embrace the world in grey

by TheTenthSunrise

Two Wolves are sent North. Deep in the North, beyond the Wall, a lone Wolf survives the cold. A Young Wolf lies in the dark, and waits for rescue. Winter draws ever nearer (or, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives)

14. THE LION I

CHAPTER FOURTEEN: THE LION I

Casterly Rock is taken by Daenerys Targaryen's armies. There, her hand, Tyrion Lannister, encounters a broken King and a collection of Northern Lords. Word arrives from a Northerner in Oldtown. The last wolf is found. Daenerys and Tyrion discuss the North.

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As he watches the Northern Lords be pulled from the cells of Casterly Rock, one by one, many freshly bruised and bloody as they struggle against The Unsullied and lob curses ay them all, Tyrion Lannister finds himself beginning to worry that Robb Stark isn't really at The Rock, and they've been duped by his sister into believing so.

He would not put it too past Cersei, he supposes, to have murdered Robb Stark in secret or to have pulled him somewhere else, but that's also presuming she is as smart as she would have everyone think, which he's far less certain of. He knows she most likely did not forget about who she has, but she seems so very consumed with the throne she now has that perhaps Stark had slipped her mind, as he's been believing the whole way here. Tyrion desperately hopes so, because any other option is not a good one.

The minutes bleed by, and certainly, The Rock has quite the prison in it, but Tyrion doesn't think it should take this long to find a single wayward wolf, not for The Unsullied. And glancing up at Daenerys when she comes to stand next to him, having no doubt been getting the surrender of The Keep finalised, he knows the same thoughts and doubts are weighing on her mind. Both of them watch the entrance to the cells with an apprehensive eye, waiting for the real prize of The Rock.

Just as Tyrion is about to think that this was all some foolhardy quest, or that, for once, Varys was actually wrong about something, he hears shouts echoing from the direction of The Cells. He does not quite recognise the voice, but it doesn't matter, as a few moments later, the door slams open, revealing a struggling and bound man with hair like flame being hauled forward by Grey Worm and his Unsullied.

They drag him the last few feet to where he and Daenerys stand, and she asks, in a perfectly Queenly voice, but with a tilt of her head that reveals her scattered confusion, "Grey Worm, why is Lord Stark bound?" Saying nothing, Grey Worm inclines his eyes to the boy who is still fighting against those holding him, seemingly not having quite noticed the people before him. She sighs. "Release him."

Stark rubs his wrists as they are released, looking carefully upon Daenerys, and sharply towards Tyrion, although he says nothing as Missandei comes forward with a smile, and introduces him to The Queen, "You stand in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, rightful heir to the Iron Throne, the rightful Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, the Mother of Dragons, the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains." She glances at Tyrion. "And Tyrion of the House Lannister, Hand to the Queen."

Stark snorts loudly at that, his hands disappearing behind his back as he rocks slightly on his heels, watching them both carefully. "My, that is quite the jump in station since we last met, Lannister," he says, with just the slightest hint of mockery to it. Stark cocks his head in a move that reminds Tyrion of a dog, although he's not sure if it's a real similarity or just him associating a Stark with a dog, as many are wont to do. Dogs, wolves, they all blend together this far South, sometimes. "Last I heard, you had killed Joffrey."

"I can not say that I was the one responsible for that, unfortunately," Tyrion says, and Stark's mouth quirks just a bit, in some vague glimmer of amusement.

"Shame," he says, all the same, seemingly meeting Daenerys's eyes as he continues, "I would have liked to see that."

No, you wouldn't have, he thinks, at first, thinking of how Joffrey clawed at his throat and spluttered as he turned purple, and of Cersei's screams. But then he remembers coming into the Throne Room to see Sansa Stark being beaten, thinks of hearing the news of Ned Stark's death, thinks of seeing Robb be thrown before the court and his sister, and he thinks that Robb Stark probably very much does wish he got to see Joffrey die, no matter how gruesome the end was.

"Lord Stark," Daenerys cuts in then, and the boy's eyes narrow at the title, but he says nothing. "The Young Wolf. I have taken Casterly Rock and freed you and your men. What news do you know of your home?"

"Mother of Dragons," he replies, a little colder, cocking his head at her again like she's a puzzle he can't quite figure out. Tyrion wishes that he had some wine with him right about now as he lets the silence stretch, the eyes he stole from his mother raking over her. The Mother who was butchered right before him. "Aye, I can see that you have taken The Rock. My prison for the last…how long? And because of that time, I know nothing of The North since my capture and betrayal."

"Nearly three years now, My Lord," Tyrion tells him when Daenerys gestures for him to speak. The boy's brows shoot to his brow in surprise, like he can scarcely believe it has been that long, but he says nothing of it. "Cersei sits upon The Iron Throne, as all my nieces and nephews are now dead. And The North is once more in the hands of Starks. Your sister Sansa and your half-brother Jon have taken Winterfell–though, I do not know how Lord Snow escaped his oaths, before you ask."

The man's brows furrow, and he seems to consider something for a moment, before shaking his head and clearing his throat. But something lingers in his eyes, something Tyrion notes with a brimming interest. There is something more to it all, then. But when Stark speaks, there is no hint of any of the other thoughts that must be spinning in his head. "Truly? Then The Bolton's are dead?"

"Indeed," Daenerys replies, then. "And I will be sailing for Dragonstone tonight. I have your men upon my ships and hope to take you there with me, at which point we can discuss terms and peace. I understand you have styled yourself as The King in The North. I hope we can come to an agreement on that, My Lord, seeing as I am intending to take back my throne and my kingdom from Cersei." She gives him a bared smile, one he replies to with his own halfway feral and decidedly cold curl of his lips.

"I am," he replies breezily, almost casually. "And you call yourself Queen of The Seven Kingdoms, despite not sitting upon The Iron Throne. I am against you by making myself King of one of those kingdoms, you are against Cersei because she sits on the throne you call yours, and she no doubt wants my head. It would appear we are at a Crossroads, Daenerys of The House Targaryen."

"But we do not need to be, My Lord," she reminds him carefully. Stark's eyes flit briefly to where Tyrion stands, and he sees that same incandescent rage that greeted him in The Black Cells all those years ago come rising to the surface again. "I am willing to negotiate. I am going to insist that we return to Dragonstone, for the safety of everyone here, but from there I hope to band with you, Lord Stark. Your House has every reason to want her House gone. As do I. I hope we can do so together."

"You speak of wanting House Lannister gone, and yet I see one of that House right beside you with a pin of a Hand of a Queen on his breast," he replies, looking to Tyrion again with a look that makes his skin crawl in unease. "Do not think the words you gave to my sister make me like you any more, Lannister. You're a kinslayer. Your House saw it fit to break guest right, butcher my men, and murder my mother. I have no love for you."

"And as for you, Queen of The Seven Kingdoms, Blood of the Dragon…"

But whatever words he'd been about to say die in Stark's mouth. Tyrion sees Daenerys pause, and they both turn to see what he is staring at, and Tyrion feels his heart leap up into is chest and thinks, wildly, that they never should have unbound his hands after the display he'd already given, when he sees a shocked Theon Greyjoy staring right back at Robb Stark, King in The North, the man he betrayed.

Then Robb Stark is lunging forward, past Tyrion and Daenerys, with a strangled and entirely undignified scream, slamming Greyjoy into the wall before anyone can so much as blink never mind get them apart or even stop Stark. The Unsullied and Daenerys's Bloodriders' first instincts are, of course, to protect their Queen, but Tyrion wants to damn them all to hell as he watches Robb Stark seethe with a hatred unlike any he has ever seen. Even his own hatred at the betrayals he was dealt following Joffrey's death seems menial in comparison to how Stark looks now. The Young Wolf indeed.

His eyes are manic and wild, his body shaking as he presses his arm to the other man's throat, seemingly delighting in how he chokes and struggles under him, clawing at Stark's arm. "You fucking traitor, " he snarls, and Tyrion remembers with a wince the pair of them as he last saw them, the half-hidden but easy camaraderie they seemed to have, and as he sees how it's been replaced by hatred and regret. "Fuck you, Greyjoy. Fuck you, fuck you. I trusted you, damn you, I did–and you–you…" He slams him harder against the wall. No one is moving, frozen in awestruck horror or just uncertain as to what to do.

Theon Greyjoy says nothing. The boy Tyrion met in Winterfell all those years ago is long gone, and it's never been clearer than now, when no snarky reply comes to his lips, when he only looks at the man he betrayed with a devastation that is hard to quantify, nevermind understand. When the silence stretches, Stark presses harder. "Nothing to say, now, Theon? Nothing to say to what you did, or how you betrayed Bran and Rickon, how you murdered my brothers!"

Stark sounds nothing like a King now. He sounds like a heartbroken brother, a boy who was betrayed by someone he trusted and is still falling apart from it. Greyjoy is crying, silently, shaking his head as he stares at Stark like he's the whole of something beyond them all. There are tears in Stark's eyes as well, and he damn near wails, "Am I your brother, now and always?!" The words seem to piece Theon Greyjoy like an arrow to the heart, and he sobs loudly, the first sound he's made the whole time.

At last, Daenerys finds her voice and orders someone to pull Stark away before he murders the brother of The Queen of the Iron Islands. It's Grey Worm who pulls him back, locking Stark in a headlock as he screams and struggles against the hold, cursing Theon Greyjoy with every breath he takes. The other man sags against the wall, doing nothing to defend himself, crying silently as he watches Stark fight tooth and nail against every single Unsullied who is needed to hold him back, in a vain attempt to try and probably murder him.

"Your Brothers, Theon!" Stark is screaming, sobbing, really, viciously clawing at the arms around him At last, Yara comes rushing up to the group but freezes when she sees the scene, and Tyrion hears her swear softly as she sees Greyjoy, pressed against the wall, looking broken beyond repair. How is this boy the one Tyrion met in Winterfell, the arrogant princeling who chafed raw against his bonds? Stark struggles harder against the arms holding him back. " You killed them! Bran and Rickon–Tell me why, Theon! Why do you deserve to be here while they are de–"

"They weren't Bran and Rickon!" Greyjoy damn near screams, cutting the man he betrayed off. A cold silence falls over the assembled company. Robb Stark pauses where he stands, staring in dawning comprehension at the other man. Greyjoy's body shakes as he continues to speak, but his voice holds steady. "I couldn't find them. They were two farmboys. I burned the bodies so no one would know. I didn't…I didn't kill them. I didn't. I didn't."

The Lord of Winterfell is shaking like a leaf in the wind. For a moment, his face is ashen and tears are flowing freely, and then a great howling sob rips out of him and his knees buckle. The Unsullied who had been holding him drop him on instinct, and he falls to his knees in the muddy courtyard and wails, bent over his body, clutching his stomach as sob after sob wracks him. The very wind seems to howl with him as he tears at his hair, looking nothing like a king anymore.

"You…" Stark hisses out from between his teeth, glaring up at his betrayer, but it's not all malice now. There's something more there, something that Tyrion knows he will never understand. He struggles to his feet and reaches out to grab Greyjoy by his shirt, glaring at Yara when she draws closer to her brother and the man who is manhandling him. She pauses, and Stark turns back to Theon Greyjoy, an expression Tyrion doesn't recognise but he thinks Theon does on his face. His voice is cold, and while it is a question, the words he says are flat as the head of a drum or the side of a sword. "You didn't."

"I didn't," He agrees softly.

Stark doesn't move. Tyrion, for a stupid moment, thinks that his prophecy of the shock of the truth lasting for only a moment will be wrong and that Robb Stark has been truly upended and scrambled at the news, but then his face breaks into something new, something worse, and he once again lunges with another broken, wolflike, wail towards Theon Greyjoy.

But the Unsullied are ready for it this time, and so is Yara. Her brother is quickly pulled away by her, and Tyrion watches the man go, shaking with every step. He doesn't know why he's surprised that he didn't fight back, but now he's starting to think that maybe he wants to die by Robb Stark's hands, and that just makes this whole situation infinitely worse. Because Yara certainly will not let him do so. But she is not the only opinion that needs to be courted here.

And with Greyjoy gone, Stark directs his anger to Tyrion and the Queen beside him. To think, only a few minutes prior, they'd been talking in the most civil terms one could hope for given the situation, but now Stark is being detained by four Unsullied, and though his face is red and tear-streaked while he actively still weeps, he is looking at them both like they are the whole of his problems. His gaze is especially cold on Tyrion himself, although he cannot say that it surprises him much, given all that has happened in the last few years.

Glancing at his queen, he sees a look like she is torn between something or another, and he resists the urge to bite his tongue. He had suspected something like this would happen, and even before he saw Greyjoy, Stark had proven to be far from a cooperative man. Perhaps his suggestion that the man be put down should something like this occur was uncouth, and unwarranted, but he does not think that he is looking at a man who has any intention of cooperating, now. And he thinks she herself is coming to that very same realisation, as grim resignation crosses her face.

"Let Lord Stark go," she says again softly, and The Unsullied do just that. But Stark seemingly can no longer stand on his own two feet, and so he is bent low in the dirt of Casterly Rock, shaking where he sits, sobbing silently as he turns his hateful eyes onto her. There is some sympathy in her eyes, but the hardness of a Queen as well, all the iron that comes with being one. A hardness that reflects back into her eyes with The King before her. "I am going to give you two options, my lord."

"I don't want your options," he spits, voice like venom, eyes like poison arrows. Daenerys and Tyrion both take deep, measured breaths at that, and Tyrion himself does his best to give the boy a warning look, although he does not seem to notice it in the slightest. "Where are my men? Bring me my men–Dacey, The Greatjon, where are they? "

"Your men are being tended to by my Unsullied and Dothraki, and are, just like you, no longer prisoners." He raises a brow at that, looking an awful lot like his mother as he does. "However, you, Lord Stark, have attacked one of my men. I know what lies between you and Theon Greyjoy, but you are in my hospitality, and I will not have you murdering him, not yet, not here, not now. So, your options are to either continue fighting and find yourself in a holding cell on a ship the entire way back to Dragonstone, or spend that same trip under so much Milk of The Poppy you can scarcely move."

"I don't give a shit who he is to you, or about your hospitality," he hisses at her. "I will see Theon Greyjoy dead for what he did. Call it murder if you want, but it is justice for what he did. Bind my hands, Dragon Queen, make me your prisoner, I don't care. I will have his head for what he did." His voice may burn with his conviction, but oddly enough, Tyrion catches a glimpse of something more in his eyes. Ah, he thinks, So the wolf is wavering in truth.

"You are not my prisoner, my lord," she says with a sigh. "Nor do I have any intention of making you one again, either. But I am taking you and your men back to Dragonstone, for your own safety against Cersei, and if that is through bondage or Milk of the Poppy is up to you." She tilts her chin up, cold and imperious. But that is a look that was long ago perfected by the men of The North, so now they stand at a stalemate, two equally stubborn and bull-headed rulers staring at one another.

But their staring contest is broken when one of the Unsullied comes up, Daenerys's bloodrider Jhogo a half step behind him. They both look…well, not nervous, he'd say, but uncertain. She turns away from Stark and waits for one of them to speak, which The Unsullied does in Common, thankfully, after another moment's hesitation. "We found something in the Kennels. A big creature–it will not let anyone get near it. It has growled at all who came near and tried to bite both Craro and Illesso."

"Grey Wind?" Stark breathes. All eyes snap to him and he gets to his feet with some struggle, dusting himself off and staring for a moment at the Unsullied soldier and Dothraki Bloodrider standing before him. Jhogo, to his credit, seems to be doing much the same to Stark, seemingly perplexed by the sight of the stranger standing before him in once fine clothes and with a haggard look on his face that is being broken slowly by dawning realisation and hope.

"This creature–did it look like a dog?" Tyrion asks, and when the pair exchange a look and then a nod, he thinks that Stark's suspicions may just be right. He looks to the Lord of The North, who is staring at him with open need, heedless of how Grey Worm watches him carefully from behind, grip tight on his spear, eyes dark and wary. "Could it be your wolf, Lord Stark?"

He nods, and clears his throat, looking at both him and Daenerys imploringly. "None of your men will be able to get him, I promise. Let me get him out, let me see him before he takes a hand or something worse." The boy licks his lips, looking half desperate, half wild. Tyrion remembers the young Lord who greeted him in Winterfell with Yoren of The Night's Watch well enough and remembers the pup at his feet. That wolf is certainly no longer a pup, and having been separated from his master this long, who knows what that means for either of them?

Daenerys is looking to him for his judgement. He nods at her, and she purses her lips with a squared jaw, turning back to her Bloodrider and The Unsullied captain beside her. "Let us see if Lord Stark is able to help. Egros, take us to the Kennels." She nods at Grey Worm, who grabs Stark by his arm and marches him forward to the Kennels, her and Tyrion following behind at a more sedate pace. She lowers her voice so only he can hear her words.

"The Wolf–what of it?" She asks. "Could Stark truly control it?"

"There are whispers that would suggest so," he replies, watching the boy march forward to his wolf, looking jittery and on edge the whole way over. "Some say that Lord Stark is a Skinchanger, a warg, although I cannot confirm the suspicions. At any rate, if it is indeed his wolf in there, he is not wrong that he is the best hope we have at getting it out without someone getting hurt or killed or both. Those wolves were always big, and from what I heard, they never seemed disinclined to stop growing. He's the best hope we have of no one becoming today's midday snack."

"Or it's not his wolf and he's about to get murdered by a half-feral dog."

"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it," Tyrion mutters as they come into the kennels, which is alight with the sound of the barking and growling of tens of dogs. The Unsullied who mill about snap to attention as they see Daenerys, but she and Tyrion both are watching Stark as his brow furrows and his eyes lock on the cage in the very back. He himself can only vaguely see the barest hint of a shadow in the gloom.

"That's the one?" Stark asks. The Unsullied, Egros, nods, and Stark works his jaw carefully, his Tully blue eyes fixed on the cage. After a moment, Stark nods, and says, voice a little rougher, "Unlock the cage, and open the door."

Egros hesitates, glancing at Daenerys. Stark's gaze follows him, and Tyrion can see the challenge in his eyes as he regards The Dragon Queen. She folds her hands together before her, and in a perfectly even voice, tells The Unsullied Captain, "Do as Lord Stark asks. Open the door."

Egros nods, and after a moment, another Unsullied steps forward and unlocks the door, swinging it open. Immediately, newer, deeper, growls fill the kennel, silencing the other dogs into submission. But Robb Stark doesn't look even a shade of nervous as he steps forward, closer to the open door and the shadow that Tyrion can now properly see shifting back there. He crouches down on one knee and reaches his hand out, palm flat, and in a coaxing, gentle voice says, "Grey Wind. Here, boy."

There's a sound like a sniff and the growling abates for a moment. Again, Stark says, wiggling his fingers a bit, "Here, boy." Something slinks forward out of the shadows, and Tyrion hears Daenerys gasp quietly beside him as the shadow finally comes forward into the light, revealing a great beast. The wolf is thin and lithe in a way that makes Tyrion think it's been underfed, but it's as large as ever and seems largely intact save for a few scratches and a tear in its ear. Stark is smiling like summer has come early. "Grey Wind."

The wolf stares at its boy for a moment, sniffing hesitantly at his outstretched hand. Stark does not move to pet the beast, simply stares in awe at the thing, looking nothing like the cold and furious Lord he'd been only a few minutes prior. The wolf pulls away from the hand, and for a moment, Tyrion thinks it will do nothing and just continues to simply stare at Robb Stark until he leaves, but then it rushes forward.

Tyrion hears himself and many others shout in alarm, but Stark's laughter is rising above it all. Then he looks at the scene properly and feels his and his Queen's worries of the most important find from today being killed by a wayward dog be finally laid to rest. The wolf is nuzzling his boy, pressing close to him from every side, barking madly as Stark laughs loudly, burying his hands in the grey fur, his blue eyes shining with what might just be tears.

Tyrion exchanges a look with Daenerys, and sees a smile on her face, ever so slightly. It is a certainly a heartwarming sight, but Tyrion is not only sure that a Stark is the only person for miles who could be laughing as a Direwolf the size of a horse tries to dance around them but that a Targaryen is the only one who could not be even remotely phased by the sight, with them already being used to their own oversized beasts of legends.

The wolf barks again, and Stark makes a face. "Oh, I know," he says, ruffling the wolf's fur with an over-exaggerated look of pity. The wolf licks the side of his face, and Robb Stark, King of the North by some accounts, and most certainly Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North in most others, laughs like a little boy, doing his best to push his wolf away as he keeps trying to smother him with wolf kisses. Tyrion feels some sympathy for the poor man as he tries, and fails, to get to his feet against the onslaught of his very excited wolf.

Finally, after much resistance from the beast, Robb Stark gets to his feet, and he certainly looks like a king when presented like that. He may not be wearing a crown, may be in dark, muddy clothes, may have some slightly too long hair, but with a wolf-like that at his feet, he looks, at the very least, lordly and as if he's been pulled from some legend. The wolf is looking at everyone who dares step near his boy with a dangerous look in its yellow eyes, and Tyrion feels like they haven't really accomplished much, on their end.

Because they weren't really thinking, were they–giving someone who has already been resistant to authority a three hundred-pound wolf who could easily kill anyone in this very room with little resistance? Tyrion feels Daenerys tense beside him as if realising the same thing, but Robb Stark doesn't look all that homicidal anymore, more just contemplative, his hands buried in the wolf's fur, his eyes holding a troubled light in them.

He looks at the men around him and steps back. His voice is raw and sad and resigned as he raises his hands and says, "He'll go with you to the ship. He'll need food. Meat." Stepping back further, Tyrion sees his eyes fill with regret as his wolf is slowly shepherded away by some almost hesitant Unsullied without even a complaint. Which is…odd. Tyrion frowns, watching the look of concentration on Stark's face with a sort of apprehension. Skinchanger.

He meets Daenerys's eyes, and Tyrion can see a look in his eyes, a look like he is gearing up for a fight. At least he got the wolf out of the equation, first, He thinks grimly as Stark shakes his shoulders out, hands at his side and eyes full of apprehension and simmering malice. His wolf had distracted him, but not enough to make him forget her words, forget her ultimatum, and certainly not enough to forget the sight of Theon Greyjoy before him. He tilts his chin up, and there he is, at last. The Lord of Winterfell, the Young Wolf.

"I won't take your Milk of the Poppy," he says, voice deceptively even. But the threat is there, and his eyes flick to Grey Worm as he draws nearer, sensing what everyone else has. Lowering his head slightly so his eyes appear more shadowed, Robb Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Wolf of Winterfell, the only surviving King of The War of The Five Kings, continues, "So if that means bondage and a lonely ride, so be it. But it is up to you how your actions look to others. After all," he smiles, a sharp, wolfish thing, "You're the one insisting I'm not your prisoner."

Daenerys nods in concession, and in the voice of a Queen, says, "Grey Worm, escort Lord Stark to a ship, away from his bannermen. Find him a room and keep him and his wolf in it." She turns to go without a word, but pauses, and stays where she is, beside him. He was already staying behind to watch what comes next, needing to see what The Young Wolf will do now. Grey Worm steps forward, and for a moment, they regard each other, stranger to stranger, soldier to soldier, man to man, commander to commander.

And then Grey Worm is grabbing Robb Stark, aided by one of his men at his side. Together, they rebind Stark's hands and drag him out as he gives them a cursory but seemingly half-hearted struggle. Or at least that's how it seems at first, but Tyrion sees Stark glance back at him over his shoulder, and sees that same boiling anger is coming back into his eyes, and starts silently willing Grey Worm and his Unsullied to move faster, before he starts trying to fight in earnest and it gets messy.

And once he is gone, and only then, Daenerys swears under her breath. Tyrion looks at her in utter alarm, watching as she massages what must be the beginnings of a headache. She laughs incredulously, "And to think, for all your warnings, I was unprepared for him! You call him cold, and it was as if I was speaking to Winter itself! You say he will want Greyjoy dead, and he fights against multiple Unsullied, just to try and murder the man. He didn't even hold a weapon and he almost did what he wanted!" Another incredulous laugh escapes her. "And that wolf!"

"Oh, yes," Tyrion finds himself agreeing tiredly, rubbing at the beginning of his own headache. "The Wolf."

—

Stark looks to be particularly stuck between being dreadfully bored and utterly incensed when Tyrion comes to visit him at last, with The Iron Fleet being safe not only in Dornish territory but also parked in Sunspear as they are. They'd spied Euron Greyjoy on their tails as they left The Westerlands, despite their efforts to disguise who the ships belonged to, but a layover in Black Crown for a night or two had seen the Kraken's Eye gone and the sailors a little less terrified of impending doom.

Tyrion is still not certain that Greyjoy is not hoping to ambush them in the Stormlands, but The Martells had promised a few more ships for them, and Yara Greyjoy does know that her first priority is getting Stark back to Dragonstone, not to save her fleet or anything like that. She'd chafed at the order when Daenerys had given it back in Casterly Rock, but seemed to resign herself to it all the same.

"What do you want?" Stark says to him sharply from where he is sitting on the floor at the foot of his bed as he comes in, his arms crossed over his chest and his wolf resting his head in his lap. They'd taken the Maester of The Rock with them, swearing him to secrecy about who they had with them amongst The Lords of The Westerlands who had pledged to Daenerys, giving her some more ships, and he'd tended to Stark with no complaint. He looks no longer as haggard, having shaved and shorn his hair, but he looks pale, and he looks tired. But there is still bitterness in his eyes when he looks at Tyrion, so he's not that worried about his health.

"What, can we not simply chat?" Tyrion says, coming to stand in front of Stark. They'd also made sure to get him out of the clothes he was wearing, and while Tyrion cannot say for certain that he was in the same clothes he was in when he last saw him, they'd been poor and uncomfortable anyway. He looks much better in a grey shirt, with its sleeves folded back, and some clean pants, which he's rolled up his legs. The boy gives him a vicious look, and he raises his hands in surrender.

"Why are you here?" He asks again, sounding even more tired than before, his eyes tilting away, allowing Tyrion to see the dark circles under them. Tyrion glances at the bed and sees that it does indeed look slept in, but he supposes any man would struggle to sleep in a lush bed after nearly three years in different cells. Stark pulls at his collar, as if hot.

"Hot?" Tyrion asks him, and Stark glares again. Tyrion feels himself laugh slightly, folding his hand behind his back as he says, "Well, I suppose even a Dornish Winter is warmer than a Northern Summer. Your wolf alright?"

"He's growing in his winter coat, so no, he's not," Stark says sharply, his fingers curling in the wolf's fur when it makes a huffing noise. "It's fucking hot, both of us are miserable, I have not seen outside of this room in two weeks, and before then, all I had been seeing was the same three walls, and sometimes other men, when The Castellan of Casterly Rock got it in his mind to make sure I didn't go mad from isolation. Gods above, does Dorne never get cold?"

"At night. In the desert," Tyrion tells him, and while he wants to tell Stark that it's actually not that hot, (in fact, it's a rather cool day by Dornish standards) he's pretty sure that will result in something being thrown at him and curses that would make any lady blush being said. Stark rolls his eyes at the comment, but makes no move to throw things at him, as he'd apparently done when one of the Unsullied had tried to bring him to the Maester a few days past, on the man's request for a check-up.

Which leads him to the real reason for his visit. "But I am not actually here to discuss the weather. I'm here because you have been supremely difficult, Lord Stark, and I would hate to tell The Queen why one of her Unsullied was made food for a wolf." The boy looks away with a glare that reminds Tyrion of the looks his little sister would sometimes give to people when their backs were turned. "Look, I understand that you are…cooped up in here, you and your wolf. I understand that you trust no one here, a good instinct to have."

"If the next word out of your mouth is but, I will make a repeat of the scene from earlier," Stark growls.

"Yes, I know what you Stark men say about anything that comes before that word. Your Uncle did his due diligence in informing me of it when I travelled to The Wall with him and Jon," He says, and Stark gives him an odd and dangerous look at the mention of his half-brother. Tyrion puts a pin in it and continues. "However, The Queen would also prefer it if you didn't die from something before she can get you home, or before we have any chance of discussing what happens next. So, please, I ask you to not try and fight every man who comes into this room, especially those sent by a Maester who is simply trying to ensure your health. No one is here to harm you, Lord Stark."

"Lord Stark," The boy repeats under his breath with a scoff. His eyes turn back to Tyrion, and although he has never seen a truly angry Stark before, he thinks he can see something like that rising to the surface. He scoffs again, louder and more internationally. "The Queen? Finally turned your cloak, have you, Lannister? Left the red and gold for red and black? And now you expect me to do the same. Certainly, that will be your Queen's first request of me: a bent knee and the whole of my armies for her war. But it will be no request. It'll be a demand, cleverly done up as something else, with my head the price should I dare to say no."

"She is actively hoping to avoid that. She understands what has led The North to where it is, and why you made the choices you did, and she sympathises. But she hopes to rule The Seven Kingdoms, and she can't quite do that if a third of Westeros is following a different King. Our Queen–"

"She is not my Queen," he cuts Tyrion off, and that is certainly no boy who looks at him now. He's not even on his feet–he's sat on the floor with a sleeping wolf in his lap, looking too warm and entirely uncomfortable with his position in clothes that are not his own, but even like that, he looks vicious. Tyrion clearly recalls how he looked, standing in the kennels of Casterly Rock, a wolf at his feet. Slowly, Stark pushes his wolf off of him, heedless of how it whines in protest, and gets to his feet, going to stare out the small window in the room in angry silence.

"My father never spoke of his father, nor his sister and brother. He would weep on the days they died, weep in his silent misery, praying in the Godswood and at the base of their statues. Imagine being a boy, and seeing your father, a man you considered unshakable and unbreakable, bent over with a grief that he could never escape so long as he was the Lord for the first time. Imagine the confusion. Imagine realising that your Uncle is at The Wall because it is the one place in the whole world where he can maybe escape the ghosts that haunt him and your father both. Realising your father will never be able to escape them." His lips curl into that same feral smile he'd given Daenerys.

"And imagine being a boy of…oh, I must have been no older than seven, and hearing what happened. Hearing how your aunt was kidnapped and raped by a man the realm just simply adored. Hearing how your uncle, in a flight of foolhardy fury, rode South and demanded his little sister, demanded blood for blood. Hearing how he was imprisoned. Or about how his father–your grandfather–rode South for him too, and how a Mad King burned him alive as his son watched and choked himself to death." He whirls on Tyrion, eyes alight with burning fury and a hatred unlike anything.

"And then, you're three and twenty and that King's daughter stands before you, and her Hand demands you bend the Knee. The Hand who comes from the House that saw to the murder of your mother and your wife and your unborn child. They cut her throat to the bone–did you know that? They butchered us all. And your whore sister's bastard son cleaved my father's head from his shoulders. So tell me, Lannister, why did you ever imagine I would want to bend my knee to her? "

There are tears in his eyes. "I hate you," he snarls, a weak defence to something that Tyrion knows is deeper, greyer than utter hatred. "I hate all of you. You, your Queen, and Theon– " his voice breaks on the words, and he turns back to the window as his shoulders shake. "She parades him before me. Parades what has become of him like none of it matters. I should have his head." Stark's jaw ticks, and he stares at the sea outside his window with an expression like a slighted god.

"I don't ask you to like me, Robb," Tyrion says after a moment, and just like it did when they last spoke in the Cells beneath the Red Keep, the use of his name startles the Young Wolf. He turns his red-rimmed eyes to Tyrion, lips pressed together and body shaking where he stands. "Indeed, how could you like any of us? One message passed to a sister is not enough to wash away blood. Freedom does not bring back those that House Stark has lost. But we are trying to make a new future. A better future, for all The Seven Kingdoms."

"A new future?" Stark repeats with an incredulous laugh. "A new future? Where she is on the throne, Lord of all, and I am her vassal pet in The North, thankless and forgotten? And she will no don't want my armies for her war. Why should I give them to her? Why should one more Northman die in a Southern War they have no part in? For a Queen from a despised and reviled House? The House my father helped break in two? "

"Cersei sits upon the Throne," Tyrion reminds him. "She will turn her eyes North as soon as she has dealt with Daenerys, if she does, that is. Your House, your family, your people, will be in danger so long as they are in her sights."

"This Winter will be the longest seen in centuries," Stark says, his mouth twisting again into a wolf-like smile. "And Cersei is no Tywin Lannister with teats, no matter how much she styles herself as that. And even if she is, am I not the man who can say he beat Tywin Lannister so much and so completely he turned to treachery to get the job done?" His grin widens. "So, I wish her good fortune against the snows that can bury her armies alive, against the cold only The North has ever known. She will not have The North, not in Winter, not ever. Neither will your Queen with no throne."

"She has three dragons–"

"Oh, so it is Fire and Blood, then?" He says with an utterly unsettling grin. "The North Remembers, Lannister. Tell your Queen that if she ever wants The North to truly bend to her, if she has any hope of a bent knee, she would do well to remember what her House has already done, and how every action of Fire and Blood will look to The North. We do not forgive and we do not forget. She is a stranger to us. She may be a good woman, this Breaker of Chains, but we remember The Mad King. Better than most." His mouth curls into a sneer. "And remind her that I have every right to kill Theon Greyjoy."

"I do not deny what he did to you, Robb," Tyrion says carefully, "And yet, your brothers live, do they not? Reports out of Winterfell suggest that young Rickon is with your sister and brother, as well as his wolf. I cannot confirm them, no, but he lives. And did you not see what has become of the man? Certainly, you can agree that he is not the man you once knew?"

"I don't care!" Stark nearly screams. "I don't fucking care! He bent his knee, and he betrayed me. He called me brother and then turned right around and took my home from me. I…I know that his sister is vassal to Your Queen, and does not want her brother dead, most likely. But at the very least, I have the right to look that…that man in the eye and ask him why. Many will say blood for blood, but I don't care about that, not chiefly. I want to know why. I want to know how he could call me brother one day and then betray me the next. Perhaps I cannot have his head because of the politics of this Southern game I am being forced to play, but I have every fucking right to know why."

"You do," Tyrion agrees, voice still very careful. He'd already slipped once when he'd called Daenerys our queen and when mentioning The Dragons and he does not want to incense the already seething wolf before him any more than necessary. "And I cannot say what will come of your oaths and his betrayal. I will speak to Danerys and Yara both upon our return to Dragonstone, that I swear." He sighs. "But I will need your word that you will attack no one else."

Stark looks at him with those sharp eyes of his. He certainly has his mother's temper, Tyrion thinks wryly, remembering how swiftly and cleanly she'd caught him in the Crossroads Inn. He always has, even when he was a boy king. But he is no boy, not anymore. He has more right to call himself King than many do. Perhaps more than even Daenerys has to call herself Queen. Treasonous thoughts indeed, thoughts that he will never speak aloud. He likes his head and skin intact, thank you very much.

Finally, the boy deflates, and in the bitterest of tones says, "Fine. And tell your Queen what I told you, too. Tell her how little faith is left in The South, tell her that I have no intention of sending my men to die for her war, not now. Winter is Coming, in fact, Winter is Here, or so I've heard. The North cannot bleed in the South, not while we try and survive our own lands. Many will die, either way." His eyes turn away. "Maybe she will find a way to get my knee to bend, though I find it unlikely. But it is no matter. I am sure in my conviction. The North will not die for or in The South ever again, not while I am King and Lord."

"I called you boy, once, Stark," Tyrion says, and the eyes that turn to him are the eyes of a King, the eyes of a man who seems so much older than three and twenty. Stark tilts his head in slight acknowledgement. "And you were called the Young Wolf. But perhaps I was wrong in that. You have worn the crown well."

"You were wrong," Stark agrees, smiling like a wolf, like a man with all his cards on the table and nothing left to lose. "I am no boy, not anymore. I am the King in the North. You would do well to remember that, Hand of The Queen."

—

Euron Greyjoy does find them, unfortunately.

But Tyrion thinks, as he watches his small strike force turn, he must have not been expecting them to expect him. He is one hell of a sailor, Tyrion will give him that, especially as he glances at the sunken remains of some ten ships, but he'd lost the advantage of surprise when some of the Martell ships at the very front had spied him through the haze, and thus raised the alarm. And so, now they will live another day. Oh, sweet joys.

But they're only some two days from Dragonstone, now, and according to the Greyjoys, their uncle is unlikely to strike again so soon. Yara may have called him an arrogant cunt, but she'd also admitted through clenched teeth he was no fool and would wait until he could once more have the element of surprise to attack them. So, Tyrion can at least sleep a little easier knowing that it is very unlikely that Euron will get his hands on The Young Wolf.

However, there are plenty of other things for him to lose sleep over, and when they finally arrive at Dragonstone two days later, it only gets worse. Daenerys had wanted him to travel to The Rock with the Unsullied for a good reason, he knows. As he is a Lannister and the army he arrived with is not one of Westeros, she'd needed him there when The Rock was taken, and to have him send letters to the Lords of the Westerlands to inform them of the new possessors of The Rock.

All the same, it is a little infuriating to know he's out of the loop, even before he steps off the boat and sees her stormy look. Theon Greyjoy scampers away after a bow to her, needing to be off the beach before The Northern Lords and Robb Stark are hauled off the ships, willingly or not, by the Unsullied. But he, Yara, and Missandei draw near to her themselves, and he feels his heart strain when she glances at the ships.

"Firstly, Jorah Mormont has written," she says, a hint of a smile on her face, at least. "He has found a cure, and he will be on Dragonstone in the week."

"Good," Tyrion thinks, truly meaning it. There is no one who has known their Queen half as well as the Mormont Knight, and it will be good for her, Tyrion thinks, to have someone like that back at her side. He knows that while she listens to his and the rest of her council's advice, they are not her friends. Grey Worm, Missandei, and Jorah Mormont are the only ones who can say so.

"But we have word from your sister," she says, and Tyrion braces for impact as she pulls something out of her pocket, fiddling with it as she continues. "I'll let you read her proclamation in full now, and give you her other letter directly to me later, but she knows we have The Rock, knows we have Stark, and knows I am coming for her throne. She's called for the heads of everyone here, multiple of the Northern Lords, and the Starks in Winterfell. She's promising Lordship." Tyrion takes the offered note.

By order of Cersei of the House Lannister, First of her Name, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, any man found to be conspiring with the following names will be sentenced to death for treason and sedition. They are all traitors to the realm, and should be brought to King's Landing, dead or alive. Any man who delivers one of these men will be rewarded.

He reads the names, stomach sinking with each name he reads, a list of over twenty names, until he feels like he almost has no stomach now, with how low it is.

Daenerys Targaryen. Tyrion Lannister. Yara Greyjoy. Theon Greyjoy. Varys the Spider. Olenna Tyrell. Willas Tyrell. Garlan Tyrell. Doran Martell. Arianne Martell. Ellaria Sand. Robb Stark. Jon Snow. Sansa Stark. Rickon Stark. Wyman Manderly. Hother Umber. Alys Karstark. Robert Glover. Yohn Royce. Robin Arryn. Petyr…Baelish?!

Oh, that conniving son of a bitch, Tyrion thinks at first, barking out a short laugh of surprise. He hands it back to Daenerys after reading the additional note under it, which says, Along with any other chief advisors to Daenerys Targaryen, Robb Stark, Sansa Stark, and Jon Snow. "So Petyr Baelish is with the North, now, is he?"

"Varys spoke in length about him, but he is not my chief concern, not now," Daenerys says, her voice dark. She begins to walk, continuing as they follow in rapt attention. "There's more to it. Cersei's army sacked Highgarden. Olenna was here, thankfully, and we have word from those still loyal to House Tyrell that Willas and Garlan escaped the sack and are headed South. Jorah, too, seems to have escaped the fighting in the nick of time. Doran has dispatched riders to find the Tyrells and bring them to safety, especially since Horn Hill appears to have turned their cloaks. Although it might be that Lord Randyll Tarly believed the Tyrells to be dead, so I cannot say for sure where his loyalties lie."

"So we hold some of the Westerlands, some of the Reach, and Dorne," he surmises, and she nods. "What of the Stormlands?"

At that, he sees a glimmer of some relief. "Some have bent to me, and others have politely chosen to abstain from the fight, due to having no heirs in line, or very few men left to their names. Stannis Baratheon did not leave his lands well, I might just say. So, we did gain some, thankfully. Another 3,000 men, but that doesn't cover what we lost from the Reach. We need The North." She looks at him expectantly.

"Stark didn't seem against negotiation," he begins, carefully and gently, knowing that she will not like the man's reply. "But he was firm in that he would not bolster our army with his men, not while Winter sits over this land and his people. In fact, he said that 'The North will not die for or in The South ever again, not while I am King and Lord.' And then there is the matter of Theon…" He looks at Yara as Daenerys's jaw clenches. Thankfully, though, she doesn't say anything.

"I will not let him have my brother's head," she says fiercely. "Theon has paid for what he did. Paid the Iron Price. Go tell Robb Stark that. He will not have Theon's head, not while I live."

I have become the mediator between two very stubborn Queens and a King who is even more stubborn than the both of them combined, he thinks, despaired. "Stark is angry, Your Grace, as he has every right to be. You love your brother, and I understand that, but Stark was betrayed. However, in speaking to him, he seemed chiefly concerned with asking your brother why he did what he did. Blood was not his sole goal. He is just as wounded by confusion as he is wounded by what Theon did to him and within Winterfell. And he has made it very clear that he is no fan of anyone here. Theon least of all. Repeatedly." Indeed, in every conversation he's held with the man, he'd made it explicitly clear that he didn't like anyone he was surrounded by.

Daenerys sighs noisily, clearly annoyed. The rest of the walk up into the Keep and to The Chamber of The Painted Table is held in silence so tense it makes him itch. When they get there, Olenna Tyrell and Doran Martell are both at the table, pouring over something near Dorne, and Theon Greyjoy is sitting awkwardly near The Iron Islands. They all stand–or, moreso Olenna and Theon stand while Doran nods–as Daenerys comes in, going immediately to a seat near Dragonstone. Tyrion stands there too, beside her as he always is.

"The mission to Casterly Rock was a success," he begins when she motions him to. "We have retrieved Robb Stark, along with The Northern Lords that were held prisoner there. Most are in good health, although a few are more tenuous, given their long stays in the cells and other injuries, likely from their capture at or immediately following The Red Wedding. Stark and his men are being brought up and being settled in rooms. We also managed to get about 2,000 men from a few lords of The Westerlands, who have decried Cersei. Stories of her madness are spreading. And we have some of our Unsullied in Lannisport, keeping the Lannisters of Lannisport in check."

"I presume they have not declared for Our Queen, though," Doran says, drumming his fingers against the armrest of his chair, eyes on where Lannisport lies, now with a replica Unsullied helmet sitting upon it.

"Indeed," Tyrion agrees. "But they are likely to make the choice to abstain from both sides, which will be a win for us because it will be a blow to Cersei. She has lost the city and the seat of her House in less than a week. Her victories in The Reach are troubling, yes, but this victory will be far worse for her. She is ruling through fear and through an illusion of total power. An illusion that is beginning to fade. Now she has only fear to her name."

"I plan to attack The Lannister army in a few days time," Daenerys continues, and this is news to Tyrion. His brows raise, but he lets her continue. "They are holding Highgarden, and will soon turn to Old Town as well, once they get more of their army down there. The Hightowers have pledged their loyalty to me, thankfully, but I do not intend to let Old Town be besieged by The Lannisters. The Dothraki will ride. The Dothraki and my dragons."

Tyrion raises his chin, looking at her nervously. But she sends him a soothing look. "I do not intend to turn them against civilians in the city. In fact, The Dothraki will not let them reach the city, if I have any say in it. We will meet them on an open field, and once the battle is won, I will offer the black or bent knees to any man who survives. Those who do not will die."

"But not through fire," Tyrion says sharply, and she looks at him, surprised. "You have The North to contend with, now, Your Grace. The burning of any man at your hands will chafe them raw, and any man who takes the black will go through them. And Stark is already surrounded by men he does not trust–do not give him further reason to distrust you. You told me to tell him that you were making a newer and better world. Burning rebelling Lords alive will not look like a new world to him. It will look like the world of the King his father overthrew."

She furrows her brow at him, as if seeing him differently for a moment. Her lips purse. But then, Olenna Tyrell speaks. "You are a Dragon, Your Grace. It is not such a bad thing to be one when it is needed. Fire and Blood works well on a field, but not in the game you are playing. Your hand is right–burning men will not win you sympathy. You are trying to not be Cersei." She raises a brow at their Queen.

"Speaking of The North," Doran adds in, looking at Tyrion. "What of Lord Stark?"

"He is not…opposed to conversations with our Queen," Tyrion begins, finally pouring himself a drink as a servant brings in a tray of wine. "But he seems very far from willing to bend the knee, and has flat out refused to commit men to our cause, given Winter's arrival. And he is as stubborn as I remember, but certainly acts like the King he is said to be. He will be a hard nut to crack."

"He also tried to murder my brother," Yara adds flatly. Both Doran and Olenna's brows raise. All eyes turn to Theon, sitting quietly beside Yara. Still noticeably quiet, the man gets to his feet, and nods at Daenerys, before leaving without a word, leaving a surprised sister in his wake, but not a single word.

Tyrion clears his throat, feeling awkward. "Indeed. Theon Greyjoy is an issue that we will need to resolve soon, but not immediately. For now, we should make sure that Robb Stark and his men are comfortable and able to recover from their captivity. If you would let me, Your Grace, I will write to Winterfell with news, and allow Stark to send his own letters with ours, so that he can confirm our word. I will also ask Jon Snow about why he needs The Dragonglass, if he has not yet replied."

She shakes her head. "Lord Snow has not returned our letter." She circles around to Winterfell, running her fingers over the lettering. "Varys's birds say that Winterfell seems to be alight and that Lord Snow and Sansa Stark seem agitated by some unknown news. Additionally, it would appear that not only has another one of their siblings, Brandon, I believe, and his wolf returned, but that…" she pauses as if trying to remember.

"But that…I believe he called them Crannogmen of House Reed came to Winterfell. At any rate, Lord Reed was apparently in a private conversation with Lord Snow, Lady Stark, and Brandon for many long hours, although Varys admits he does not know what was discussed between the four of them. But we know that another Stark is in Winterfell. I would like it if Lord Stark is informed of that." Tyrion nods in agreement, thankful he can give the man some good news.

"Along with Petyr Baelish," Olenna adds with a snort. "Conniving little shit, that one. Don't know what a fool like him thinks he's doing in Winterfell, but he will certainly be one to keep an eye on."

"I'm sure Varys is already doing just that," Tyrion says. Daenerys nods, and he's grateful for the spider in an odd sense of the word. He doesn't expect the man to be able to hold the comings and goings of Winterfell in hand quite as thoroughly as he seemed to always hold The Red Keep, but his birds and his whispers will be no small help, should things turn awry. They just need to make sure Robb Stark doesn't learn just how much he's been spying on his family, in his castle, not with how poorly he's been taking much of what they've discussed thus far.

"So," he says, voice even and his eyes roving over the map before him. "Daenerys will engage the Lannister army outside Old Town, to keep a hold on the Reach. Willas and Garlan Tyrell are, hopefully, going to be intercepted by Dornishmen, brought to Sunspear, and then here, I'd guess?" Olenna nods, although some of her normal sharpness seems to go dull at the mention of her two surviving grandchildren. "And we are about to tell The Wolves of Winterfell that their brother not only lives, but we have him. How soon will we allow him to go home?"

Daenerys has no reply to that, and Tyrion is unsurprised but nervous by the reaction. Stark cannot be a prisoner, but they need him for answers, need him for hopes of peace and civility, and need him if they have any hope of forging a pact with The North that everyone likes. But how they are to do that without making him or The North feel like he is a prisoner to a new Queen, Tyrion doesn't know. And on top of all of that, he and his men are unlikely to rest until they have what they want of Theon Greyjoy.

"There's one more thing," she says. "News that Varys shared with me just this morning, news that I have shared with none of you." They all straighten in interest, and she taps the map, right at The Twins. "House Frey is gone. All of them–the men, at least. Dead by a mysterious assassin, bearing only two messages: Winter came for House Frey, and The North Remembers. He knows little of what is occurring there now, given everything, but he's certain that Walder Frey is absolutely dead and The Twins are in shambles."

The room is silent for a very long moment. "Those are Northern adages," he says at last, and she nods. "Whoever did it was a Northman, or their loyalties lie in the North. Any description?"

"No," Daenerys says. "None at all. But there is little we can do now, not until Varys has heard more whispers."

Tyrion purses his lips and nods. "Alright. I'll ask Varys when I see him if he has more, but for now, I will speak to Robb Stark, inform him of Brandon Stark's return, and that he will be allowed to write to his sister and brothers in Winterfell. Your Grace," he nods, and leaves Daenerys and her lords to it, feeling all sorts of troubled as he walks through Dragonstone. Once home of Stannis Baratheon. Another one of the Five Kings. A man who he fought on the Blackwater. Dead outside Winterfell. And now, Tyrion is going to talk to the only King who lived, the one his father used treachery to get a hold of. And the catspaws of that day are now all dead. What a strange world he lives in now.

—

Stark looks far from pleased to see Tyrion, just like every other time, and this time he doesn't even say anything to greet him. At least he's not on the floor with his wolf. Rather, he is sat at the desk, leaning back slightly, his boots kicked up on the desk in a display that he is pretty sure would have his late mother slapping him upside the head, his arms crossed and his eyes on the window and the sight of the dragons as they sweep through the air outside. His wolf is on the bed, eating some food that Tyrion had made sure was prepared prior to their arrival.

"I don't recall when I first heard whispers of Dragons in Essos," The man begins, eyes fixed on the sight. "After I was crowned, certainly, and absolutely before the massacre. I think it was some passing rumour that passed by my table, probably from The Greatjon, or maybe even my wife. I didn't give any of it much thought, of course. I had my own war to fight. But now, looking at them, I can understand how Aegon and his sisters took The Seven Kingdoms. Why Torrehn bent the knee."

"Inspiring any thoughts in you, perhaps?" Tyrion asks, unable to help himself.

Stark, to his credit, just smiles slightly at that, but it's more a twitch of the lips than anything else, and still, he doesn't look at Tyrion. But at least he does not seem bound to fall into a witless rage or throttle Tyrion. Not yet at least, and it is his job to make sure that doesn't ever happen. "They are magnificent beasts, no doubt. I hardly believed them to be real, and then I saw them. They love their mother."

"As all loyal children do," Stark says, voice souring. His eyes drag at last to him, the eyes his mother gave him, and while Tyrion can see traces of Ned Stark in him, he's all his mother at first glance. The mother who died right before him. "You're not here to talk about mothers, nor about dragons, I suspect. What do you want, this time?"

"Blunt as ever," Tyrion says with a smile. A servant comes in not a moment later, nervously staring at the wolf and the man at the desk, both of whom watch her as well. She quickly sets down the drinks Tyrion had requested, and he pours them both a drink, although Stark sets his down almost immediately. Which isn't surprising, given all Tyrion has ever heard of his father and his Northern sensibilities around drinking, at least in times where words prevail. He himself takes a long sip of the wine. "But seriously, Stark, can we not have a simple conversation?"

Stark gives him a look. Tyrion is truly blown away by just how much the boy looks like his mother. But still, he sets his own drink down and says, "We are sending word to Winterfell about your release from Cersei's hands. If you have anything to add, we are prepared to send letters with ours to your sister and brothers in Winterfell."

"Letters that you will no doubt read before letting them be sent?" Stark says with a frown.

"Yes, but that is just the way of things, you understand." Stark shrugs, and Tyrion continues on with something he thinks that will soften the cold wolf before him, just a little. "Though–Brothers, I say, because apparently, your brother Bran has returned to Winterfell. That, and your younger brother Rickon is with them as well. Jon, Sansa, Bran, and Rickon, along with their wolves, are in Winterfell."

Varys had found Tyrion, before he found Stark, and told him from his own mouth what he heard. The news that four of the six Starks, and each of their wolves as well, are now in Winterfell is no small news. And with Robb Stark and Grey Wind before him, that means that the only Stark unaccounted for is the same one that's been unaccounted for since the start of this mess, the other girl, Arya. She and her wolf both, but something tells Tyrion that if she is to resurface, it will be soon. And there are the whispers from The Twins, as well, something nagging at the back of his mind…

But in this moment, Stark freezes, and Tyrion can see the breath leave him in a great rush. He removes his feet from the desk and turns to look at Tyrion, really look at him. There is an awful look in his eyes, like he's barely daring to hope or believe in the words, just so he doesn't find his heart broken if he's being lied to. His hands are shaking, and he curls them into fists, shaking his head, mouth hanging open. He shakes his head again and leans back, running a shaking hand through his hair.

"You…" he begins, voice strangled. He clears it once, then twice, shaking his head over and over again like he's trying to deny it. But Tyrion can see the hope that is slowly winning the war of his emotions as it spreads across his face like a splotch of ink on paper. He glances at Tyrion, then away, then back at him. "How do I know this is real? How do I know this isn't some sort of lie or a trap? How do I know you're not using my brothers against me?"

His other fears go unspoken. Tyrion, after all, is the one man who knows exactly what he would say to someone he loved when all the chips were down, being the one to pass on his words to Sansa, all those years ago. He still remembers how his face had broken as he'd damn near begged Tyrion. Tell her I love her. Tell her I'm sorry I didn't save her. Tell her I wanted to, more than anything. God–tell her I love her. If you tell her anything, tell her that. Tell her it's going to be okay.

And what had Tyrion promised him? I will try and protect her, as best I can, Lord Stark. For you. For your parents. For all you lost. But he hadn't been able to protect her, he couldn't even protect himself. But she escaped, and for that, he is grateful, because he knows that she would have died in that trial, knows that Robb Stark would have probably tried to kill him for it. And remembering how he screamed in Theon Greyjoy's face, remembering how he slammed him into a wall, he's grateful for that. Incredibly grateful.

But Stark knows that Tyrion knows that his weakness is his family and his House. He is the oldest of them all, the one who always had to protect the others, and Tyrion knows that is something he will simply never quite understand, as the youngest son himself. He does not hold the devotion for his sister that the man before him holds for his, and everything between him and Jaime is shades more complicated than the love he's always seemed to have for his four brothers. His words from The Rock to Theon ring in the back of his mind. Am I your brother, now and always?

"I know you don't like me," he says, finally. "And I know why. There is nothing that can undo what has been done to you, nothing to give back what was taken from you. But I like you, or at the very least, I deeply respect you, Robb Stark. And I cared for your sister, and her safety, and did my best to do right by her during the course of our sham marriage. And I respected your mother, the woman who gave up the most valuable prisoner in the war for her daughters, despite all she had done to me."

"I don't remember much of Rickon or Arya, but I remember the crippled little boy who I met in Winterfell and the Bastard who I went North with to his cold exile. And as I told both of them: I have a tender spot in my heart for cripples, bastards, and broken things." He inclines his head at the Winter King before him, a man broken in two by betrayal and treachery of the highest kinds. A tender spot, indeed. Stark is made of something strong, but even the strongest man would be at least hurt by all he's endured.

"You don't like me, you don't trust Daenerys or her advisors, you despise Greyjoy, and you are surrounded by enemies and strangers. You have been allowed to see only a little of your Lords and friends, and you are miles away from home, a home that is full of the people you love," Tyrion continues, voice weighed down by something a little rougher, a little rawer. "I'd dare say you're homesick, Stark. So maybe I'm just trying to give you whatever comfort I can. Maybe for once I am trying to be an honest man to someone who deserves honesty."

He turns away quickly, but Tyrion knows that it is tears he spied in his eyes, his eyes the colour of summer skies, the colour of a river, the colour of The Wall, on some days. "I know you don't want my apologies for all that has happened, as well, so I won't try and sway your heart with unwanted pity and misplaced sorrow that I have no right to. You are a bold man, Robb Stark, and a good one. And a better brother, whose sister loved him, and whose bastard brother adored, and who carries his father's legacy well."

"Why?" Stark says, voice raw. "Why do you tell me of this? What good does it get you to remind me of how much I have lost, to make my heart so bitterly yearn for what I am not allowed to have? Your Queen needs me for negotiations, and though she insists I am not a prisoner, I would love to see what she would do should I call the Manderlys to me and their ships come on the horizon, ready to bear me home. I am still a tool, and you remind me of it with every word you speak. You tell me that my sister and brothers are free while I seem doomed to remain a player in a game I never wanted any part in."

"I want to go home, Lannister!" He says with a half-sobbed-out laugh. "That is all I ever wanted! To bring my father home, to bring my sisters home, to go home. To have my family beside me, to visit Jon at The Wall, to never lose one more person to The South. But I have never gotten what I want, have I? I could not save my father, I could not keep Theon, I could not save the girls, and I could do nothing but watch as the woman who raised me had her throat slit by men we trusted at her brother's wedding. All I have ever been allowed to be is a King, and I did such a great job of that, did I not?"

A bitter laugh comes from him, and Tyrion finds himself unable to do much beyond stare at the man sitting before him, staring at the sea, staring at Dragons, with tears on his cheeks and a smile that holds far more pain than mirth on his mouth. "It's been six years since I last saw Winterfell. Did you know that? I went South for my father, just like my grandfather did for his son, just like my uncle did for his sister, just like my father did, once for revenge and once because his king demanded so. And now I fear that I shall never go North again, just like all of them. That I will die here, that I will never get to have my family back. Starks who go South die. I've learned that well enough."

He inhales shakily. "What did I do to deserve this horror? What god did my House anger so much that they have wrought this upon us all? Why should Cersei sit pretty on that throne, why should your Queen get to call herself my Queen, when all anyone has done to me and my House is take from us? How do I ever repent, how do I make this horror stop? How do I ever convince anyone that I deserve to go home, that my people deserve to make our own decisions, tell anyone that all I want is my mother and my father back? I was a boy, you were right to call me one in Winterfell! A foolish boy of summer."

Tyrion doesn't remember his own mother. But he could see the grief in Cersei and Jaime's eyes whenever they spoke of her, the pain that seemed to exist even in his father. He was a babe when she died. Robb was nearly a man grown when his father was executed, and a King when his mother was taken from him. But you are always a child to your parents, and if there is anything he knows about Robb Stark, it is that there is little he loves more than his family. The family that was ripped from him, time and time again. He'd screamed Sansa's name. He'd been willing to spill his heart for a man of the enemy just to tell her it would be okay, just so he could console his little sister one more time.

"And now you are not," Tyrion says.

"And now I'm not," Robb agrees bitterly. Some ice comes back into his face. "I'm still King in the North, no matter what you or your Queen think or want. Until I bend my knee, if I ever do, I am still King, and my people need me to be that. Winter is Coming. Everyone's been saying for years that it'll be the longest and coldest one Westeros has seen in centuries. The North needs to be one through it." His eyes turn away, and with a softer curl of his mouth and in a distant voice, he says, "There must always be a Stark in Winterfell."

"And now there are four," Tyrion says. The King in the North's eyes flicker back to him. For a moment, Tyrion is staring at a heartbroken mother. For a moment, he's staring at a crippled little boy. For a moment, he's staring at a petrified bride. For a moment, he's staring at this very same man, in chains in a dark cell, heartbroken and furious. And then he is here, in a room of Dragonstone, staring at a man who has been a prisoner for much of his adult life, and who has been fighting the same war for all of it.

"Now there are four," He agrees, exhaling loudly and bowing his head. "My father…well, more the men of House Stark, had a saying, one he passed onto all of us. When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives. He never wanted us to be divided, he never wanted us to quarrel. Sometimes, I think that is why he raised Jon with us. So he would never be alone, so that we would both always have someone in the depths of Winter. Gods above, I miss him. More than anyone."

And Tyrion doesn't doubt it. He only saw the two together once, many years ago, walking in Winterfell, thinking themselves out of sight. But they'd been laughing, he remembers, the sound echoing across the stones of Winterfell. They'd seemed more at peace next to each other in that brief glimpse than any other time he'd ever seen them. "It's a good phrase," he says, softly, taking another sip of his drink.

"She asked much about you, Daenerys. About you, your sister, and your brother. I told her a few things. I told her that if there was anything I knew about Jon and Sansa, it was that they love you more than anything. I told her that you love Sansa too, love her a lot. I told her that the heart of the matter with you Starks is that there is nothing you love more than one another, that there is nothing you would not do for the people you love." He meets Robb's eyes. "Am I wrong?"

"No," Robb admits with a grimace. "You're far from wrong."

He nods and swallows tightly. "There are two other things you should know. Things that have to do with those who betrayed you," he tells the man, and he feels himself tense when Robb turns his eyes onto him and he sees something colder take the place of the openness that had just been there. "One, they say your sister fed Ramsay Bolton, Roose Bolton's bastard, to his dogs. There are other rumours, pertaining to her own Dire Wolf, but I cannot be sure."

Robb furrows his brow in confusion, but whatever question he was about to ask he seems to push aside. "And the other?"

"The Freys are dead."

Robb Stark, once again, freezes, but Tyrion can see the weight of it much more obviously this time. He's barely breathing, his eyes blown wide and his mouth hanging open, his fingers holding the arms of his chair in white-knuckled grips. The wolf perks up from where he sits on the bed, leaping off after a moment to come to stand next to his master, pressing his nose close to him, but Robb seems to barely register his presence, his Tully blue eyes locked on Tyrion as he takes another hearty sip of his wine.

"No one knows who, before you ask, and Varys's information is sparse," Tyrion warns. But the man barely seems to care as he leans back in his chair and begins to breathe heavily, looking on the verge of screaming, crying, or devolving into a panic attack. Or all three. At once. Tyrion hurries to continue before they figure out what it will be. "But they all agree on the assassin's words: The North Remembers, and Winter came for House Frey."

The man barks out a startled and frenzied laugh. But his eyes are hard, and Tyrion can see how he runs through the information, how he deals with it. Gone, Tyrion thinks, is Robb the Northman who wept openly from the weight of all the emotions is gone, and returned is The Young Wolf, Lord Stark, the last King of The War of the Five Kings.

"Good," he says, incredibly viciously. "Whoever it was, whoever did that–they will be heartily rewarded for it. My only regret is that I was not there to see it happen! To see old Walder Frey gurgle and die, to see his sons bleed, and his daughters weep. The daughters, do they live?" Tyrion nods, and he laughs with a long whistle. "Good. Walder would hate that they're all that's left of his miserable life. A bunch of girls who cannot pass on his name. What justice that is!"

"Indeed," Tyrion agrees. "What justice it is. Justice that will be served to many, in the coming months, I suppose." He tilts his eyes towards Stark, and sees the man harden, like he knows that gone is the moment for tears, and now The Hand of the Queen is speaking. Who Tyrion is speaking to, he does not know. The Cold Lord of Winterfell? The feral Young Wolf? Or the self-styled King of the North, a king who may have no crown, but certainly has a castle and a throne waiting for him in Winterfell? More and less than his Queen has. Less than Cersei has.

"You have blood with Cersei," He says. "She stood by while your sister was beaten, stood by while your father died, and has called for the heads of all your family." He pulls the slip of paper that Daenerys had shown him on the walk up and hands it to Stark, who reads it with narrowed eyes, his wolf pressed close to his side, its yellow eyes never leaving Tyrion. He is uncomfortably aware that the wolf is large enough to have him as a meal. "Do you not want revenge?"

"Winter is Coming," Stark says simply, setting the paper down and sitting back in his chair. He reminds him of Daenerys when he does that, two young heirs to ancient Houses who don't need thrones or crowns to look like Kings or Queens. "But Cersei might just cut herself to ribbons before then. Justice will come to those who have wronged me, I believe, and Cersei is not your father. She will not last too long against your Queen. She will be fine without my men." He sneers, his teeth glinting, and for a moment, Tyrion thinks he looks like a wolf who is showing his long teeth.

The King of The North's (Because who else could be sitting before Tyrion? That is no simple Lord before him, that is a King in his own right, a King who knows what he is, and has the backing of his people to prove it) voice darkens as he continues. "I respect your Queen and thank her for my freedom. But I am not her tool, I am not her puppet, and I will not hand my Kingdom over to a stranger who has done very little for me. She will not have my armies. She will not have my crown."

"She is the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and swill get The North, one way or another, Robb–"

"Your Grace," he corrects, standing up and crossing the room to look out the other set of windows, the ones that face North. He stands tall, his arms crossed over his chest. "There are no Seven Kingdoms, Tyrion Lannister. Do neither of you see that? No one controls the whole of Westeros, and the myth of The Seven Kingdoms died with my father. She is not here to take something that is already here. She is recreating something that has been dead for years. I am a King, just as much as she is Queen, just as Torrhen was a King before he bent his knee to The Dragons. I have not bent my knee. I have not betrayed her because I have never known her, never sworn myself to her."

"I have made more oaths than I know. To my people, to my father. But not to your House, not to The Baratheons, and never to a Targaryen. I am a King, and if I am referred to as Lord Stark one more time, I will write a letter to White Harbour, leave because I am no prisoner, and let her burn the North in a fruitless effort to get it behind her."

He turns to him. "You understand?"

"You will be in open rebellion against the rightful Queen, then–"

Again, he is cut off by Stark, this time with a snort. "Daenerys Targaryen can call herself the rightful Queen all she wants, but that does not change two crucial things: she does not have the Iron Throne, and that I am the son of one of the men who broke her father's dynasty. I am my father's son, Lannister, despite how I look. The South knew my father to be a foolishly honourable and noble man, but Eddard Stark was more than that. He killed Arthur Dayne. He was a Wolf of Winterfell, just as I am. And beyond that all, The Starks have been in this world for longer than even Old Valyria was. I come from a dynasty older than hers, a bloodline that has been in Westeros since the Long Night and the end of The Age of Heroes. Since The First Men came to these shores, likely."

Stark's eyes meet him. "You have your Queen. I have myself. I will not let you bully me around, force me into a trap, force me to bend the knee. If she wants to take The North through Fire and Blood, that is her choice. But if she is as hopeful for peace as you say, remind her that I am as much a King as she is Queen, if not more. I am not in Rebellion against her, if anything, I am rebelling against Cersei, who does have a claim to being Queen of the Seven Kingdoms because it is her ass on The Iron Throne."

"Those are dangerous words, Your Grace," Tyrion warns coldly, but he knows better than to not use the title. Stark would have killed Theon Greyjoy with his bare hands, had The Unsullied not intervened. And he has a wolf the size of a horse at his feet, under his control. Skinchanger.

"Do you think because I weep for my family, because my chief desire is to go home and see the people I love, that I do not know that? I am well aware of how dangerous my words are. But you know The North well enough, my Lord Hand. My people do not mince our words, do not disguise our intentions through seven layers of innuendo and half-assed metaphors. If your Queen cannot handle a sharp and bitter truth, perhaps she is no Queen, just a self-righteous woman who wants something she has no way to hold onto."

"Your father defended her, you know? When Robert tried to have her killed, he defended her. That is what Ser Barristan Selmy says. Ned Stark, the man who you say toppled the Targaryens, defending one?"

"Because my father was a good man, and a senseless butchery is wrong. Not that Lannisters know much of that." Stark sneers again at him when Tyrion blanches, having very much walked into that one. "And I am my father's son, indeed. I try to be. But my father is also dead. He made mistakes, mistakes that I made as well, mistakes that I will not make again. Winter is Coming, and the strong are what survive through it. My father and my mother were the strongest people I have ever known. And both of them are dead. I am not."

And it's a blend, now, between the bitter young man who had lost nearly everything and has everything else torn from him, and the cold king with a smile like a wolf and the hatred and memory of a hundred generations. He called himself The King in The North, but Tyrion is willing to bet he's much closer to The Kings of Winter who sired his house than a simple Northern King in temperament and everything that matters. Some myths, he remembers, even suggested that The Kings of Winter were not only born of Winter but that it was in their blood. Robb Stark was born in the last Winter. And now he is King of Winter as the longest one Westeros has seen in Generations comes rolling in.

King and Boy, Man and Myth. "I want to go home," he says, a little softer now, a little more of that weeping man Tyrion had been speaking to only a few minutes before shining through. But now he wonders if that was just a play to think he'd seen the soft underbelly of a wolf, making him blind to the snarling jaws that were coming for his neck. However, that does feel like a distinctly not Northern or very Stark move, so Tyrion cannot be sure. His eyes harden again, and Tyrion realises slowly that it was real. It was quite real. Stark is just good enough to beat it back.

"I want to go home, indeed. But I know that is not in the cards, not now. So I will do what I can from here, court with your Queen, and keep my people safe. I will set the letters to Jon and Sansa outside, by dusk. Come collect them at your own pleasure, I do not care. And read them all you like, for you will find nothing for you within them. But tell your Queen what I said, Tyrion Lannister. Remind her that I am no petty vassal Lord like The Martells and The Tyrells seem to be. I am a Stark of Winterfell. I am The King in the North."

Robb Stark turns his eyes to him, and for the briefest moment, Tyrion sees a flash of something feral, something deep in those blue eyes, the eyes of his mother. A Seven Fearing Southern who married a Northern Lord, who married a Stark, who married a Wolf of Winterfell. Selmy had said it well, had he not? Certainly, he did not bellow like Robert did, but he was just as vicious. His sons and daughters will be no different.

"Good day, My Lord," Stark says, and Tyrion takes the dismissal for what it is, turning without shame and leaving, grateful that, at the very least, Stark seems to have some self-control left in him. But he does not shake the feeling of the man and wolf's eyes on his back as he leaves, the cold shards of ice that they dug into his back, silent in their accusation but no less prominent for it.

And come dusk, the letters are right where Robb Stark had said they would be. Tyrion grabs them, reads the names printed in Stark's sloping handwriting, curved and gentle in a way that feels odd for a King of Winter, but perfect for a beloved older brother to five. Jon. Sansa. No last names, just their first names, and he had seemingly not bothered to seal them. Tyrion cannot help but smile at that, putting the letters into his pocket and setting out to find a spider.

That night, he and Varys do read the letter Stark will send North, sitting around The Painted Table, rain gently pattering outside. But Tyrion only gets so far as Robb telling Sansa I love you more than words could ever convey and him telling Jon that I wanted you by my side, and I'm glad to know you will be, when I come home, before he's handing it back to Varys. "Send it along," he says with a rough voice. "He's not saying anything for us in there."

"No, he is not," Varys agrees, voice smooth, hands interlaced before him. And there they sit, for some time in silent contemplation.

---

notes:

-As some of you might have noticed in the first section, Tyrion keeps calling robb names that suggest ineptitude or youthful ignorance, and this is intentional. One of the only convos we have between the two is in Winterfell, before Tyrion gets taken by Cat, and he calls Robb 'boy' something that Robb (rightfully chafes against). Why? Because Tyrion doesn't quite see Robb as anything more than the boy he met, but as becomes clearer later on, Robb is truly no green boy. And Tyrion is definitely seeing that.

-I am going to say very little on Theon for now, because in the next Robb chapter, I have a much larger comment to make about what's going on there...but he plays out so interestingly

-and with that, each kid has their wolf. this actually might be my favourite reunion of them all, at least when it comes to wolves and their ppl. People to people is up in the air, still.

-both of tyrion and robb's conversations are REALLY important, at least to me. emotionally. Robb is making it clear that he is a king in his own right, and that Dany doesn't just get to say she's a queen-she will have to be a conqueror if she wants Westeros behind her, and until then, until he bends the knee (if he does) he is AS MUCH a King as she.

-That last part, esp...whooo boy. We all talk about Jon's temper, but Robb has one of his own too, and she can't really kill him, can she? All this while also reminding Tyrion of them that he might be young, but he's also the only one of the five kings to truly and decisively and repeatedly win against Tywin Lannister. he is, as I've said before, 'fuck around and find out' personified. that and tyrion really isn't expecting his bite-i mean, the only other starks he's met is Mr moody jon, miss traumatised Sansa, and catelyn, which is a whole other thing. robb being so, for lack of a better word, antagonistic is quite the surprise

-i really hated how euron just decimated the whole of danys fleet like that in the show, like,,,idk? i feel like he should have been at least noticed, and that they should have been taking cautions to disguise themselves, somewhat, and it felt like a cheap way to remove the dornish from the board. but there are skirmishes yet to come with him (and trust, i am not doing whatever it was w him in the final seasons), but I'm shying away from them for now...

-oh wow i wonder what howland reed could possibly be discussing with sansa, jon, and bran behind a closed door what a mystery!

-jorah mormont, for those wondering, has no idea dacey is at dragonstone! poor jorah because he is about to get the verbal beratement of a lifetime! northern women on top forever and always!

next up, bran shakes some things up and jon shows just how he takes things he doesn't want to hear (which is terribly, for those wondering)