him, even in a friendly spar, Jon found he could agree with that statement. The man was faster than Prince Oberyn, and hit like Sandor on a drunken bender. There wasn't an ounce of muscle wasted.

Jon spent the rest of the night, and deep into the next morning, in deep discussion with his newfound aunt and. Well, technically, Drogo was his uncle by marriage, now, wasn't he. The discussed the future of the Targaryens, of what Jon planned to do.

"Right now it seems like I'm going to be conquering Slaver's Bay," Jon groused. "And I'm fairly certain I've been roped into recreating the Freehold, so I would very much like you to join me so I can convince people I'm not king."

"You're welcome to it. I think I'm going to be quite busy conquering vast swaths of land myself, in the near future," she mused. She and Drogo were both shaken by his revelation, of the things beyond the Wall. Drogo and his bloodriders had all spat into the flames, and had sworn to join the fight against such sorcery, when the time came, for they had been given a great magic which would allow them to cross the seas.

"Dothraki won't cross water that their horses cannot drink," Daenerys explained. "But Viserys created a device that uses the sun to turn seawater into drinkable water, and salt, which can be installed on ships. I believe he plans to create a larger one in Pentos, a gift to the city, for keeping us safe and giving us a home."

The implications were. Staggering wasn't a strong enough word, really. Lord Tyvek had spent more hours than Jon cared to count, grousing about the cost of water for a ship's crew, or an army on the march. This was revolutionary, if it was true, and Jon said as much.

"Indeed. I think he wants to put one in every port, and on every ship. I'll be amazed if he doesn't manage it. He spent years planning for our family to return to the Seven Kingdoms," she said with a nostalgic look. "Aegon as king, you as Hand, Rhaenys married to you, most likely, and me to Aegon. He would dream of it, he would tell me, but he didn't know his own place in the Restoration, which is why he built his device."

Jon departed at mid-day, the sun burning on his back. There was a war to fight, after all, and as a son of Westeros, he found that he would bear the existence of Slaver's Bay no longer. He would burn the masters of the cities, would burn those who came to try and retake the cities… load everyone up on boats, then back to Valyria? Yes, he liked that plan, and so did Daenerys. Let the land of the cities go back to the wilds.

"I'll bring you the Harpy, call it a belated wedding gift," he told Daenerys and Drogo, after he had explained his plans. Drogo laughed, impressed at his confidence, and Daenerys had sent him away with her blessings.

Every part of Catelyn wanted to fall to her knees and scream, but she couldn't allow herself to. She wanted to tear at her hair, to beat at her chest and her stomach. She wanted to go mad, mad with grief and anguish. She wanted to throw herself from the highest tower of Winterfell and join her husband in death, but she couldn't. She had to live, she had to live until all her children were home and safe. Once she knew they would never leave the safety of Winterfell again, then she could let herself fade away into nothingness and join Ned.

Sansa… Oh, her sweet, sweet, innocent daughter, taken and broken and torn apart in such a manner, in front of so many people.

She would never like Tyvek Lannister, but the letter he had sent her detailed every ounce of justice he had worked to get her daughter meant that she could at least say he was a good man. She hadn't misjudged him as a person, no, he was still an incredibly vicious monster- but he was a monster who wanted her family safe. For love of Jon, he wanted her family safe from harm.

It was a difficult medicine to swallow, and yet. Yet.

But it didn't matter, none of it mattered. Not until both of her daughters, and Bran, were home safe.

Bran. Oh, her sweet boy, her middle son. Of Bran they had no word. A loyal man of the North who had ridden out with Ned, into the battle that cost her husband his life, had been able to steal away from the field with Ned's body. He'd carried her husband's corpse, on his back, across the Riverlands and to The Neck. The crannogmen cared for him now, but by his words, the last he had seen of Bran was her baby bravely managing to keep pace with King Robert as they charged. She had very little hope that he lived, yet, but she clung tightly to what little she possessed. She was his mother, she. She would know, wouldn't she, if her son was dead? She would know if there was no hope at all, if her whole world was shattering beyond repair?

She would survive Ned's death, but the death of one of her children would kill her, she was sure of it. Arya, her sweet Arya, her wildest child, she would survive in the wilderness, Cat was sure. Arya, she thought, would become King Beyond The Wall, if you dropped her over there with nothing more than her wits, and an order to NOT try and take over the Wildlings. And if Lord Lannister was to be believed, Arya wasn't alone. Nymeria and a few loyal Stark Men had escaped with her, along with Tywin Baratheon, who had been stolen as a small child and recently rediscovered, then reinstalled as heir. She had shared a dancing master with Joanna Lannister, and he had escaped with her as well. She wasn't alone, and Cat suspected that any day now, Arya would turn up, a stolen sword in hand. Hysterically amusing, Cat thought, was the image she had the other day, of Arya showing up leading an army of wolves, riding Nymeria like a horse.

Outside her chambers, a raven, monstrously large, landed, giving a loud "CAW", startling her so that she jumped, pricking her finger on her needle. Red blood dripped onto the white cloth, like sap on a weirwood tree, and the drops seemed to take on the shape of a bloody corpse-grin. It brought the Boltons to mind- Domeric was a good lad, married now to Alys Karstark, but he was still Robb's most vicious bannerman. Loyal to a fault, unlike his faithless ancestors, yes, but still vicious and bloodthirsty, at his core. Even Robb, who called him a friend, could see it, and knew he would have to control and aim it properly.

The raven watched her, then took flight over the towers of Winterfell, soaring away. Its eyes, she realized, had looked like Bran's, even if that was impossible.

But then, had she not seen a corpse walking? Had she not seen, but two moons before, a Child of the Forest with her own eyes? What was to say that a raven shouldn't have human-like eyes? But why should it have Bran's eyes, if it had human eyes at all?

There was a knock at the door, Robb entering a moment later, looking haunted. She stood, her sewing clattering to the ground. "What is it? Has there been news of Arya? What is it?"

He said nothing, pale, shaking, as he passed her a Raven's scroll. He looked like he wanted to swoon, or to rage about the room in a way she hadn't seen since their quarrel over Jon Snow. Dread filled her stomach, for the raven had come from Riverrun.

She read, then began to weep. What else could she do? Her son, her boy, her boy who loved to climb and run and explore, who had wanted nothing so much as to be a knight… he'd never do any of those things. To lose a leg was a grievous wound for a man grown, let alone a boy of eight, and now, to be held hostage outside the walls of Riverrun, just to mock her brother, to mock the North. Robb guided her to her bed, helping her to sit, then rubbed her back, hugging her tightly for a moment, like she used to do for him, when he was a small child. Like she had done for all her children. She sobbed, clinging to him, unable to think straight, for the worries.

"I don't know what to do, mother," Robb admitted, after a moment. "The Wildlings are settling into the Gift and the New Gift well enough, and Lord Umber seems determined to hold the peace, but… if I send men South, to rescue Bran, and to aid Riverrun, and to avenge Father, I leave the North open to attack. If I go myself, to try and find Arya, it means leaving Rickon as the Stark in Winterfell. Gods, I need to wed and get about making an heir, and I can't very well do THAT if I'm away at war either."

He sounded panicked, but Cat came to find that she had no answers for him. She wanted to tell him to damn the North, to go, go and save his brother, save his sisters, bring them home- but to tell him that would be to betray Ned, betray all the values he had tried to instill into their children their whole lives.

Marriage, though, she could advise him on. She and Ned had discussed it, briefly, before he left to be Hand of the King. They had weighed various options for all their children, though it had brought them no joy.

Well. They had both had a good, eye watering laugh over the thought of Arya being married to anybody. They had known it would have to happen, one day, even if she'd probably had been just fine never getting married, but the very thought had been so laughable.

"Your father and I had thought to suggest you wed Lyra Mormont, for she is but a little younger than you. I had suggested Meera Reed, but your father rejected the idea out of hand."

Robb looked almost sick, then mumbled "It would be like marrying iJon/i", before shaking his head. "Nobody from the South that you might have suggested?"

Catelyn shook her head. "No, your father was insistent that you wed in the North. I had suggested Mira Forrester, though they're only a small house, and not truly high nobility."

"Shame that Roose Bolton didn't have a daughter, that could have tied things up nicely."

Indeed, it had been a shame. The man had died, suddenly, some fifteen years earlier, leaving his widow to be Lady Bolton and to raise their son. He'd died in his sleep, seemingly out of nowhere, though it was suspected that a leech bite had gone sour and had killed him. Catelyn herself, in her more paranoid moments, had believed Tyvek Lannister had arranged it, just to prove he could, but that was patently ridiculous, and she knew it.

(In this, her paranoia was correct. Tyvek hadn't wanted to leave any loose ends, when picking up Ramsay's mother, so he had slipped a blood thinner into Roose's drink, one evening, and let the leeches do the rest. A few days of being sucked on by leeches when you could no longer clot would have killed any man. It just happened to kill Roose Bolton faster.)

She and Robb spoke for a time, Grey Wind at his feet, her son distracting her from her worries by the discussion of possible marriages. Some were humorous, if disrespectful ("I wonder if Domeric would be willing to share"-"Robb Stark!"-"I'm just saying, mother!"), others more serious ("I suppose Lyra Mormont isn't such a terrible idea, all things considered, if I don't wed one of the Manderly girls"), but the distraction was just what she had needed.