*! ! ! Warning ! ! ! Mention of stillbirth in the second half of the chapter.

310 AC

Tyrion Lannister

So many interesting people, so many interesting stories. Just the prior fortnight, a whore in Lannisport had told him of a legendary pirate, who instead of bearing the eyes of a man, bore two emeralds within his sockets. She had told stories of eight-legged dogs, with three tongues and seven eyes.

The only thing he had thought at the moment was how happy he was that he paid for the services of three whores, so he understood the three tongues quite well. He had chuckled to himself in that moment.

He had learned that one of the whores was formally of the North.

His interest piqued and so he had stayed in her company long after her services were complete. Beyond all his sinful vices, he was a very curious man.

Her mother had traveled south during Robert's Rebellion, marching in the armies of Eddard Stark. Her father had brought her south after, to seek her out. What they learned was that her mother had died on campaign.

Her father, staunch as any respectable Northerner, simply accepted and moved on. He had settled first in the Riverlands, then, he had moved to Lannisport to open a trading shop.

He had died with debts outstanding; she was forced to put herself in the whorehouse to pay off those debts.

It was an interesting tale. One that left her surprisingly calm. When he had asked her about that, she had replied simply that she was a Northerner. She may have grown up in the Westerlands, but she never forgot where she had come from.

So… he paid her debt.

It was not an act he did often. If he paid off the debts of every sorrowful tale, he'd have no coin left for a crumb of bread.

But he was more of his father than he dared believe; he saw it as an exchange. She had told him of a great tale; one of tragedy, bravery, culture, and intrigue. Therefore, he had to pay his own debt.

When he told her that she had paid him off, she had thanked him calmly and without great emotion. She told him that she would gather what she had and attempt to catch a vessel or trading caravan northward.

As he watched her leave the main room of the whorehouse, he couldn't help but be impressed at the worldview of Northerners… and amusingly berating himself for practically giving away some of the best whoring services he had ever paid for.

But that is what he lived for. Beyond the whores, the wine, the stories, the legends…he lived for people. The happiness, the sadness, the strength and weakness.

The connections.

After such a storied evening, he had, instead of riding back up to Casterly Rock, strolled through the avenues of Lannisport. With trusty Ser Bronn behind him, passing the manse of his distant cousin, Gerford Lannister, Master of Lannisport, passing the great trading plaza. Passing the u-shaped canal allowed smaller vessels to row further into the city.

He reached the water. For the most part, all he could see was the bustling docks and harbors of the city.

He was about to turn, to call it an evening, when something caught his eye.

A vessel smaller than most trading cogs, was about to depart the harbor. Due to its small size, it had not possessed an anchor. As such, it appeared the crew had filled barrels and sacks with sand and filled the hull with it.

Such added weight lowered the vessel, essentially beaching it on the sand under the water. Crude, but, effective in keeping the vessel in port.

But as he watched them preparing to set off, he saw the crewmembers simply open the sacks and hack open the barrels and pour it over the side into the water.

And suddenly…he had a thought.

"Stop that!"

"You whaught?"

The crewmembers looked up, expecting some guard or another.

Ser Bronn spoke up from behind him. "He told you to stop what you're doing lads."

Eventually seeing the lack of work from his crew, the vessel's captain shoved himself through. "Get back to work maggots!" The captain turned, and seeing the red sash of House Lannister, apparently thought himself to be a customs officer.

"What you want? We've broken none of your damnable laws."

But Tyrion had something far more interesting on his mind. "What are you doing?" He pointed at the barrels and sacks of sand.

The captain and crew looked confused. "We…uh…we be dumping our load?"

"Where do you get the sand?"

"Ya serious? The sea surrounding the city is shallow enough, before coming into port, we'll throw buckets off the stern of the vessel, and dredge sand for use."

"And you just dump it overboard when you're done."

"Aye, ya blind imp?"

Using his hand, Tyrion scooped up a small handful of the sand, brushing it against his fingers. His mind far away as the crew and even Ser Bronn looked at him with confusion.

Finally, the captain called out; "Ya mind! We got a schedule to keep!"

"Yes…apologies." He muttered to himself.

The captain rolled his eyes and motioned for his crew to continue.

He turned around to face Bronn.

"Come, we need to reach the Rock, quickly."

And heir and knight moved rapidly, for the knight had never seen the little lion so serious.

"Are you sure about this little lord?" Bronn asked behind him.

Ser Bronn Blackwater was not a fearful man. He had openly faced knights and lords and had survived all of it. He was a rough-talking, gold-spending, rabble-rousing man.

But even he, was wise enough to fear the retribution of Tywin Lannister.

After all, the commonfolk say never wake a sleeping lion. His cub was about to do just that.

Tyrion stalked forward with singular purpose that he had never shown before. Two redcloaks were standing guard outside his father's chambers. Tyrion recognized them.

The redcloaks that Tywin Lannister surrounded himself with were more than just the regular guards. They were of the Lion's Fangs. The Fangs were the elite guard of Casterly Rock.

Each one had made an oath to the gods they worship; they had each volunteered to have their tongues removed from their mouths and put themselves through rigorous martial training.

In return, Tyrion's father had guaranteed that each guard's families would be granted small chambers within the Rock, more among the servants of course but still greater than most smallfolk, they were guaranteed daily food and drink, and would be given much greater pay than the average guard.

Redcloaks of Lannisport were given a monthly pay of three grouts. The last month of the year they'd be given a copper penny as well.

The Lannister Honor Guard, the standard guard of the Rock, were given a monthly pay of one penny. The last month of the year they'd be given ten pennies.

The Lion's Fangs? They were granted a monthly pay of a silver stag. On the last month, they'd receive three golden dragons…far more coin than any smallfolk would normally ever even see in their life.

Tyrion's father, despite ruling with fear, understood that loyalty could also be bought. And the Fangs were very loyal.

So much so that they would even cross the heir, to protect their lord. Such was found out when upon his approach, the two guards loudly stomped to block the doorway and crossed their spears.

"Please my good men, I must speak with my father urgently."

Because of their surgery, they only stared in response.

"The little lord requested entry to his father." Ser Bronn smirked.

One of the guards' eyes never left him, while the other turned stoically to peer at Bronn, before once more slowly to return to Tyrion again.

Tensions were rising, when all four heard muttered words from beyond the door. Slamming the door open, Tywin Lannister stood; he had not the apparel of state or of the day, but neither nightwear.

"Tyrion." His father sounded either surprised or annoyed…probably both. "What are you doing here, finished with your whores?" He added derisively.

But Tyrion wished to get his thoughts out before he forgot them. So, in an act of complete courage, he barged past his father into his private chambers and began talking.

"I've found a way father. A way that we can make up all this-" He stopped himself before turning and seeing the guards, Bronn, and his father gaze at him in anger and confusion.

"Bronn, you must excuse my father and I. You have the rest of the night."

Bronn shrugged and turned without a second thought. One of the Fangs motioned towards him, but his father simply waved him away. He closed the door on him. Only his father and himself in his chambers.

"For what reason have you interrupted my rest and dared enter my chambers uninvited?" His father's voice was steady but there was a degree of anger.

"Father, I've had an idea for our income problem."

Tywin Lannister stood still for a moment, sizing him up. Finally, he gave a simple nod and gestured to the two chairs in the chambers. "Sit. You will speak of this realization."

As he sat down, his father moved to pour to chalices of watered wine. Giving one to him, Tyrion took it and simply sat it on an end table next to the chairs.

"So…do tell."

"Sand."

His father was in the midst of a sip when he stopped and fixed him with a glare.

"I have neither the time nor the patience to deal with your japes Tyrion."

"I'm serious father." Tyrion was surprised at how much he wished his father to listen to his idea; after all that his father had done to him, he certainly shouldn't be seeking his approval, yet here he was.

"You have until I finish this chalice." Tywin stated taking another sip.

"Think about it. Westeros has yet to establish any source of glass-making crafts-shops. All the glass used, from the Red Keep to the glasshouses of the North are bought at high prices from Tyrosh and Pentos. Let us purchase the services of a number of glassmakers from these cities, than pay them to share their secrets…or at the very least stay in the Westerlands to make glass here."

"And the sand?"

"There is sand all around us father, and I am sure the craftsmen of the Free Cities can work with other sedimentary materials as well. Just this evening I encountered a trading cog that had dredged sand in the harbor to weigh itself down."

"Elaborate."

"If we can establish the first glass-making houses in Westeros, we'll have a near monopoly on all glass purchased. We can sell it for cheaper, undercutting the Essosi, cornering the market."

"And yet, who will seek it out?" He knew his father wasn't a fool. He was testing him again.

"The North is always in need for more glass, they will definitely be our largest customers, and a good source of income during the slow winters. The Crownlands will no doubt wish to buy for more decorative and artistic purposes. The Riverlands will seek it simply to trade with others. The Vale has no immediate need for a great amount, but should they need to repair a sept or another, cheaper to pay our prices."

"And Dorne? The Reach?"

"As for the Reach, those pious fools would no doubt seek us out, no doubt to furnish their increasingly large septs."

"And…Dorne?"

"Don't speak to be as if I were a fool." He snapped. His eyes widened and looked at his father. He glared at him still. "…continue."

Tyrion gulped. "Dorne will never purchase large degree of goods from the Westerlands so long as you are alive. It is simply a non-starter."

"And the Iron Islands?"

Tyrion gazed at his father in annoyance. After a moment, Tywin simply nodded.

"Good Tyrion. Very good. We'll discuss more later. Now, leave my chambers before I have the Fangs throw you from the top of the Rock." Never a smile or even a nod of affirmation

Tyrion left his father's chambers nearly skipping in happiness. A first time for everything he guessed.

Sansa Dayne

Her life was not as she had expected. Though, perhaps she had grown out of her childhood expectations.

She had been forced to grow up quickly. Even though she knew that it was approaching, her family's discussions about her possible marriages truly set it into her how far she would need to grow.

She was neither a brave nor genius warrior as her elder brothers were, perhaps she was not the wild shield-maiden her sister was. But Sansa would always insist she was smart. She always had the best marks from Maester Luwin growing up, she always knew the most of the North and other kingdoms. But, what she realized, was while her intelligence may have been superior to the other Stark cubs, her common sense, was less so. Of course until she grew older.

She had once envisioned herself marrying the kindly prince, becoming a Queen loved by all. Or perhaps, a gallant lord who would protect her from all woes.

But reality…reality is most oft disappointing. She learned of the crimes of the prince, of the Queen. She knew of the war that erupted. Dorne may not have been a party in it, but it certainly observed it.

After the initial 'honeymoon' phase was over, she realized she actually never loved Edric. But after some ravens from her mother, she was open to allowing love to grow. He was kind of course, and polite, but there was a distance between them initially.

After their wedding, of which she was ecstatic her father made it, but saddened the rest of the family had not, she and Edric had fulfilled their wedding vows. She decided that perhaps others may call him Ned, she would never, reminded her too much of her father.

Still, no love yet. Friendship and companionship had bloomed, but not love. Looking back, she had wished they found love an easier way.

She had never told her family. Only Edric, the household, and the maester knew. She had grown with child. But…

The child had not lived. The trauma afterward was more than heartbreaking. Her unborn daughter. How cruel the world was, to take life not yet born. Edric and she had called the girl 'Ashana,' after his mother.

Love blossomed as he held her, she cried. She knew he did too. Never once in front of her. At first she thought the babe mattered not to him. But she saw him once. He did not know; but as she walked past the Godswood of Starfall, she heard him. Not a great cry, but a pitiful one. She entered only so far as to watch him.

Men were often disappointing, but perhaps, so were many women. She never told him she saw him; she learned after he was trying to be strong for her. She swore she'd never doubt him again.

Their love began in earnest after that terrible event.

When she learned she was with child again, all around congratulated her and Edric. But in the quiet moments, in lulls of feasts and gatherings, their eyes would lock. She knew the look; it was not one of love or lust. It was of fear. They feared for unborn children to come.

But as her belly swelled, the fear lessoned. Maybe, this babe would live all the way. When the time came, and her back spasmed, and pain tore through her, fear came back with a vengeance, throughout the entire birth, she was frightened the wet nurse or the maester would tell her it was lost.

Then, the cries of a new thing, a beautiful thing. When she held Garin in her arms for the first time, all her dread was swept away, like the waters of the Torrentine.

By the time her second, Aldon, came along, terror came back, would Garin survive the journey north, to her ancestral home? Would Aldon survive the birth?

Regardless, she knew…come what may…Edric Dayne, her husband, was with her.

…they spoke of Ashana sometimes. On the nights that dreams refused to carry her or him off, they would talk. Sometimes, to thoughts of her. The tears were always fresh, in time however, the regret and self-hatred left, leaving only sadness in its wake; bad yes, but not as much as the other emotions combined.

Of happier thoughts, her siblings and her grew closer together. Looking back on memories, she sometimes blushed with embarrassment. She was not a nice sister to Arya, and perhaps demanded things of too many people. Ravens allowed her to share stories and information with her distant brothers and sisters.

Her and Arya, at least over letter, were doing very well now. Arya told her things; of her own husband, of her wishes, that she told no one else. Robb and Edwyle's ravens always made her laugh, and she hoped her own to them did as well. Bran's letters were always different. Not that they weren't close, but more…informational. Sansa always held the belief that Bran would've made a great maester. Rickon, so young that she never truly got to know him past the baby stage, was like meeting a new person.

She could not wait to travel north with Edric and Aldon, to visit with her family before taking Garin back south.

Her life had not been a perfect one, far from it. She had lost much. Time however, can heal great wounds, wounds that have no other way of healing themselves.

* I hope everyone had a happy holiday season!