A/N: Longclaw: Hello everyone. This was supposed to get out on monday but unfortunately, the ice storms and failures of the Texas wind farms led to me being without power for the last two days. Power's finally back, so here it is.

BRuh4: Well, it's been about a month, as per usual. I don't see that changing, unfortunately. My plate is about as full as it's ever been. I'm sorry but there's nothing can do. Lucky for you guys, Longclaw can carry a lot of the load.

Lots of shit in this one. Hope you like it.

Enjoy.

Chapter 44: They Say

Barely seconds after being dragged through the thick wooden door did Jon Stark realize just why they were called the Black Cells. Aside from a few dim torches and lanterns struggling to eke existence in the fetid air, it was pitch black. As if the abyss of the deepest of the Seven Hells.

"Good thing for you, Stark," Ser Edric Storm grinned maliciously, shoving him forward. "Not damp cause winter, but the smoke sure seeped into here. Enjoy the stench of piss, puke, and ash, you traitor."

As soon as the stench reached Jon's nose, it went straight to his stomach. He couldn't help it, wanting to be strong but it was overpowering. Beginning to wretch, he struggled against the still tight grip of the Baratheon guardsmen that held him up by his shoulders - both arms and legs shackled. "Stop movin'," one of them growled. "I said stop fuckin… ah fuck…"

With a jerk of his head, Jon bashed one in the nose, breaking it. He got a fist connecting with his gut in response, then two more into his ribs, which made him nearly blackout from the pain. His head spun and violent coughs wracked his lungs just as a door opened and he was tossed unceremoniously to the floor of a dank cell.

"This was where your fool father was kept before Joffrey took his head. Enjoy, you fuckin' cunt." Edric slammed the door and locked it, laughing all the while.

Coughing, dust, and straw kicked up by the hacking air out of his lungs, Jon splayed his arms and pushed himself up off the floor. His limbs groaned with pain but he managed. Hauling himself into a sitting position, he could see through the pale light shining through the grate of the door that the ceiling was only as tall as his shoulders. No standing then. Looking at the dungeons of Dragonstone, where Daenerys had apparently locked him up prior to his death, those had been less malevolent as these.

It could be worse. Resting his back against the damp wall, Jon could make out a ring bolted into the wall. Least the bastards didn't chain me. Wasn't like he could escape in any case.

Closing his eyes, the memories still vivid in his mind bombarded him - one memory in particular. "Goodbye, Daenerys… Don't worry. We'll see each other again."

Her reply haunted him. "We better…"

Now, locked in the cell in which his father apparently rotted away till his death, there was little chance of that happening. All for truths that… quite honestly, were obvious. I'm a fucking fool.

Had his entire life been that way? Or had it simply been the trauma of losing his mind?

How could he even tell anymore?

"Hey!"

Jon looked up, his eyes alert once more. The sound was faint, but clearly a yell… as if muffled by the door.

"You, fucker! Get over to the grate." Figuring there was nothing else to do around here but withdraw into the abyss of his thoughts, Jon shimmied into a crouch, hunching with his face at the barred gate. "Why'd you get put in here?"

Peering into the hallway, Jon couldn't find where the call came from. "Who the fuck are you?"

"Stark?" A voice called out from the darkness, seeming surprised to recognize him. "Funny seeing Stannis' golden boy in here." The voice was familiar to Jon. Though he didn't know the speaker. "You must have fucked up."

Jon rolled over onto his back, "Well, I did threaten to kill him. Killed a few of his Baratheons instead before they surrounded me."

"Didn't kill you, aye?" Another voice rang out. One Jon didn't know in the slightest. "Seems unlike the fuckin' Stag, though he didn't fuckin' kill me."

A snort. "In the scheme of things, Clegane, you aren't worth a bucket of piss to him. Frankly, I'm shocked you're here."

"Suck my cock, sisterfucker," the second voice - Clegane - shot back. "So, Stark. How'd you fuckin' do it? Did ya' get close?"

Still soothing the rapidly purpling bruises on his stomach and sides, Jon tilted his head back. "Stormed into the throne room, challenged him to a duel… then his men jumped me."

There was a silence until Clegane erupted into laughter. "Challenged him to a duel? You fuckin' with me?" The uproarious laughter continued, making Jon frown. "Haven't heard somethin' so fuckin' stupid in my life. What kind of dumb cunt are you?"

"Shut it, Clegane," the first voice - Lannister - droned. "But he's right, Stark.."

"Maybe I had other reasons to do it, Lannister." Reflecting on it, gods, he had been an idiot. Hearing of Stannis' penchant for justice and honor made him think Stannis would accept the duel, but a person that was willing to immolate an entire city for a throne wasn't gullible that way. He should've seen it.

"What reasons would those be, wolfcunt?" Clegane scoffed.

"I suppose saving my sister." That did happen - Stannis wouldn't be thinking of Arya Stark anytime soon, and by that time she'd be halfway to Winterfell… hopefully. "Stannis wished me to kill her."

"Wait, Arya Stark?" Jon looked up, walking to the little grate in the door that allowed guards to check on their prisoners. Across the tiny corridor, illuminated by a lantern hanging inbetween the adjacent cells, he could see a ragged face peering out. "That girl has more lives than a fuckin' cat."

From the right cell, Jaime stuck his head into the opening. It was tiny, and he was filthy, but his golden hair still remained. Classically Lannister. "Saved your sister then… but if you wanted to kill Stannis as well then the person you were when you fought me in the Riverlands isn't the person you are now."

He sighed, the pain in his torso being joined by the ever-present headache. "I know I'm not that person… I don't know who the fuck I am - just that I'm a bastard… and apparently the White Wolf that brings awe and fear to friend and foe alike." Something the man said came to mind. "Lannister, you said we fought?"

"Aye, you defeated me. Led a brilliant defense that left me open to get flanked. Why? You don't remember?"

Another laugh. "Anyone would remember kicking yer' ass, sisterfucker. Sorta obvious he got bashed in the head or somethin' like that."

Jaime, himself without anything anymore, perhaps envied Jon. He didn't know what happened to him, but what he wouldn't give to forget his life and all the horrible shit he'd done. "So did you lose your memory, or did you lose all your sense as well?"

"Fuck you," Jon choked out, only to cough.

For some reason, Jaime was enjoying this. First time since getting thrown in here that he wasn't wallowing in self-pity. "You thought yourself an actual direwolf?" Jaime chuckled dryly. "Thought you could just kill him outright? Trust me, for something like that you have to be close to them, real close."

"You know all about that, Lannister," Sandor said. "Gotta be Kingsguard?"

"No," Jon replied. "You just gotta have a sword and a reason."

"I had a sword. But my reason wasn't clear to me. I just… did what I had to," Jaime said.

Jon blinked, pieces clicking in his head. "You're the Kingslayer. Isn't that what they say? What they call you?"

Eyebrow raised, Jaime cracked his knuckles. "You don't remember your own life but you remember that? Gods, the curse of my past grows by the day… that my own sister gets burned alive in front of me isn't the end of it."

"Don't tell me she didn't deserve it."

"Perhaps she did… perhaps she was the same as the King I killed, and yet I couldn't. Gonna have to live with that, but you can't tell me that Stannis' idea of justice doesn't disgust you."

"It did, hence my attempt to kill him."

A sigh. "You were never gonna kill him, Stark. Anyone with a functioning mind would know that, and I'm certain you knew that as well."

Retort on his tongue, there it died. The Kingslayer was right… while he had likely distracted Stannis from going after Arya long enough for her to slip through the ruined city, everything else had been a failure. He could have skewered Stannis right there - no one was defending him, it would have been so easy. But he had offered a chance for the King to accept a proper duel. The honorable way.

And the honorable way led him here.

"Yer' just as much a fuckin' fool as your idiot father, wolf. At least your sister had some fire about her."

Crude as Sandor was, Jaime knew both the Clegane brothers and would rather the Hound alive than his sadistic brute of a brother. It's not like I have any other options. "I don't know why I'm gonna tell you this, Stark… but I suppose we're the only ones left for each other till Stannis decides to take our heads."

Only days before, he'd have run Jon Stark through with his blade without delay, but Cersei was dead. There was no point in it anymore. "Everyone feared you, more than they feared Stannis. The Wrath of the North, he who wiped out House Bolton - who gutted Walder Frey in the middle of his keep. The man who faced down a dragon and lived." Jon winced at that. "Where was that man today?" Jaime snorted. "That man was gone, and the boy who hit a training dummy in the courtyard of Winterfell during the King's feast had returned. Stupid and weak."

Slumping against the door, the words echoed in Jon's mind as the exhaustion of the entire day slid him into sleep.

"Kill the boy… kill the boy and let the man be born."

The King shits and the Hand wipes.

Petyr Baelish had resided among the court of the Westerosi Kings through five monarchs and lived to know another as well as four pretenders. Always, these monarchs had a patient man waiting right behind them to clean up their dreadful disasters or take errant ideas and turn them into a policy for the realm. A thankless task, a degrading task… but a task where true power rested.

And here Baelish was, pin at his breast, holding such power in his hands. The last King who actually could rule the Seven Kingdoms was likely Aegon V Targaryen, all others too sickly, too stupid, or too mad… and sometimes both. It was too early to determine which ailment would afflict King Stannis I Baratheon and provide his Hand the opportunity to unilaterally control the will of the Iron Throne, but as he hurried down the corridors towards the private audience chambers, he was absolutely willing to find out.

Stannis was waiting for him, a sour frown on his face - most of his moods were sour, even in victory. "You're late, Baelish."

How he and Robert were related I cannot have a clue. Cassana Estermont having had a lover wouldn't have surprised Littlefinger, though in his later years Lyonel Baratheon was known to be a bitter cunt just like Stannis. The quirks of inheritance can be fascinating. "Apologies, your Grace," he bowed, "But I was wrapping up dispatches to send to all the houses of the Westerlands, Dorne, and the North to proclaim your victory and seek their fealty to the one true King."

Nodding, Stannis waved it off. "Whatever. Is he here?"

"I believe he is waiting outside now." As if by magic, the doors opened and the fully-armed guards allowed a swaggering, smirking man into the audience hall. He wore his hair clean-cut and his beard close but scraggly, thick boots and boiled leather cuirass stained with salt. The Ironborn look. "Lord Euron Greyjoy of Pyke."

"King Euron Greyjoy," the man replied, though he gave Stannis a respectful bow. "Pleased to meet you, your Grace. Your reputation precedes you."

"It is customary to kneel before your King, Lord Greyjoy," Stannis said, remembering the day he, Robert, and Ned Stark took the surrender of Balon Greyjoy… how the man begged for mercy like a whimpering bitch. This was the one who burned Lannisport… he didn't show.

Euron's grin did not falter, a sense of arrogance about him that Littlefinger could discern wasn't foolhardy… at least in Euron's estimation. The man seemed to think he could back it up. "I never kneeled to any man or woman… in that manner at least." The dirty jape was lost on Stannis. "Cersei promised me a crown alongside her, one she failed to give."

Stannis snorted. "She only opened her legs for her brother, so you were a fool to seek her out."

"Perhaps you're right, your Grace," he shrugged. "But I never did kneel to her, nor have I knelt to you yet, which is why you should address me as a King… as well as give me your thanks."

"And why would I do that?"

"Had I fought with Cersei as I promised her, ya' mighta be dead. I did you a fuckin' huge favor."

The man's arrogance simply rose by the minute. "You are presumptuous, Lord Greyjoy," Littlefinger replied. "But the past is the past. Cersei Lannister is dead and given Daenerys Targaryen is in league with your still living nephew…"

"That weakling is still alive? I'm shocked," Euron interrupted, yawning.

"What exactly do you have to offer me?" Stannis said, slowly cocking his head askew. "And bear in mind, I am not a whore that you can tempt as you could both my goodsister and the Dragon cunt." There was a reason Stannis was never a proper politician as Renly - Littlefinger could tell the mind games the King was playing, but none of them were particularly good.

Euron grinned and started to move freely. "As you know, Your Grace, I intercepted my Greyjoy scum nephew and niece along with the Martell ladies."

"For Cersei," Stannis pointed out.

"Aye, but I gave her the mother. But I kept the youngest. The other two were torn apart by me and my crew," Euron told him. "Tyene Sand. She's in my possession, on my ship, right now."

Stannis leaned on one arm of the throne, a smirk appearing on his face. "I see."

Littlefinger stepped up, posing an important question, "How do we know you're not lying?"

"I suppose you don't. Can't, really," Euron shrugged. "But I am telling you the truth. If not, what purpose would I have even coming here if not to make peace with the new King? Would I really not come here without something to show as a sign of peace?"

The Hand of King leaned over to speak quietly with Stannis, out of earshot of Euron. "My King, if he is telling the truth, Tyene Sand could be of great use to us. Arrianne is gathering her banners. If we have Tyene hostage we may be able to bargain with her. Keep her from taking the Dragon Queen's side." He dropped his voice even lower, so it was merely the King that could hear. "Even as I stand here, I've realized a plan for her."

Stannis eyed Petyr in the face, then noticed he might be on to something. "Alright." Of anyone in these recent days, Baelish actually has come through for me. He sternly nodded at him, then turned back to Euron. "My men will walk with you back to your ship. They will see if you speak honestly. If Tyene Sand is on your ship, bring her back to me."

"They won't be stabbing me on the way out of the door?"

"If you are telling the truth you have nothing to fear from them, Greyjoy."

"Seeing as I am being honest, I would like something in return." A grin formed on his face.

"What you get in return is not being burned at the stake," Stannis told him, coldly.

The grin didn't shift, though it was more of a sneer if anything else. "You're already getting my fealty. But considering the importance of my gift, I'd just like a reward is all. I didn't have to come here with this generous gift, Your Grace. I could've sailed back to my island or just out into the sea, never to return."

Stannis huffed, "What is it?"

His response was immediate. "I'd like the Dragon Queen, when the war is won. Her keep as well, Dragonstone."

Stannis sat forward on the Throne. "What?"

"I desire her… for my own purposes, given your goodsister's unfortunate demise denied her to me."

That caused Stannis' eyebrow to rise. "Cersei promised herself to you for your fleet?" He snorted. "I figured her for a common harlot, but even this surprises me. Did she give you what you wanted?" He only asked for morbid curiosity.

"No, though it is of no consequence since there is a far better choice for me. The Dragon Queen is the most beautiful woman in the world, is she not? Also, I want to add her island to my collection."

"When the war is won she will be tied to a stake and burned," Stannis said.

"What for? What a waste. I'd like to enjoy her before she dies. I believe every good man deserves a beautiful woman at their side. You can have Tyene and I want Daenerys." Euron failed to mention how many times he and his crew had already ravaged Tyene.

Another snort. "What about her dragons? Think they'll let you take her?"

"It's my hope that those beasts will have been killed by then," Euron said. "Seeing as you can't win otherwise."

While Stannis certainly didn't have any intentions of honoring that part of the agreement. He did need Tyene to keep the Martells away. And one of those dragons shall be mine. I have Targaryen blood just as she does. "Fine. When the war is won you can have the Dragon Bitch and her keep."

"Excellent, Your Grace." Euron bowed with an over the top flourish and left, escorted by four guards.

As soon as the doors closed, Stannis slammed his fist on the arm of the Iron Throne. "Once the Dragon Bitch is defeated, I'll have his head."

Putting out Stannis' fires was pretty much Littlefinger's responsibility as Hand of the King - though many of those fires being ones he set only made it quite ironic indeed. "Your Grace, the Ironborn Lord has nothing to bother you with. Their attempt to conquer keeps in the North was a disaster, and in all honesty, they could be a proper coercive tool for Lords that defy your will."

"He is defying my will, Baelish. That bitch will burn. The Lord will grant me everlasting victory if I give him the last Targaryen as a sacrifice."

"You are already the Lord's chosen." The words rolled easily off the tongue, not that he believed it. "Killing the Dragon Queen won't grant you the glory you already have."

The King narrowed his eyes. "She deserves to suffer for threatening my throne."

"What worse punishment is there than being given to that thug?"

To this, he had no argument. "You mayhaps have a point." Stannis sighed, rubbing his leg. "I shall retire for my midday meal. You're dismissed, Baelish." He rose, leaning on his cane for each step down the dias. "Ser Harys!"

One of the sworn brothers of the new Kingsguard, Harys Cobb had been with Stannis since the Battle of Blackwater Bay. "Your Grace?" He bowed.

"Fetch me Princess Shireen. She is to sup with me in the private dining chambers. Time for the girl to learn proper manners and ruling business, no, Baelish?"

"Never too early to learn, your Grace." The girl won't last the moon as his heir. Shutting the door to his chambers in the Tower of the Hand, Littlefinger immediately went to a cabinet and poured a goblet of the finest Arbor gold. "Gods, I love it when I win." Chaos was his ladder, and the madness of the last weeks had allowed him the opportunity to scramble up multiple rungs. Choke on it, Varys. I've acquired more power than you could ever dream of.

The door opened to reveal a serving girl, one of the former youth maids from his brothel - which though ransacked by the Sparrows was still intact and in operation - that he put back into his service. "Lord Hand, I've brought the warm water for your feet." A steaming pail was hefted in her delicate hands, the vapor flushing her face and soaking her red hair with moisture.

Littlefinger smiled. "Just place it here, Anya, and thank you." He gingerly removed his boots, looking at how the tight tips bit at his toes. "The pains of having to look one's best for court." As the girl, clearly no older than fifteen namedays, placed the pail before his feet, Littlefinger reached up and cupped his cheek. "I believe I've never had as good a servant before you… well, perhaps one, but she's dead."

Anya smiled and curtseyed. "Thank you, mi'lord. I'm glad for the chance to serve." She made her exit, blushing from the kind attention from the Hand of the King.

Sighing as he lowered his feet into the warm water, Baelish snorted. Perhaps I should sample her soon. Breaking in the girls had always been particularly enjoyable, especially the redheads. Fire-kissed hair reminding him of the love he lost long ago… and the soon-to-be love he'd acquire if… no when his plots reached their natural conclusion. Looking down at his desk, Baelish found the raven from the North, from Winterfell. It was the third time he read it, and the words still left a smile on his face.

Lord Baelish,

Not a day goes by that I don't realize that the Mad King's Daughter killed my brother as her father did my uncle and grandfather. The North wishes peace, but she broke the treaty Lord Jon created by having him murdered. If your King wishes for Northern support in holding his throne, we are amenable to terms being drawn.

Perhaps you may be inclined to visit Winterfell to draft a new treaty.

Sansa Stark,

Lady of Winterfell

This was it. This was the moment where Littlefinger could taste the fruits of his victory - a victory gained not through blood or martial prowess as his once-rival Brandon Stark was about to. But he was dead… Lysa, his most influential servant, was dead for threatening his ultimate conquest. Jon Stark had died, if returned, right at the moment he needed him to, while Cersei Lannister's death removed one of the few individuals who could expose his treachery. "Only one more push. Only one last gasp and it shall be I that sits on that throne."

Jon Stark living posed a… quandary for him. If Sansa were to be his Queen, the bastard Lord would have to meet his end yet again along with the Dragon Queen. But how?

But how?

Shrugging, it was an issue for another day. For now, the Hand of the King enjoyed the soothing heat of his foot bath. Grabbing a quill, he lowered it to a piece of parchment.

My dearest Sansa...

Hinges creaking open, the rat-faced jailer tossed a lump of dark bread and a gourd of water. "Supper, wolf cunt." The door slammed closed, groaning as the locks and jam were slid into place.

Blinking back the sudden torchlight that hit his darkness-accustomed eyes, Jon reached out for the loaf and forced himself not to devour it ravenously. Hungry as he was - and his stomach twisted in on itself from sheer emptiness - a lesson stuck into him that he needed to eat slowly or else the pains would get worse.

The fact the bread tasted like moldy sawdust helped with that.

"I miss chicken," Sandor called out from his cell. "Roast 'em, stew 'em, it's all the same."

Jon rolled his eyes. "What is it with you and the fuckin' chicken?" He'd complained about their breaking fast with a bowl of meager gruel by mentioning the chickens, and it only made their predicament all the more torturous since now all Jon could think about was a roasted chicken. I think that was my last meal with Daenerys. Wonderful, now he was thinking about her smile. "Fuck you, Clegane."

"Now you know how I felt growing up… or the few hours before you got thrown in here, Stark." Jaime chuckled dryly. Was the only way to keep sane in this place.

"Your sister at least had some sense of adventure." Does this cunt ever shut up? He was worse than Tyrion, or Sam… at least Jon somewhat enjoyed their babbling back on Dragonstone. "Helped me kill off five of your sister's soldiers and got me three chickens. Ate well for the week… no offense, Kingslayer."

"Who'd you kill?" Jaime asked from his cell, ignoring the statement.

Sandor shrugged, though no one could see him. "Some cunt named Polliver."

"I know Polliver… or used to." There was a pause. "He was a cunt, so I can't fault you."

Ignoring the discussion of a man likely unknown to him even before, Jon swallowed the revolting chunk of bread and cleared his throat. "My sister did that?"

"Aye. She may not have always had fuckin' skill, but she's always been a fiery cunt." Sandor chuckled. "Good luck to that dumbass blacksmith bastard. I figure she'll tame him rather than the other way around." Chuckles turned to chortles.

Of that, Jon did know of whom they were talking of. Gendry… at least that was what Jon thought his name was, seemed to be protective of Arya. As much as he innately felt protective of her. The memories he did have said as much.

Memories… "Lannister?"

"Yeah, Stark?" Trapped here for… seven hells, none of them could know anymore, whatever enmity they had once shared was done away with, or put on hold. Jon saw no point in it and with Cersei dead, there was nothing left for Jaime to hate.

"You said something the other day… bout me in the courtyard of Winterfell?"

"Suppose I did, what of it?" Before Jon could speak, Jaime put it together. "Oh, you want the memory of it?"

A thump echoed against the stone walls. "Are ya' addled, Kingslayer. The cunt lost his fuckin' memory. Of course, that's what he fuckin' wants."

Jaime rolled his eyes. "Thank you, dog," he replied snidely. Focusing back on Jon, he drew back on the memory - the progress to Winterfell where the fateful romp with Cersei ended with him pushing Bran Stark from the tower… and the War of the Five Kings as a result. "It wasn't a good time for most of us, bittersweet at best. Especially for you."

"Why?"

"From what I can gather, you looked forward to going to the Wall. Willingly choosing to freeze up there forever - I thought Tyrion was mad for just wanting to visit."

Looking at it with fresh eyes… no, Maester Aemon was no fool and he chose it. "I must've had my reasons."

"Given how Catelyn Stark treated you, of that, I have no doubts."

"How the fuck would you know?" Sandor interrupted.

"For those with the intelligence of a feral pig it might have glossed their mind, but even I could tell the coldness she sent his way. She hated you, Stark. Hated the one who humiliated her and sullied Eddard Stark's honor… not that he really had any."

That seemed to arise something in Jon. "Don't speak of him that way." His voice was low but no less hard than a bellow.

"It's the truth. He was an idiot and it got himself killed, him and that so-called honor. The man was a walking liar, and it had nothing to do with you or whomever your mother was." Just seeing Ned Stark enter the throne room, one looked at Jaime sitting atop the Iron throne with a bloodied sword, and immediately the story spilled out how Tywin's son betrayed his oath.

Jaime regretted much, but killing Aerys wasn't one of them. He'd do it again, regardless of hindsight. It wasn't like his life would have been better, either way, dying in an inferno that quickly much preferable to… this miserable existence.

Taking in Jon's silence, he felt an urge to continue. "And you turned out just like him, for both good and for ill." Why? Even he didn't really know. Perhaps he reminds me a bit of myself? "I don't know what regrets he would've had, but I do know that Eddard Stark was the kind of man who…"

"Would what, Lannister?"

"Would squander even the greatest of gifts just to fit his rigid code."

"What do you know about codes, Lannister?" Jon leaned his back against the door. "About honor?"

Sighing, Jaime pressed his head against the door. "Look, Stark. We were enemies but considering all that happened there's nothing different anymore. Both of us soldiers without an army, both used by those we were sworn to and now left only a single step above death." Stannis' eyes… his voice as Cersei screamed and burned alive before him, it haunted his very dreams. "For years I fought your family and I would do it again if placed there again, but I wish to tell you something that you should know if you want any hope of getting out of this alive."

Jon, his hands balling into fists, gazed at the door as if he expected Jaime to walk through it. "You fight my brother. Your father kills him at a wedding under guest right, and you expect me to trust you?"

"No, frankly I don't expect it, but aside from myself and presumably my brother, there are no Lannisters left. What do I have left, Stark? What purpose in life do I have? There is no reason to fight." Jon didn't respond, and Jaime decided to take that as an invitation to continue. "I hold many regrets, Stark, but only you have one that you should damn yourself to the seven hells if you are marched to the block as your father would."

Eyes narrowing, Jon wanted to yell but found himself curious. "And what regret would that be?"

"I saw you in the courtyard of Winterfell, and what truly stood out was how you were more like Ned Stark than any of your trueborn siblings. Eddard Stark's honor led him to his death, and it would have led you to ruin had you let it."

Could Jon truly argue against that? Honor had bound him to Stannis, and Stannis torched and burned the entire city. Jaime was honor-bound to King Aerys and Cersei, and both fell into the deepest of madness. And yet he was honor-bound to fight Daenerys, yet she had given him justice and let him go when any other ruler would have… well, did what Stannis did. Perhaps Jaime had a point.

"And yet here you are, given a second chance. Rid of the years of being beaten down as a bastard and the ability to forge yourself into someone who could win the game of thrones where other men would fail, and yet you let yourself fall into such stupidity. Even my mistakes pale in comparison."

He laughed, a deranged sort of morbid laughter. "A gift?" That was one way of looking at it. "Most of the time it feels like a curse. Nothing I have felt or endured comes without pain. Endless pain, the stuff that makes one beg for death… and the only thing that could save me from the pain is denied me by my past." Killed for swearing to Stannis, yet imprisoned by the man he swore to. Threatened by that man previous. Denied even the memories of his blood. Jon truly had nothing.

"A weak man allows the world to define him. Only the strong can define the world - that's what separates people like me and you from those such as my father or the Targaryen conquerors. I saw you on the battlefield, Stark. You have what it takes to be strong, to overcome the lesser men and the agony of life… just embrace it."

Kill the boy…

Another laugh, this one from Sandor. "Such lofty words from the beaten man. Get fucked, Lannister - if he wants to stew in a pile of shit, just let him."

"Why do you care, Clegane?" Jon asked. "You did what you wanted to do, and by what I've heard of your brother then you did the world a favor."

"Aye, I did… but not why I killed him. Killed him cause we had unfinished business. For me!" He thumped his chest. "And fuck what the rest of the world thinks." He snorted. "Know what? That's what makes a great leader, at least part of it. Someone who gives fuck all what the world thinks. Has a goal not mired in shit and does it. All the cunts of the world would follow that."

"Are you that cynical?"

"Aye. The only way to view the world." After a silence, Sandor spoke up. "These cockless lords and kings always have something needs doin' they can't do themselves. That's why I exist. They send me to do dirty work. When the butcher boy needs killing they say, 'take care of it, dog.' When that cunt Joffery needed protection they tell me to follow him around and do what he says. They say, 'protect the future king.' I always did whatever they asked, without question."

"Why?"

"Fuck if I know. Musta been why they called me 'Hound', some obedient dog who didn't ask questions," Sandor said. Then he raised his face back up near the bars again, only his scarred face alight. "But then… then they say, 'die for the King. Die for Joffery.' It was then that I said. 'Fuck the King. Fuck Joffery.'" They both picked up Jaime snarling to himself. "Oh shut up, Lannister. That son of yours was a mad cunt."

"I know… doesn't make it any less hard." For the briefest time, Jon felt Jaime's pain. To watch one loved die, the gods couldn't have fashioned anything more painful. Was that what Daenerys felt for me, seeing me bleed out before her?

She did, and it was your fault. Naharis may have done the deed but his honor placed him there. Honor to a man that would have his sister's throat slit… and to make him do the deed.

Sandor tossed a pebble against the wall. "I did what I most fuckin' wanted to do, and now I'll die in peace. Even you got to live in the arms of whom you wanted to be with, Kingslayer." He tossed another pebble, he clinking resonating across the halls and cells. "Doubt you did it, Stark. You probably lived your life doin' what others wanted you to fuckin' do. Fuckin' sad."

"We all must do our duty." Even he didn't believe what he was saying.

Jaime spoke next… a voice of a haunted man far beyond his years. "Let me tell you something about duty, Stark. Rhaella Targaryen, your Dragon Queen's mother, she was the gentlest soul ever known. One night, I stood guard outside her chambers… listening as her husband the King violently raped her."

Jon blinked. Something flashed in his mind… of a redhead telling him of such torture. Of Daenerys, telling him the same. "She was… brutalized."

"Almost every night for a while, the King's mind slowly deteriorating." He shook his head. "Naive as I was, I asked my Kingsguard brother Ser Jonothor Darry if it wasn't our duty to defend the Queen as well. He looked at me and said, emotionlessly, 'Not from him.'"

He knew not why, but Jon felt a pang of sorrow stab through his body. "Why are you telling me this, Lannister?"

"Duty… honor… ultimately they are the refuge for cowards too afraid to be truly strong men. It was craven to let the King rape his wife. It was craven to trust backstabbers in favor of a King no one truly wished on the throne. It was craven to tip your hand out of a sense of propriety. The first was my mistake, the rest were your father's."

Jon almost didn't hear what Jaime lastly said. "Do you wish for your last action to be such a mistake?"

There was still a pallor over the city. Only the faintest outline of the moon managed to shine through the cloud of ash and soot that continued to spew into the sky from the smoldering fires. Flecks of blackened detritus fell like snow upon the city. Everything was coated in it - whatever beauty remained from the fires or the destruction of the Sept of Baelor many moons prior wiped out by the ash.

Coughing, the bannerman of the Baratheon household guard tightened the strip of cloth covering his mouth and nose. "Seven fucking hells," he muttered in between hacking out his lungs. Everyone outside… and most of those indoors had to wear these things, filtering the fetid air. "Fuck you, lion bitch."

Some blamed their King for it, but none were willing to say it out loud.

While most were perfectly content to shirk their duties and rest or loot the rubble, only the best of House Baratheon's manpower were deployed to guard the half-gutted keep of the Westerosi Kings. Thus, in spite of his grumbles, the bannerman watched as two figures darted about the darkness of night. "Halt, who goes there?" he called out.

Both turned to him, revealing a burly man with muscles like the old King Robert, while the other was slender and much, much smaller. "Forgive us," the bigger one spoke. "We're heading to our post."

"Where?"

"Maegor's Holdfast," answered the other.

The bannerman narrowed his eyes. "What's the countersign?" As soon as the question left his lips, a flash of metal glinted with the low firelight of the nearest torch.

Gendry darted forward and grabbed the slumping corpse, blood gurgling out of his neck around the embedded dagger. Gently, he eased the body to the ground. "They'll find him soon," the blacksmith's apprentice muttered, tucking the poor bastard into the alcove.

"Not soon enough to catch us." Gruff and masculine, the slight figure looked at the corpse… in the darkness, it looked like a man sleeping. "By the time they do, we'll be long gone."

Without delay, they resumed their trek through the grounds of the Red Keep, dodging patrols and keeping a low but non-threatening profile. "I hope you know what you're doing, Arry."

A smirk flashed his way. "Just trust me." I'm coming, brother.

A/N: BRuh4: Some stuff to unpack here. But you guys can open up whatever you want we can interact as needed. But off the top, we were pretty excited to have Jon, Jaime, and Sandor in the same scene, ever since we talked about doing it. Hope you liked that bit. You, uh, might see a bit more of that. Euron's back, with a gift. A very important gift if you can't already guess.

Anyhoo, hope you liked it. It was a cool one to do.

See ya next time.

Longclaw: Jaime and Sandor are here for some pretty blunt words for Jon, but words that he needs in order to truly move on from both his past problematic mindset and his shattered mindset since being resurrected.

Until next time. We got some good ideas coming.