Well, it's been quite some time.

Life's been busy these months, and writer's block hit me like a truck. Sorry for the general inactivity, I'll try not to have such a long hiatus again.

Moreover, I wished to thank ThrowHardest for being my beta writer, the man's an absolute legend.

Enjoy the chapter, and let me know what you think in the comments!

Theon

Moat Cailin had been a thorn in Robb's arse.

His father's men had aimed to take the ancient stronghold by surprise at night, fearing its ancient repute—but found it almost entirely unmanned.

Fleeing peasants spoke of swift longboats, of raiders pouring out in hungry droves, seeking plunder and blood. The villages of the Fever River had been put to the sword—menfolk slain, the women taken as salt wives. The Moat's meagre garrison, outnumbered and ill-equipped, stood no chance.

Fittingly, Balon had carved the North in half, trapping Robb's host in the Riverlands while the Ironborn feasted on his homeland.

However, the men that took the Moat were truly raiders at heart, and had no patience or skill at siegecraft. Balon had surely expected his commanders to establish a foothold along Cape Kraken and the Barrowlands, then relieve the exhausted reavers.

Fortunately, Ser Rodrik had served his king well on that front, repelling two invasion attempts from the south. With the mainland secure, Theon had led a relief force north, while Robb rallied the rest of his army to pressure the south.

The Reeds had been kind enough to poison the enemy's water supply. Craven the Greatjon might call them, but their tricks are as deadly as any blade or arrow.

Two weeks of sieging saw the first cracks appear.

Victarion's pride would not allow a retreat to the isles, despite the infighting that had already run rife amongst his men. Theon had goaded him—he was very good at that—and the bait had worked. Mutinous men had been thrown off the Children's Tower, the besieged content for them to be taken by the mire.

When the time came, the castle was taken with barely a fight. The mounds of half-burnt corpses in the yard spoke for themselves.

The last survivors had barricaded themselves inside the Gatehouse Tower, but they had supplies for only a few days. When hunger gnawed too deep, they tried a desperate sally—and were slaughtered to the last.

His uncle had survived the battle.

They had run three pikes through the joints of his plate to cripple him. And then they shattered the bones in his arms and legs, and reduced the hulking mass to a quivering mess, splattered with filth.

The men had peeled his armour off him, to make his humiliation complete. Theon stalked around the now naked man - slow, savoring his triumph. The stronger they were, the harder they fell.

"Get on with it already," Victarion spat from where he lay.

Theon stomped on his gut, and the man writhed in the mud - like a speared fish.

"That would be mercy, Uncle," he said, voice low. "You shall not have it."

Theon's father had never given two shits about him, had sent him off like a dog and replaced him with his bitch of a sister.

But Robb had saved him. The Northern lords - enemies of the Ironborn! - now followed him with nary a question, for his victories in battle.

Robb… you are the brother I chose.

Theon had cast aside his father's House. No longer did he call himself Greyjoy; he had taken upon himself the name of the ancient Iron Kings, Greyiron. All Ironborn claimed descent from the Grey King, but none dared bear his name.

None, till him.

He rolled Victarion over with his boot, pressing the steel toe into the gash on his back… grinding deep into raw flesh. His uncle blubbered through a mouthful of mud.

Theon looked about, seeking - Ah, there he is. His red armour gleamed black in the moonlight. "Ramsay!"

Of all who watched, his grin was the widest. "Salt your knives! We are overdue for some fun!"

Tyrion

King's Landing had been thrown into chaos, but in the end, Tyrion Lannister had emerged triumphant.

The city had been teetering on ruin, thanks to the late Lord Stark's meddling. Seeing the aftermath with his own eyes…

The Watch—nearly wiped out. Half the court fled or slain; the King dared not set foot beyond the Red Keep's walls. Tyrion's men had put the looters to the sword, but they had paid for it in blood. The remnants of the Small Council—desperate.

When Tyrion had declared himself Hand in their father's name, Cersei had screamed for his arrest. Stannis' agent, she called him, sent to deliver the city without a fight—

But the guards had not moved. And as his sister was oft so fond of putting it, power is power—and she had lost the power to command even lowly guardsmen.

Pycelle had filled him in on the rest—the atrocious mishandling of the Black Stags, the diplomatic catastrophe with the Crownlander lords, Renly Baratheon… What had possessed his sister to blunder so spectacularly?

It made Tyrion's skin crawl. Even her precious son had lost faith in her.

The little shit wailed of incompetents and fools and traitors—no doubt a learned trait—and dealt out corporeal punishment at the slightest provocation. For certain, his people feared him, but fear did not fill the granaries.

Finding allies had been easy enough; Harys Swift filled the vacant seat of Master of Laws by his will, and was pliant enough. Pycelle would do as he was told, and Gyles Rosby was too weak to resist. The only Kingsguard left was Boros Blount, and even if he was Cersei's creature—as Tyrion strongly suspected—one brute posed little threat.

So, in the dead of night, he had moved.

The last of Cersei's loyalists had been dragged from their beds, into the black cells. His men now manned keep, the walls, and the city gates.

Joffrey had been confined to his chambers—for his own safety, of course! Tyrion had declared himself Lord Protector, until the city's security was restored.

Seeing his sister cast down had been deeply, profoundly gratifying. Never before has he wielded so much power.

However, his victory felt… hollow, somehow.

The new captain of the Gold Cloaks, Jacelyn Bywater, bowed deeply as he backed out, leaving Tyrion alone in his solar with a cup of Arbor Gold. He took a slow sip, letting the wine soothe his parched throat.

From the balcony Tyrion could espy the lines of red-cloaked men, who escorted wagons of stone and mortar to the gates and the walls—in anticipation of the coming storm.

Stannis' siege was but a fortnight old, and Tyrion had sealed the sewers and hidden tunnels to the Blackwater. The men were on half-rations, and the common-folk plodded along as best they could. He had taken every feasible precaution to protect them from enemies without.

Yet what of enemies within? Varys had vanished with neither trace nor whisper. None knew where he had gone.

That troubled Tyrion deeply, for the eunuch knew the secret ways of this city better than any other. Tyrion had determined to hunt down some of his little birds—for if the man was truly gone, they would be without direction.

By sheer luck, he had found a girl; a poor wretch, young and tongueless. His men had caught her lurking near the tunnels 'neath the kitchens. Pure luck, of course—but luck was oft the difference between life and death.

She couldn't speak, but she was certainly literate enough to write in Common; all of Varys' little birds had to be. Yet all she had for him were fearful rants… What did she fear more than his threats? Retribution? Death? Something worse?

He had learned little enough, in the end. Varys' belongings and quarters yielded nothing—save a single hidden passage to the docks.

Where are you hiding, spider? And more importantly—whose game are you playing?

Tyrion swirled the last of the wine down his throat.

These days, the Game consumed every waking moment of his thoughts—yet, in quiet moments like these, his brother's visage haunted him. Jaime…

What Stark did to him had mangled the man beyond repair. He had stood before his brother's chambers, hand outstretched—but unable to knock. All could see his cowardice, as they could hear Jaime's ramblings and screams…

The best Knight in the known world, now a cripple. His brother, his friend… the only man who cared—

Something shattered.

Tyrion looked about, only to find the goblet in his hand missing; only jagged shards in its place.

His hand was stained with blood. Blood dripped onto the floor.

He slowly uncurled his fingers. His fingers were shaking , his breathing uneven—but the rage from only moments past had dulled into something… leaden.

He trailed blood shattered glass down the tower of the Hand. Courtiers and guards swarmed about, bare irritants in his path down to the bowels of the Red Keep. The Black Cells embraced him; their damp, stifling air thick with the stench of rot and old despair. He dismissed the gaolers—he would not risk prying eyes.

Trust no one.

These dungeons held the scum of the city: murderers, traitors, cutthroats, deviants… King's Landing had no shortage of such. Sprawled among their shit and piss, all they could do was weakly beg for food—and those were the stupid ones.

The clever ones got the message when the guards flogged them half to death.

From one of the cells came a cracked, desperate voice, ragged and dry from thirst. "Please, please… mercy… Brother… please, save me… save me…"

A chill crawled up his spine. Tyrion did not look inside.

Instead he turned left, and down; a short descent to a reinforced door with three keyholes. He slid in the keys he had liberated off the gaolers, and as the gears groaned and turned, he pondered what to say. What to do… to her.

Cersei Lannister looked as queenly as ever, even in her new quarters. Nothing had dimmed the arrogance in her gaze.

"Little Brother," she inclined her head, as if accepting an audience… with some mangy dog, by the twist in her mouth. "Are you just going to stand there, sulking?"

"No." Before he knew it, he was lunging forward, hands reaching for her throat, intent only on silencing her forever.

Tyrion's fingers sank into the soft flesh of Cersei's throat, knocking her off balance, and he squeezed.

"Jaime was handsome, fearless, and without peer. Now he's crippled, disfigured… and it's your fault." His teeth clenched, jaw trembling with barely restrained rage.

Cersei bucked beneath him, wild with panic. He could feel her pulse beneath his thumbs. She thrashed, legs kicking out blindly.

One of her knees slammed into his manhood. Pain flared white-hot, but he barely registered the ache, and he did not loosen his hold.

His world had narrowed to the circle of his hands, and her throat trapped within them. Cersei's nails raked at his face—sharp pain tore down his cheek as she scratched, scratched and scratched…

He tasted blood pouring from his cheeks. Her hands clawed at his wrists now—desperate, but weaker than before. Her lips were pulled back in a silent scream—

There was fear there, he realized with savage satisfaction… genuine terror flickering in his sister's jade-green eyes.

She's afraid of me.

He had seen that look in countless others—but never on Cersei. She had always been the one who made people afraid, who held all within her grasp.

And now here she was, finally at his mercy.

He squeezed harder.