A/N: Longclaw: Hello everyone. This one we got out a bit quicker, and we'll try to get the next one out soon as well :D

With the Wuhan Virus going around, I hope everyone is staying safe and being diligent with their hygiene. We're going to get past this, my friends, and follow CDC or your corresponding government agency's guidelines in keeping clean and not spreading the virus around. For those self-quarantining and social distancing, both of us hope that this story can provide some respite from everything :D

Oh, let's say a prayer for Kristofer Hivju to recover from the virus. Get well soon, Tormund!

BRuh4: Hey all, we got another one for you. We decided this would be a good one to check back in on some of the other on-goings in Westeros for change.

Enjoy.

Chapter 27: Enemies of Our House

Roasted ham and pork filled the tables from end to end, smell joining that of the hearty stews, fresh-baked barley bread, and roasted nuts that were passed between the guests in Winterfell's great hall. Serving girls darted about the arrow walkways, carrying large flagons of ale and sour wine for the eager revelers. Occasionally, one would be shamelessly, drunkenly groped. If the women were willing, they'd smile and giggle. If not, a red handprint would grace the male that started it, jeers ringing out from his compatriots.

From her perch at the head table in the seat that had once been her father's… or her brother's, Sansa watched as Jon's red-headed wildling friend get rejected by a rather buxom Northern girl. Well, supposedly rejected, cause a split second later the woman climbed into his lap at the cheers of his tablemates. Looks like he's finally given up with Brienne. Sansa was sure her sworn sword wouldn't mind.

"Would you like some more wine, mi'lady?" A tiny wisp of a thing smiled in front of Sansa, holding a flagon.

Suddenly feeling as if eyes were watching her, Sansa politely declined. "But some ale, please." The girl beamed as she bowed, returning with the frothy liquid. Taking a sip, Sansa forced herself not to grimace at the bitter taste - she inherited her tastes from her mother, but she was now a northern Lady and had to act the part. Especially with all the Northern Lords in attendance once again…

A few less than the last time we were here, unfortunately. One's absence more acutely felt than the rest.

"That squire is staring at you again."

Looking up from her plate, Sansa followed Rickon's statement to where none other than Podrick Payne was sitting. Eyes gazing intently at her… only to drift away when they met hers. Even in the low light of the early winter nights, she could make out a blush. "Again?" Sansa inquired.

Rickon giggled. "He's been staring at you all night. And the night before, and before, and… well, since I've known him." Her youngest sibling was often the most troubled by all the stresses and pain their family endured, but tonight he seemed almost like a normal child of his age, and for that Sansa was grateful. "You should talk to him. He likes you."

"What?" Sansa blushed herself, shaking her head. "I doubt he does."

"How do you know if you don't ask?"

"I…" she honestly had no answer. "I don't have time for such things." How her last marriages or intended marriages ended up… likely for the best if she ignored such matters. Luckily for her, there was another person she could converse with. "Enjoying the feast, sister?"

While Rickon most definitely was, the cold scowl marring Arya's face only belied her feelings. "Reminds me of the last time our family was whole."

Normally a good statement, Arya's flat tone indicated otherwise. Sansa could understand - even down to Tormund standing in for the Fat King, the night mimicked that feast long ago. "We're among our own people. That's the difference."

"This is pointless," she muttered. "Winter's here and we need to save the food."

"The whole of the army arriving in the North is something to celebrate, Arya." Beside her already rested Ghost, sullen at his separation with Jon but having taken to the rest of the family well enough. Never leaving Sansa's side for much time, as if their brother had commanded him to protect the family. "We won't have many happy moments…"

Sansa was cut off as Arya slammed her spoon on the table, roughly pushing her chair back and storming out of the great hall. Too many were inebriated to notice but at Rickon's worried glance Sansa sighed, absentmindedly stroking Ghost's fur. "I'll go check on her. See…" There was another empty space that bothered her. "See if Bran can join us." At that, she rose and hurried after her sister.

Surprisingly, Sansa caught up with Arya in the halls. She called after her, "Arya, please stop just for a moment." The two of them came to stand next to each other. Nearby, two guardsmen stood by a door. A quick glance and nod from Sansa sent them walking. Leaving them alone for that time being. "What's wrong with you?" Sansa finally asked.

"I've got a lot on my mind."

"Such as?"

"My list. How I'll complete it. Remember I told you I need to leave? I meant that. I need to go to King's Landing. I have to get to Cersei before Stannis."

"I can't believe you want to leave us. I'm not a fighter, what if something happens?"

"Sansa, you are home. This is our home. We have hundreds of guards here to protect you. Aside from that, Brienne and Podrick are always nearby," Arya told her. "There is nowhere else safer for you and Rickon."

"Not the safest place for you as well?"

"It's not about safety. It's about something I have to do."

"You have to kill Cersei?"

"Yes. I must. My life will mean nothing if she gets away with it. I'm the only one who can stop her."

"Let Stannis take care of her. He has an army. He'll beat her."

"Maybe. But I won't feel whole until she's gone by my own hands," Arya sighed. "She was the first one, y'know? On my list. Well, her and Ilyn Payne."

"You always talk about that damned list," Sansa huffed, crossing her arms. "I can't believe you are so set on revenge. Do you really think your vengeance will bring you peace?"

Arya opened her mouth to respond, but her intended retort didn't come out. Instead, she scowled and looked away. In truth, she had no idea if peace was even an option for her. All she's ever known is anger. Her entire purpose revolved around bringing justice to people that wronged her family. Anything past that… well, she hadn't got that far yet. But none of that mattered to her then.

"You can't stop me, Sansa. Do you understand that?"

"I can try."

"Don't. If you try to stop me it won't end the way you want," Arya clenched her jaw. "You have to understand this is something I have to do."

"Arya-"

"Cersei Lannister, Ilyne Payne, Beric Dondarion, Thoros of Myr, Gregor Cleagne, and Melisandre of Asshai," Arya recounted the names from her memory. Sansa was taken a bit off guard. "There were more - some died by my hand, others not. But that doesn't matter. All of them will die. By my hand or not, they will die before I can have peace. I cannot rest. Any day they still breathe is a day wasted. Even now, as I stand here I waste time."

Arya didn't leave any room for further discussion. She twirled away and strolled down the hall. Though Sansa's voice called after her, "Not the Dragon Queen? Daenerys Targaryen? The woman who stole our brother from us and slaughtered our army? She's solely responsible for all of our troubles now. She's why Jon isn't here with us."

The older sister's words did halt Arya, she stopped dead. Her face turned half-way back to Sansa, she spoke in an even tone, "Daenerys Targaryen. She's done nothing to me."

"Ah… So it's not about the enemies of our House. It's just about you."

Before replying, Arya turned fully around to face Sansa. "Yes, it is about me. It just so happens that some of the people I want to kill wronged our whole House. Others just did things that didn't sit right with me that had nothing to do with you or our House. I'm not angry with Daenerys. She took my favorite brother, sure. But she won't harm him. He'll return eventually, I know it."

"What if she has harmed him? We have no way of knowing."

"I hope she's smarter than that," Arya shook her head. "She should know how valuable he is. If I felt Jon was in immediate danger I'd already have cut Daenerys' throat… I'll be leaving on the 'morrow. Take care of Rickon, and keep your eyes on Bran. I'll be back before you know it."

A deep sigh came out of Sansa, unable to hold it in. "Just… come back, please? I can't lose anyone else. I can't do this by myself."

Arya lowered her gaze before she locked eyes with her sister. She walked back over to her. "Don't worry about me."

"Fine. But we should go look for Bran and Rickon," Sansa pointed out.

"Bran is a whole other issue."

"Just come on, I think I know where they are."

"Come on!" Barely audible over the screaming winds blasting snow and ice over the landscape, the voice was salty. Seaborne… a sailor grounded to the and permanently as he waved his bastard sword in the air. Spurring his men on. "Come on you fucking cunts!"

Behind were a large cluster of men. Several score from the look of them - torches burning the bright, greasy flame of lit oil. "Stay close to the fire! The darkness is his friend!"

Suddenly, a mass of black emerged from the blizzard. Roaring as it came into view… something very familiar, power surging…

Crows… thousands of crows.

The reaction from the men was chaos. "We're all fucking dead!"

"Retreat!"

"Momma! Momma!

"Fuck you and keep fucking moving!" The leader hurled his flame into the middle of the flock - a rock in a sea of death. "FUCK YOU…!" The man was surrounded in a blur of black wings. The wind deafened the sound of the screams. The crows picked and ripped out the eyes and hair until nothing remained of his men behind him.

All others left met the same fate.

"...Bran. Bran!"

The being that was once Bran Stark found the white film of his eyes pulling back, revealing the dead grey still confessing life. Right in front of him was the little one - Rickon Stark, staring at him. "Yes?" he asked. Bran's brother, we need to keep up appearances. The tiniest of smiles forming as a means to disarm. "Is there something you wish from us?"

Far from comforting the lad, Bran's smile only added to Rickon's pensive worry. This was nothing like his adventurous brother… or even the quiet, contemplative cripple that emerged from after his fall. "Dinner is being served in the great hall. Please join us."

"We're fine, Rickon. Just deliver some bread and porridge to my chambers."

"You haven't eaten with me or our sisters in a week. We're worried."

Ah, the bond of the 'pack.' How… quaint. "Do not worry about us, Rickon." The smile was supposedly sweet, but the voice held no warmth. "We… feel best by the heart tree."

Rickon shrugged, having no idea what his brother was talking about. He became curious in the chair Bran was in. He noticed the wheels. "What are you sitting in?"

"We asked Maester Wolken to fashion it for us. It makes it easier to move around with the wheels."

"Rickon! Rickon, where are you?" Stepping amongst the trees and snowdrifts were the bundled up forms of Sansa and Arya. Their little brother ran off at some point during their argument. It took longer than they wanted to admit for them to notice.

The two sisters found their young brother clutched closer to long lost Bran. For a moment, they looked like they did before. Yet the expression on Bran's face sullied any happy thought.

Rickon climbed off of Bran as the sisters approached. Snow crunching underfoot became the only noise around. Fresh flakes hung from the branches of the heart tree. Some fluttered down before their eyes. Bran's dead eyes scanned over to coldly regard them. His empty expression took them off guard a bit. Arya even felt strange just looking at him.

"Oh, hello," Bran said.

"What are you doing out here by yourself? Aren't you cold?" Sansa asked him curiously, yet also hesitant. Bran's arrival loomed heavy over the castle. No one really knew what to think. Even some of the peasants and such had heard Lord Brandon Stark had returned completely changed. Still a cripple of course, but of a different mind than before. Personality utterly altered somehow. The townsfolk whispered of little else.

"It doesn't bother us, the cold," Bran explained. "It never has."

"You're wearing all these furs though," Rickon pointed out, tugging on a thick blanket laying over Bran's chest.

"Well, the cold does bother our vessel. We can't have him freezing to death."

Sansa and Arya shared a look before the older sister stepped forward toward Bran. She knelt down and laid her hand on his shoulder. "Bran, we're worried about you."

"Don't be."

"What even are you now? I feel like I don't even know who I'm looking at," Arya said, stepping up.

"You'll never understand what we used to be," Bran said, though it didn't seem like the brother they used to know. "We were so strong. Now we've been reduced to this meager existence in this crippled body. No. This will not do."

"Why are you talking like that?" Rickon asked, his voice small.

Bran didn't reply as Arya strolled around to fully face her brother. His face was simply blank, peering up at her. A smile didn't seem feasible, even under pleasant circumstances. Rickon retreated back to Sansa as Arya sunk down to Bran's level. The two of them stared at each other in the face, no one dared break the silence.

Until Arya scowled as she may pull out Needle and attack. "I see my brother as I remember him, physically. If you didn't you'd already be dead. Knowing what I know, you could be someone parading around in my brother's skin. But that's just impossible given where you came from. So, I'd like you to explain to me what happened to you. Because you are not who I remember."

"Seems we've changed."

"We've all changed, Bran," Sansa said. "But not totally. We are the same people. Yet, you are not. You can tell us what's happened to you. You can tell us anything."

"The full breadth of it wouldn't matter to you. The reality of it wouldn't make sense," Bran told them. "We are a collection of minds much greater than you."

"'We'? Who is 'we'?" Arya asked.

"You keep calling us 'Bran', yet that name is lost to us. Brandon Stark has died. Who you see before you is The Three-Eyed Raven," Bran plainly stated, his face barely moving except for his mouth.

"This isn't funny," Sansa said. "You're scaring Rickon."

Bran finally did crane his neck over to regard Sansa, "Understand that We care little for your feelings. Yet, we also comprehend that our… presence must be somewhat startling given what this body previously represented. But we are here for a purpose and do not intend to misrepresent our intentions."

"What exactly are you intentions?"

"The weirwood… it calls to us. We simply want to interact with it."

"Why?"

"It… enhances our abilities."

"Abilities?"

"We see everything. Everything happening now. Everything in the past. We see quite a lot now." Bran said in an even tone like always. "The tree will extend our reach. Something is coming. We wish to know when."

"What's coming?"

"Jon went on long about it. The Night King."

"The what?" Arya nearly laughed. "The Night King? The icy monster from Old Nan's stories?"

"That's the one."

"How do you know what Jon talked about?" Sansa frowned.

"We told you. We see everything."

No one had a response to that. Though Rickon went over to Sansa with an expression on his face that said plenty. "Alright, everyone come on, we need to go inside. I'm freezing," Sansa sighed.

"We told you. We're not cold. We'd like to stay."

Not having the strength to argue, Arya went over to Bran, behind the chair. She figured out quickly that she could simply push the chair and there wasn't anything Bran could do about it. "Well, we're all going inside regardless."

Sometime later, Bran had been put in bed. Though his mind stayed awake. Sleep wasn't an often possible activity. There was just so much to see. They could see some from anywhere. But so much more from the heart tree. They wished to go back.

Sansa had told them that a guard would be outside their door at all times in case they needed something. All they need to do was call for them.

"Guard, come in here," Bran said as loud as he could.

The guard came in with a puzzled look about his face. "Mi' Lord?"

"Take us to the Weirwood."

"Pardon, Mi' Lord?"

"We want to go to the Godswood. Take us now." Bran tried to emphasize his words as hard as he could. He hadn't tried to warg a person since Hodor. But it's essential now, so he must. Slithering inside someone's mind is easy, it's the controlling factor that's difficult. Also, the stronger the will the harder it is. A guardsman such as this that only thinks to swing his cock will do just fine. The man probably can't even read.

"Mi' Lord, I-"

"Now." Bran repeated himself. Using all of his energy to warg inside the man. His own eyes rolled back, the poor man just seconds later. All went quiet as the guardsmen helped Bran to his chair. The Three Eyed Raven inhabited the man, existing inside him and puppeting his every move. Everything this man ever thought or considered became known to them. All the knowledge transferred, what little there was. The man did as they commanded. Still, it filled them entirely. It felt great to walk again. Yet the process was tiring and strenuous. Hopefully, that part would get easier with practice.

Or so they hoped. No Raven had ever attempted something like this. At least, not on the grandest scale they currently wanted to.

Their creation was on the way. They must be ready.

"Well, well, Lord Davos." While he shaved his beard and wore a doublet rather than the traditional Braavosi robes, Tycho Nestoris didn't change a bit. The consummate bureaucrat and penny pincher through and through. "I have to admit that I never expected you to return, especially with the actual payment of your loan plus interest."

They walked along the marble halls of the Iron Bank, ceiling-high and imposing in the simplest of styles. From what Davos had read about the place in preparation for his first arrival, it was the traditional style of Andalos - adopted by the runaway Valyrian slaves that fled from the encroaching Freehold. "One doesn't loan their hard-earned coin to those they feel are likely to die in the frozen wastes of the True North."

The banker raised an eyebrow. "True North? Adopting Wildling customs for the place?" His perpetually tight face stretched into a smile. Skin almost threatening to split apart like clothes three sizes too small. "Besides, I thought you'd die at the hands of the Boltons. But high risks are the highest rewards… and you've definitely rewarded my investment." Only an hour before, both men supervised the vast chests of gold dragons, silver stags, and bullion being loaded into the massive vaults guarded by sellswords and the Braavosi Guards Corps. Certainly says who's the true power between Nestoris and the First Sealord.

"I can't take the credit," he shrugged, chuckling. "That belongs to King Stannis and Lord Stark."

"I've never yet met a Lord or politician that was genuinely modest or free of ambition… then again you are not a true Lord…" With Stannis' rise, the lowly origins of his main commanders were widely known. "But Lord Stark is no longer with his Grace, is he?" It took only a slight hesitation from Davos to tell Nestoris everything he needed to know. "Ah, so my sources speak true."

Davos sighed. "He was captured by Daenerys Targaryen, yes."

Nestoris pursed his lips. "This does factor into your new loan application…"

"It matters not. We've paid you back your initial loan plus interest. We have significant amounts of hard currency that may be used as collateral, along with lands confiscated from treasonous lords…"

"We are a bank, Lord Davos. What do we know about managing land? I'm sure we could hire someone that did, but that would require expenditures that I'd rather not make, risks I'd rather not gamble on."

Behind them, a third voice spoke up. "The will of the one true Lord can never be a risk, Tycho Nestoris." Somehow, Melisandre looked to be more… at home in Braavos than she did in Westeros. Without the massive slave populations that the other Free Cities held, the vast underpinning of Essosi culture in the great port city gave the Faith of R'hllor better standing than where the Faith of the Seven held sway. "Lord Stannis will claim the Iron Throne, it is preordained in the fire."

Eyebrow rising, Davos had been around this woman - being thrown into the Dragonstone dungeon by her and witnessing a shadow demon emerge from her womb was more of shared intimacy than most lovers - for years and could tell when she was being deceptive. She didn't mention the battle in the snow. Born amid salt and smoke. The matter at hand forced him to ask about it later, however.

Nestoris on the other hand never missed a beat. Strained smile of a constipated man never falling. "I do not seek to challenge your religious faith, Lady Melisandre. If I was a septon or priest or shaman, I would gladly provide my wealth to your cause." He shrugged apologetically. "But alas, I am only a banker. I can only assess the probabilities. Matters of theology are too complex for my simple brain."

Any more slippery and he'd slide all the way to the harbor.

"Faith governs all." Melisandre wormed her way beside Davos, glancing around him at the banker. "We all have our part to play in the plans of the Lord of Light."

"Oh? Sounds like a divine game of cyvasse only with us as the pieces." He chuckled at his own jape, though both representatives of the Stag King felt that Nestoris hadn't had a genuine laugh since his childhood. "Yet… cyvasse and dice are no longer enjoyable when the amounts at stake rack up to the millions of gold dragon, wouldn't you say?"

"I've seen men be killed over a silver stag. I believe it's just something about coin that causes men to go mad."

"Only the more reason for us to be cautious in our loans."

Davos furrowed his brows, stroking his beard as he thought. "Cersei has absolutely no chance at winning this. No matter whether Stannis or Daenerys win this, she's surrounded on all sides and will either be starved out or burned out."

Beady eyes regarded him. "We aren't planning on providing a loan to her, if that is what you're asking."

"You'd be fools to do so." They reached a small conference room, guards parting to let them through. The chairs were plush and comfortable - fitting for official dignitaries of any royal. "Now, I believe you have a personal interest in seeing Daenerys lose." Nestoris leaned forward, hands clasped together. Inviting Davos to continue. "I presume that you lost much investment in the Slaver's Bay slave markets."

Nestoris said nothing. The Onion Knight knew he hit home. "We can neither confirm nor deny the status of our outstanding investments."

Much as Davos deplored slavery and knew Melisandre abhorred it, their duty here came first. "Removing her from power would reopen such investments… if you were to have them."

A nod. "You serve your King well, Ser Davos." He clapped his hands. "Frankly, I had already approved your loan the day before - I simply wanted to see your justification."

You sneaky bastard. "I'm glad I passed muster."

"Quite… but there are a few conditions." At that moment the doors opened to reveal a thin man with coiffed blonde hair and golden armor. "This is Ser Harry Strickland, Captain-General of the Golden Company."

Davos rose to shake his hand. "To tell you the truth, I was planning on seeking you out, Captain Strickland."

The man nodded. "Never can know when your plans change." His smile was weak, simpering. Even with the Golden Company's ironclad reputation, Davos didn't trust this man.

As Strickland took a seat, Nestoris continued. "I am inclined to support your King in his final dash to victory, but I want additional assurances of repayment. Therefore, instead of giving you your entire loan amount in coin, I have personally seen to hire the Golden Company in King Stannis' stead." His tight smile widened. "Naturally, they would follow his orders but ultimately report to myself and the rest of the Iron Bank's board."

"That's blackmail," Davos warned.

"That is our only offer, Lord Davos. Refuse if you want, but consider whether King Stannis can ill afford the loss of thousands of elite soldiers." In the end, it wasn't a choice. Davos had to accept the terms as stated.

Escorted by their own guards towards their rented manse, Melisandre glanced at the brooding former smuggler. "You remind me of Jon Stark with that look."

He looked up, cocking an eyebrow. "I can't be that bad?" The Red Woman only smiled and tilted her head. "Fair enough." Davos hoped she wouldn't dwell on the comparison - thinking of his friend and almost surrogate son being tortured by the Targaryens wasn't what he wanted to do.

Fate was kind to him. "You did well, Lord Davos. Thousands of troops fighting in the Lord's Plan."

"That's what they are fighting in, but not fighting for. Dancing to the jig of the Iron Bank isn't my idea of a good time." Cryptic as she was, Melisandre was guileless… most of the time. Easy to talk to if one watched themselves.

"It doesn't matter who they fight for. The bankers are but a single line in the massive history that will be written about this age. About the return of the Promised Prince."

"Stannis."

There was a terse silence. "Yes, Stannis."

Lord Baelish,

While I would under normal circumstances most cordially invite you to the North, these are not normal circumstances.

Please forgive me, for I do not wish to be rude, but the North has been in a flux since the loss of our Lord to the Dragon Queen, and Winterfell is not able to bear host to someone of your illustrious reputation and stature. Perhaps if you provide a large supply of foodstuffs from the gardens of the Reach, the Northern Lords would be more amenable to my pleas in your favor.

House Stark is grateful for the friendship it has in you. We seek to honor our oaths in pledging neutral in the coming fight, but our prayers are undoubtedly for his Grace, King Stannis to emerge victorious and for Lord Jon Stark to return to Winterfell where he belongs.

Sansa Stark

Acting Lady of Winterfell

Idly, Petyr Baelish's hand drifted back to the inner breast pocket of his cloak - hidden against the fine silk of his doublet. It smelled of her, of his Cat. Sansa had her mother's scent, a wonderful piney fragrance with just a hint of flowers and cinnamon. Exotic and noble, just like her. Soon, my darling… soon it shall be only us.

But if chaos was the ladder for him to climb up, then the ladder was sorely lacking in rungs to make it to the highest peak. Such is why he was here, in the drafty tunnels underneath Aegon's High Hill. Performing the most intricate of his mummery yet… May the gods grant me strength. All for you Cat. All so that your dream comes true.

"Lord Baelish, is it?"

Looking up from his contemplation, twin guards of the Vale - loyalty unquestioned - finding their hands drifting to their swords, a lone figure emerged in Littlefinger's sight. Slender and guant but donning a loose maester's robe. Not a maester, I believe. "Lord Hand Qyburn, it is an honor to be in your presence. Much I have heard of you."

Qyburn gave little away, and for this Littlefinger respected him - he wasn't terribly skilled though. Inventive and curious mind good for innovation, but not for the complexities of scheming. Varys would eat him alive… as would I. "By reputation, no doubt," he finally said. "I don't believe we ever met."

"Ah, yes, you hadn't risen to become Master of Whisperers till Lord Varys' defection to Daenerys Targaryen. Quite fascinating, isn't it?" The two men stood ten feet apart, watching each other. "All three of us finding our uses?"

"That is fascinating, Lord Baelish." Not as good a small talker as Varys… I do miss my verbal sparring matches with him. But Baelish would take what he could get. "Do forgive me for the setting of our parlay. It is a bit… dank in here. Aggravates the bones." It was said only Maegor the Cruel knew every twist and turn in the tunnels under the Red Keep, slaughtering all the builders so that he would take its secrets to the grave. Like all Westerosi history… morbid to the extreme.

Baelish found it perfectly apt. "Not at all. I prefer it… best I stay unseen." He already planned on killing both of his guards before he journeyed back to Storm's End. "Where is the Queen?"

A sickly smile formed on the Hand's face. "She'll be here shortly."

'Shortly' turned out to be half an hour… though Littlefinger couldn't ever be sure. The passage of time could always be a mystery without seeing the sun. In any case, the black-plated Queensguards appeared, two at a time until the monstrous hulk of whatever Ser Gregor Clegane turned into leaned down to step inside the cavernous tunnel. That only meant...

"Lord Baelish, we meet again." Cersei Lannister on the outside hadn't changed much. Aside from the close-cropped hair that gave her a more menacing aura, she still remained the same beauty that had been once known as the 'Light of the West.' She approached him, Littlefinger bowing slightly. "Forgive me, but I believe that I put a bounty on your head for assisting Lady Sansa in escaping justice for murdering my son."

Smile not quite reaching his eyes, Littlefinger noticed the scowling Ser Jaime watching him from just behind the Queen. "Ah yes, that unpleasantness. Turns out we've discovered some information that I wish to share with you… a token of good faith between myself and the crown."

A raised eyebrow from Cersei. "Go on."

"Lady Olenna Tyrell confessed to Stannis prior to her death - it was she that joined with Tyrion to poison his Grace. Seems that Sansa was… merely an unwitting participant in the whole perfidy." Best tell them only half the truth. They need not know all of it.

Something flashed in the Queen's eyes, Cersei remaining silent. It was Jaime who spoke next. "And your spiriting away of Sansa Stark? Not evidence of a guilty conscience?"

His smile returned. "Now why would I be guilty, Ser Jaime? I was leaving the capitol to marry my late wife. Sheltering Sansa was… a favor to her aunt - my dear Lysa, may the Seven rest her soul." Dropping to a look of sympathy, Littlefinger found Cersei's eyes. "I am sorry about the loss of your son, your Grace. My hope is that you have found a new sense of closure knowing that the mastermind has been delivered proper justice." Everyone knew how Lady Tyrell burned alive at Stannis' orders.

Pursing her lips, the Queen opened her eyes - instead of grief, Littlefinger found the biggest difference between the Cersei Lannister he remembered and the one in front of him. Instead of the bitter, lost set of emerald stared a sparkling madness. A dangerous glint of a woman broken and reforged into an instrument of vengeance. The ladder just added another rung. It was surprisingly easy to hide his contentment.

"The past is the past, Lord Baelish. Now… I was surprised when Qyburn told me of your request. It must have been… difficult for you to journey here under my dear goodbrother's nose."

"It was surprisingly easy, your Grace. Most of our patrols are trying to stop some raiders of yours from plundering the Reach and Stormlands." Baelish noticed Cersei's lips curving slightly upward. Her plans at work, he supposed. "It was but a small hassle."

"That is too bad, my Lord. You are lucky though, considering my brother wished for me to send you away… or kill you."

"I can still kill him now, sister," Jaime remarked darkly.

Baelish held up his hands - remembering the moment years before when Cersei had her guards hold blades to his throat. "That won't be necessary, Ser Jaime. For I seek to provide some vital information for your cause."

Jaime's hand still drifting to his sword, it was waved off by the Queen. "Go on."

A gulp, Littlefinger clearing his throat. Making sure to look nervous, but not too nervous. "Stannis is planning to attack the capitol."

"Shit… I never considered that," Cersei sarcastically replied. "I was wrong. Jaime, kill him."

He grinned. "My pleasure." Without hesitation, he drew Widow's Wail.

"Wait!" Now he was legitimately worried. "You know what Stannis will do, but not how." Even Jaime stilled, but he was only a few paces away from hacking him to pieces. "Do you know that Stannis has a leg injury?"

Cersei's eyes narrowed. "That is no secret. He earned it frolicking with Wildlings north of the wall. Imagine." She laughed. "A 'King' cavorting with Wildling savages. I don't know if that is worse or the Dragon Whore riding with the Dothraki savages is."

"Quite true, your Grace, but do you know the specifics of his injury?" A silence resulted, to which Littlefinger inwardly smirked. Silence meant Cersei did not. "His leg wound has not healed, and instead festers quite often. This gives Stannis a significant amount of anguish, constantly."

"Serves the shit right," the Queen mumbled. As she hated her husband, she hated her husband's kin just as much. "But I still don't see…"

Littlefinger chuckled. "Tell me, if you were in a situation where you imagined yourself weak, as a monarch wouldn't you do everything possible to counter that image? To be increasingly aggressive and bold even when such action would be… unwise?"

"Are you saying, Lord Baelish," Qyburn inquired. "That Stannis Baratheon will ignore military necessity and attack without abandon?"

"No, not that far, but he shall pick the most aggressive action. I know, because I have attended his war councils. Already his Hand plans to ferry over the Golden Company from Braavos under guard by the Braavosi fleet and Iron Bank-hired sellswords. I wouldn't count on Euron Greyjoy intercepting them, but the advantage is yours on land if you can take it."

Cersei seemed to ponder this. "And how would the esteemed Lord Protector of the Vale advise me to go about this?"

The smirk managed to find itself expressed. "I'm sure the Sept of Baelor isn't the only structure that could suffer in the near future from the Mad King's legacy. I worry the accidental explosion won't be the last."

Regarding this well, the Queen paced from one side to the other. "Now that you told me this, why shouldn't I have Jaime or Ser Gregor kill you where you stand?"

"Because I can preserve the entire army for you to use on the Dragon Queen… and secure the north." And the lion takes the bait.

This was more satisfying than the cunt of any woman.

A/N: BRuh4: So we've made conscious change and you likely noticed it pretty quick. Bran... he's different. So what D&D did with him was shit. He didn't do anything with the powers he'd amassed over seven seasons. I can tell you right now that Bran will definitely do some shit in this story. Also, personality wise he's totally different. We decided to make it abundantly clear that Bran is someone else now. He's more of a collective mind of the previous Ravens. The Max von Sydow character in the show (RIP) and all those before in the history of Westeros. We have interesting ideas about the 3ER.

Also, nobody freak out explosively about anything the comments. We knew that there could be things worth yelling about. If you feel like yelling don't. Because I don't want to see it. If you wanna talk about it like people we can do that.

Longclaw: Yeah, we had to get out there into the rest of the world before going back to Jon and Dany.

Littlefinger... he's doing what he does best, an intricate plot that will toss entire nations into chaos so he can climb. I hope you enjoy!

Tell your friends.