The rest of the month or so that I spent at Casterly Rock went much the same: pleasantries and flatteries and courtesies, underlined by a certain tension.

Genna, despite her apparent misgivings, continued to play hostess. We lounged to chamber music, gossiped over teacakes, and – when feeling particularly adventurous – meandered about the ornamental gardens atop the Rock's summit. Sometimes, she'd even let her husband tag along, and a cringing, browbeaten rodent of a man would skulk in the corner, trying his best to meld into the upholstery.

She kept her children far away from me.

Tyrion, meanwhile, had buried himself wholly in the cultivation of his new abilities. Whereas before his erudition was a sober thing, earnest and subdued, now it swelled lustful and frenzied, with that queer mania so endemic among sorcerers. Day and night, his incantations would tickle at the edge of my divinity, and the whines and twinkles and tell-tale ozone scent of grace would seep through the library doors – the archivists, I can only assume, were far too intimidated to ask him to leave.

And all the while, the Great Lord Tywin leered at me as a lion would an antelope; and from the looks he sometimes shot me when he thought I wasn't paying attention, I couldn't help but wonder whether his interest was strictly political.

The trouble for him, of course, was that his usual methods of coercion simply wouldn't work on me. I hadn't any stake in local affairs, nor relations for him to lean on, and wielded a much bigger stick than he could ever dream of. How much fear, really, could his reputation evoke in an immortal? The only tool he had left was bribery, and he'd clumsily proffer wealth and titles – for as little both were worth to one such as myself – on those rare few occasions that he dared to approach me.

Not much can be said about the other Lannisters, the siblings and cousins and in-laws and such. Staring at the floor like battered housewives, they'd bow and introduce themselves, sometimes making momentary small talk, before politely, discreetly bolting in the opposite direction. Either Tywin had trained them well, or I just left that much of an impression.

Maybe a bit of both.

Truthfully – though I'll concede they probably made for better entertainment than just staring at the wall – I didn't so much delight in these genteel inanities as tolerate them. Really, there's nothing more worthless than a life of idle nobility, flitting around leisurely amusements like a piece of self-propelled statuary.

So whenever I grew bored of it all (which was fairly often), I'd shrug my minders off and go and explore the miles of tunnels and shafts and caves. From the damp, echoing crypts and vaults that descended down past the bedrock, to the open-air arcades and lush hanging terraces cut into the rock face, I like to think I'd managed to traverse a fair bit of the place.

Towards the back end of my stay, after a lunch of salad and lamb on a balcony overlooking the sea, I stumbled upon the sad little hole that passed as the castle's godswood, tucked away in some half-forgotten corner. Hunched in the middle of the humid cavern, sunlight trickling through the cracks in the ceiling, was a gnarled, twisted weirwood sporting an unsightly grimace, crying blood-red sap. Bark pallid and leaves faded, the tree's roots contorted through the stone, strangling those scraggly patches of vegetation that grew in its shade.

A sort of subtle magic lingered about it, whispering into my ear, and I pressed my hand against the trunk and tunneled into its being.

The weirwood, I'd quickly learned, was but one part of a greater whole, a single node in a vast network that spanned the breadth and length of the continent. There was no conscious will behind it, no drive or agenda, just weight and age, and a collective memory that stretched back to the beginning of time.

Mind, it still had its faults – the reception, as it were, was rather spotty, and great wrenching tears moldered across the brunt of the South. But by using the network, I could see through nature's eyes and listen through its ears; glimpse such wonders as the charred husk of Harrenhal and the cold granite bulk of Winterfell, and recall the innumerable vows and pacts and oaths so solemnly sworn before the heart trees.

A few days following my discovery, as I was flicking through the channels, so to speak, accompanied by a decidedly wary Ed, a crow glided through a hole in the ceiling and perched itself on one of the weirwood's branches.

It had three eyes – my intrusion had been noticed.

Taking a respectful step back, I rested my hands on my waist and nodded. "Lord Commander."

The bird glared for a moment. "In-ter-lo-per."

Ed, suffice to say, wasn't exactly enthused by this development, and slowly backed towards the exit.

I raised an eyebrow. "Well now, that's just rude."

It hopped further down the branch until its beak all but pecked my forehead. "No. Games."

My features sharpened and my voice flattened. "What do you want?"

The bloody thing cawed right in my face, then flapped upward onto a higher branch. "You. Do. Not. Be-long. Here. Out-sid-er." It jerked its head. "Re-sume. Your. Wan-der-ings. Leave. Our. World. Be."

"Bold words from a carcass piloting a bird." Had I been in better company, I wouldn't have scoffed quite so derisively. "Your parlor tricks, however cute, are hardly an entitlement to make demands."

Its eyes narrowed. "Man-y. Plans. Much. Prep-a-ra-tion. Ru-ined. By. Your. In-ter-fer-ence." Claws dug into the wood. "The. Song. Has. Been. Dis-rupt-ed. You. Will. Doom. Us. To. Ice. And. Death."

I crossed my arms under my chest. "The way I see it, I've been positively restrained."

Really, considering I could've just gone around leveling mountains, my moderation may well have been saintly.

"An-y! Change! Is! Too! Much!" The crow steadied itself with a breath. "Be-fore. The. Path. To. Spring. Was. Clear." Wings twitched in irritation. "Now. All. Paths. Are. Blind-ed. By. Shin-ing. Gold."

Suppose his frail, ramshackle foresight simply couldn't account for a god – or at least a proactive one. "Remind me, what was that path of yours, again? Have a couple civil wars, a few atrocities here and there, and cross your fingers that Rhaegar's prophecy baby magically saves the day?"

The crow tightened its gaze and snapped its beak, before the functional equivalent of a light slap thumped impotently against the walls of my mind. Surging forward, I gripped it in my hand and squeezed, until it choked and sputtered and the attack petered into nothing. I hurled it to the ground and sneered as it shakily rose to its talons.

"Begone, creature, and vex not mine sight again."

Squawking, it fled back out through the hole.

Those entities beyond the Wall – the white walkers, Others, whatever the hell their proper name was – had, in fact, been on my list, but this interaction moved them that much higher. If that pissant bastard wanted me to stop making waves, then he had another thing coming: I'd accomplish his life's work out of spite, then bludgeon him with the revelation that all those tortuous decades melded to a tree had been wasted.

Besides, seeing the so-called 'heart of winter' for myself would probably shine a light on why, exactly, this world's magic felt so blighted and hollow.

I gave another scoff, then turned to Ed, who stood there gawking and trembling.

"Close your mouth. You'll catch flies."

V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V

Strategically speaking, thanks to my meddling, the war against the Iron Islands had already been won – victory in the field was but a formality

After all, with the complete annihilation of the Iron Fleet (the Westerosi really were an unimaginative lot), the Ironborn had lost, in a single stroke, most of their warships and the majority of their experienced crews. All they had left were scattered, second-rate raiding squadrons, and some inshore fishing boats crewed by youths and elderly.

The mainland, in other words, had gained command of the sea, and could thus now attack the Ironborn at any place, at any time, with only nominal fear of reprisal. And so, after some days of back and forth, the Royalist leadership reached a consensus: those forces that could – or, more accurately, that were willing – would muster together at Lannisport and advance as a single body against the foe, dividing as needed upon reaching the islands themselves.

Not the most elaborate plan, by any stretch, but certainly a viable one – the city, despite the damage, was more than capable of handling the logistics, and fewer moving parts meant fewer points of failure.

The first to reach Lannisport was the Royal Fleet, buttressed by elements of the Redwyne fleet and commanded by Stannis Baratheon, the King's brother and Lord of Dragonstone. Nearly sevenscore carracks and dromonds, their fluttering sails backlit by the rising sun, moored at the remaining berthings and anchored along the beaches. Dockworkers loaded supplies and patched hulls while sailors ransacked the local taverns, and press gangs scoured the streets.

Columns and trains marching down the Goldroad, next came the stream of Lannister bannermen, Marbrands and Leffords and Cleganes and the rest. Disparate bands of men-at-arms and levies encamped in the fields surrounding the city, erecting palisades and digging latrines and displacing refugees. The lords and their households, however, rather than slumming with the commons, enjoyed the hospitality of the Rock; and from all their scheming and merriment, you wouldn't even know there was a war on.

Then, lastly, at the end of the fifth week, a great host paraded over the horizon, a crowned stag strutting at the vanguard and a snarling direwolf bringing up the rear – I assume the two linked up along the way. This mass, on its own, nearly tripled the sprawl of tents, and a party of riders several hundred strong split off and progressed into the Lion's Mouth.

The King had finally arrived.

Accordingly, the whole of the resident and visiting nobility gathered in the spacious atrium to greet him – even Stannis, for all his resentment, was conscious enough of propriety to make an appearance. Bedecked and bejeweled, the sundry lords and ladies and knights and heirs clumped together according to house and allegiance, shooting evil eyes at their rivals and beckoning over any stragglers. A low din of conversation fluttered through the air, and a liberal application of powders and perfumes, though not for lack of trying, failed to mask the odor of bodies and sweat.

As foreign royalty, I'd been afforded a spot at the front, right beside Tywin himself. His family was lined up a few yards behind us, Genna's Freys stuffed off to the side, and Tyrion loitering somewhere all the way at the back – even putting aside that Tywin's opinion of the boy rested somewhere between 'speak only when spoken to' and 'no wire hangers,' his rather blatant usage of magic (without the shield of being a pretty lady) didn't much appeal to local sensibilities.

I left Ed back in the room.

When the ropes drew tight and the pulleys began to rotate, a hush fell over the crowd, and the nobles straightened and eyed the shaft. It took a couple minutes, but the lift soon rattled its way up to the top.

Positioned at the fore, three on each side, were six knights of the Kingsguard, resplendent in white cloaks and pearl-enameled scales. As silly as they looked, their order was renowned for a reason, and they scanned for threats before stepping off the platform onto the carpet.

Between them, in a black leather doublet, swaggered Robert Baratheon, his blue eyes gleaming with mirth and clean-shaven face plastered with a grin. Six-foot-something and broad-shouldered, his arms as thick as his neck, he carried himself with an undeniable virility, despite the first hints of a paunch. The king quickly overtook his guards and stood before the crowd with his hands on his hips.

As one, the nobles lowered themselves onto a knee and dipped their gazes to the floor.

I myself remained standing, and when Robert laid his eyes on me, they widened with something between recognition and hesitance, before he smothered it and turned back towards his entourage on the lift. Pointing at the multitude, he let out a deep, booming laugh.

"Told you, Ned! Isn't that a sight?"

The Ned in question, the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, minutely softened his long, solemn face and huffed amusedly. "Aye, it is, Your Grace."

"Hah!" As the nobles rose to their feet, Robert stepped forward and opened his arms wide. "Good-father!"

Tywin's flat expression concealed the better part of his disdain. "Your Grace, my home is yours."

Robert waved him off. "Oh, none of that. I get enough at court. Please, we're family, call me Robert."

The lord remained unmoved. "It is only proper, Your Grace."

Robert looked back at Ned, who shrugged, before nodding and patting Tywin on the back. "Alright, alright, do what you feel." He playfully waggled a finger. "But mark my words, I'll get you one day. Ned, too."

The room broke out into sycophantic titters.

Robert waited for the noise to die down, then motioned in my direction. "Anyhow, I understand you've another guest."

"Indeed." Tywin held an arm out. "Your Grace, may I introduce you" – he glanced at me, then back at Robert – "to Queen Marika, late of the Lands Between."

The king nodded some more, this time almost pensively – I can only imagine the sorts of things they'd written about me in their letters. "You're a tall one."

"So I've been told."

Chuckling affably, if somewhat woodenly, he offered me a hand. I'm sure the appropriate greeting for a queen was a genuflection or kiss on the hand or something else to that effect, but Robert didn't strike me as the sort to care overly much for protocol. "Good to meet you, Your Grace."

It'd been a while since my last handshake. Since the swap, I mostly just stood there all august and stately as people kowtowed. "Please, call me Marika."

At this, Robert's grin became a touch more genuine, or at least less brittle, and he beckoned his wife and son over. "C'mon then, introduce yourselves."

No matter how graceful her figure or elegant her countenance, I don't think Cersei Lannister could've shot me a nastier look if she tried. Honestly, she rather reminded me of the original Marika (horrible bitch that she was), greed and venom festering right beneath a glamorous exterior. The seventh Kingsguard, her twin brother, Jaime – the Siegmund to her Sieglinde – sauntered at her heels, and a chubby toddler in a crimson tunic was glued to her side, his hand gripped in hers.

Cersei slightly, forcedly tilted her head, as if ordered to acknowledge some wretched peasant. "A pleasure."

"Quite."

She narrowed her eyes, pursing her lips into a catty, self-satisfied smirk. "Have you enjoyed your stay in the Westerlands?"

Smiling, I answered with a nod. "I'd say so."

"Wonderful. My lord father has always shown tremendous generosity to those in need." Her idea of a joke, probably – Tywin hadn't an altruistic bone in his body. "Being so far from home, I imagine you've found yourself wanting for certain comforts."

All she'd forgotten was the 'neener-neener' at the end.

"Hmm." I bent my knees and leaned towards the boy, who timidly clung to his mother's leg. "Your son, yes? The Crown Prince?"

As he whimpered and mashed his face against her gown, Cersei tensed, and Robert answered in her stead. "Joffrey, his name is. My firstborn and only." A laugh belted out. "By marriage, at least. Do you have any?"

"A couple." I stared at Joffrey some more, then stood up straight and met Cersei in the eyes. "The spitting image of his uncle."

Cersei swallowed, and her pupils narrowed to pinpricks. That a woman so profoundly bereft of subtlety (much less inhibition) could've survived any amount of palace intrigue baffled me – then again, with both the foreknowledge and experience I was working off of, my perception might've been a little skewed. The others, after all, didn't seem to notice her reaction, or Jaime's white-knuckled grip on the hilt of his longsword.

Or maybe they did, and thought it'd be better for their health to just pretend otherwise.

Either way, Robert made a show of patting his belly. "Well, that's enough standing on ceremony. Don't know about the rest of you, but I'm starved. Where's that feast you promised me, good-father?"

Tywin flicked a wrist, a line of servants passing the signal along – how much of this was rehearsed? – and the carved granite double doors to my left, screened behind a dense throng of nobles, heaved open. "Though here, Your Grace."

A wedge of Kingsguard clearing the path, the crowd parted, and a group numbering about thirty, myself included, strode through the gap into the Rock's great hall (or one of them, at any rate).

Roughly chiseled from the rock, the hall stretched a few hundred yards deep, with forty long tables ordered parallel across its expansive width and rows of thick octagonal columns running down its length. Red banners and gilded shields lined the walls, and towering statues of the first Lannister kings, inset into the limestone, stood vigil at the far end. All in all, its sheer immensity and ancient construction breathed a sort of heroic simplicity, hearkening back to some antediluvian age more myth than history.

We reached a tall dais, ascended up the shallow steps, and seated ourselves at the high table. Robert took the golden throne in the middle, embossed with crowns and lions and oak leaves, while Tywin and I settled to his right and left respectively in cushioned walnut armchairs.

Giving Robert a sideways glance, Tywin tightened his jaw – his pride rankled at the sight of another man, king or not, occupying the place of honor in his own home.

The crowd shuffled into the hall behind us and settled down along the tables, jockeying for the spots closest to the dais. By the time most of them were seated, a band of lutists and harpists and singers began to play music as forgettable as it was vapid – a perfect underlayer for the din of a banquet – and an army of servants fussed about pouring cups and arranging platters.

First came the appetizers, fish pastries and peppered oysters and chestnut soup, with loaves of crusty bread and dishes of soft butter. Cersei spoonfed Joffrey, who'd been perched on her lap, while Robert ate almost as much as he drank (quite a lot, in other words), and Stannis absently poked at his food with his fork, brooding and grumbling

Next, the main: spit-roasted mutton slathered in a thick honey-ginger sauce, and suckling boar stuffed with rosemary and salt, grilled carrots and spiced squash and fried onions served on the side.

Carving himself a slab of meat, Robert bobbed his head at me. "You mentioned your children earlier."

I couldn't hide my wince. "Yes, I did."

He raised an eyebrow. "Sore subject?"

Humming in the affirmative, I leaned back in my chair a bit. "You can either be a good politician or a good parent."

While most nodded along for the sake of politeness, Tywin dismissed what I'd said as a trite platitude, and Cersei narrowed her eyes and lifted her chin at the mere insinuation that she was in any respect lacking.

"Some of them turned out fine, but … " I shrugged, then gave a sort of sardonic grin and lifted my cup, taking a sip. "Let's just say they're all adults now" – or old enough to count as such – "and free to live their lives as they choose."

Robert chuckled, then motioned his head over his shoulder. "Ned here's expecting his, what, third?"

Pausing mid-chew, Ned swallowed and shook his head. "Fourth."

The king furrowed his brow, before snapping his fingers with a grunt. "Right, your bastard." His gaze then returned to me. "What's your tally?"

"Nine."

Robert goggled, nearly choking on his wine. "Bloody hell."

Cersei muttered a jab under her breath, something snide about me spreading my legs, which went ignored by the rest of the table.

I giggled. "In all fairness, three were adopted."

"Still." His eyes roamed up and down my body. "Just looking at you, I couldn't even tell."

I chose to take that as a compliment, and propped my cheek on my fist. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were trying to seduce me."

He laughed and waved it off, taking another sip of wine, though not without playfully flashing his eyebrows. For all his bawdiness and boorishness and eventual bitterness, Robert had an undeniable charisma – God help me, I actually found myself liking him.

By now, most of the plates had been picked clean, or piled high with bones and fat and other detritus, and the servants rolled out the casks of cheap vintage as the guests became well and truly drunk.

Surveying the crowd, Robert shot me one last chuckle. "Right then, time to do my kingly duty." He plonked his utensils down and rose to his feet, gaudy throne scraping back against the floor. As he cleared his throat, silence radiated outwards from the dais, the nobles shushing their neighbors and turning their heads so they could give their liege their full attention.

"I won't bore you all with a history lesson." The impressive acoustics of the hall carried his speech all the way to the doors. "Everyone knows why we're here, and why we'll be paying those barren, windswept rocks a nice little visit."

At this, the assembly began to holler and whistle and snigger – the Stormlanders and Northerners seemingly competing over who was rowdier – and Robert, after allowing a minute of this, gestured for them to settle down. "And I'm sure everyone knows what happened at Lannisport." He clapped me on the shoulder. "My new friend, Queen Marika of the Lands Between, single-handedly crushed the Iron Fleet. By any standard, a damn fine showing." Then, grinning, he raised his goblet. "A toast to vengeance, and sending those reavers to meet their Drowned God."

Robert took a deep swig, and the audience followed suit before breaking out into applause. As I gave the obligatory nods and waves, the king continued. "Aye, no less than they deserve. Burning our homes, stealing our riches, enslaving our women and children – the ironmen are a pox." He snorted. "An oozing boil on our collective arse that should've been lanced centuries ago."

He leaned forward, the silent crowd hanging on his every word. "And I, for one, refuse to let Her Grace have all the fun. So tonight, stuff your gullets and dip your wicks, because tomorrow we'll thrash some fucking squids!" Robert chugged the remainder of his wine, then slammed his cup against the table. "And give them a taste of our fury!"

Cheers blasted through the air, and the crowd pounded their fists and stomped their feet to a resounding chant of "BA-RA-THE-ON, BA-RA-THE-ON!" Tywin, meanwhile, gave another signal, and the musicians burst into a jaunty rendition of "The Rains of Castamere," his bannermen all too happy to sing along – the dissonance of it practically beat me over the head. The resulting clamor engulfed the hall, the frat boy nobility giving themselves over to revelry, though the Westermen (if only for fear of their lord's piercing gaze) made sure to comport themselves with a relative measure of decorum and restraint.

Flopping back onto the throne and wiping his mouth with a sleeve, Robert glanced at his cupbearer as he refilled the goblet. "This takes me back. No useless politicking, just an honest war. A dragon to slay." Grabbing his cup and absent-mindedly swirling it, he stared somewhere off in the distance, lost in his recollections. "A girl to save."

Apparently, he was a sad drunk.

The servants started to clear the table, replacing our dishes and silverware, and I reclined back in my seat, drumming my fingers on the armrest. "Yes, I suppose it does." I shifted to look in his direction. "So when do we ship out?"

Robert blinked, eyeing me with a furrowed brow, then turned to face Tywin and Ned, the three of them sending each other pointed glances.

Their little powwow ended when Ned sat up straight and Robert ran his fingers through his hair and Tywin leaned forwards to meet me in the eye. "A few days from now, Your Grace, as soon as we're fully provisioned. That said, however, you needn't feel compelled to participate in this campaign, much less regard it your duty. After everything you've done for us, we've no desire to impose on your generosity any more than we already have."

I laughed, crossing my arms. "Nonsense. It won't be a duty, it'll be a pleasure. Been a while since my last proper war, after all, and I wouldn't want to miss the excitement." A smirk. "Besides, as wonderful mooching off you has been, Lord Tywin, I'm starting to feel an itch. About time for me to spread my wings, I think, and go out and see the world."

A couple of my neighbors fidgeted and gulped.

Frankly, if I was a rabid, mongoloid savage that lounged atop a bed of corpses and drank blood from a skull, the Westerosi probably wouldn't have been quite so skittish – then, at least, they'd have felt reasonably confident in their estimation of me. It was the ambiguity, the constant second-guessing of my character and intentions, that so visibly ate away at their composure. Oh, sure, the whole magic thing wigged them out fierce, as did my inhuman physique and uncanny fluidity and open femininity, but that which rubbed them the most was that niggling feeling at the back of their minds that they only saw exactly what I wanted them to, hiding my true nature deep beneath the surface.

Which, fair enough.

In the end, after they whispered and gesticulated among themselves – Stannis even occasionally chimed in – Robert nodded and fixed me with a smile. "The more the merrier."

"Excellent," I chirped, lifting my cup. "Have to say, I'm rather looking forward to finishing the job."

The festivities continued long into the night, sustained by a steady flow of wine and desserts, baked apples dusted with cinnamon and sponge cakes drowning in honey, berries and cream and strudel-looking things. Ribald ballads were sung, ladies were groped, and a couple of fights erupted here and there – all in all, a good time. Eventually, however, the energy waned: Robert just sat there, staring melancholically at the bottom of his goblet, while Ned tried his best to hide his snores.

About seven hours from the start of the meal, after thanking Tywin and taking Cersei by the arm, the king retired for the night, a band of lickspittles following behind him, and the rest of the nobility staggering to their rooms at their own pace.

I myself was one of the last to leave, having been indulging in some primo people-watching.

As I was ambling through the halls, softly whistling some half-forgotten pop song from however many lifetimes ago, the sound of hurried footsteps pattered behind me. I turned to see Tyrion, panting in exertion, and slowed down just enough for him to match my stride, waiting for him to catch his breath.

"Your Divine Majesty" – seems I'd netted a convert – "now that I've the chance, I would like to thank you." He swallowed before continuing. "For everything."

I waved him off. "There's no need to thank me. As I told your father, it was the least I could do."

"Even still." Eyes blazing with resolve, his expression firmed. "How can I repay you?"

I came to a stop, studying the boy with a raised eyebrow. He really was Tywin's son – for him, this was a matter of pride, certainly more so than one of gratitude or devotion. "You've nothing I want, nor that I truly need. But if you're so insistent on repayment, prove a worthwhile investment. Strengthen your mind. Refine your powers. Live the best life you can. Then I'll be satisfied."

I turned to leave, but stopped at the last moment, and turned back to look at him.

"She wasn't a whore, by the way. Jaime lied."

With that, I resumed my stroll, leaving Tyrion trembling in the middle of the hallway.