Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Norman

“Years ago, someone once asked me how I came about having my name. ‘Never heard of a name like that!’ this person told me with a sneer. ‘Sounds like someone dense in the head trying to mumble out a real name. Is that how you got that?’.”

Norman shook his head as he went through the debt notes that he’d found in the locked strongbox; honestly, the lock had been so pathetically simple to crack that he was tempted to find out who had made it and mock them for their failure.

“I told this person that I had chosen that name for myself, based on an insult. See, when I first began to work into breaking into the world of trade I was told that I would never be anything more than a minor figure. The trade guilds were established already, run by families who could trace their lineage back hundreds of years, some even to a thousand! Who was I, a boy with no name, to think that with a few copper coins in my pocket that I could hope to match them? I was a… Normal Man.” He paused, lips twitching slightly. “Yes, a childish name to create for one’s self, I admit that now… but it has served me well. My name is known by many: Norman Osborn. The man who can get anything.

“Now, how did I get to this lofty position in such a short time? Well… its because I made sure that everyone understood just how foolish it was to try and cross me. If you didn’t pay me back for what you bought… well, you still ended up paying, just not in the ways you’d like.”

He looked to the strung up merchant that was hanging by his ankles, a puddle of blood still slowly growing under him. His face was a twisted mess of cuts and bruises and swelling, a reddish purple thanks to all the blood rushing to his face. Norman walked up to him and gave him a poke where he’d broken his ribs and not a sound came out.

“I think he’s dead,” he said, mouth twitching once more as he felt his more… maniac… impulses bubbling up to the surface. He looked over at the huddled form of the young woman, a babe pressed to her chest as she trembled. “Your son just inherited his father’s business. Make sure he knows to pay back his debts. If so he will live a long, happy, successful life.” The woman nodded and Norman flashed her a smile before reining himself in, walking out of the shop. It was only when he was several paces away that he heard her begin to scream and once more he found himself smiling.

Clenching his fingers into fists so tightly that his knuckles turned white, Norman focused and adopting once more the stern visage he was known for. Smiling was a risk… not because it showed weakness but rather it could blossom far too quickly into something more savage and depraved. And he needed to be in control today. Couldn’t afford to lose himself.

“Everything is loaded, master,” one of his slaves said as he reached the wagons. “What do you want done with the goods?”

“Take everything but those two crates,” he pointed at two in particular that he’d personally loaded, “back to the warehouses. They will be appraised and their value determined.”

“And those too?”

Norman felt another smirk coming as he got into his coach. “They are his personal belongings. Treasures of his family. Items handed down to him from his father who got them from his father.” He paused. “Sell them to the filthiest, most desperate street urchins you can find for whatever bits of rubbish they can give you.”

The driver gave a flick of the reins and they were off, leaving behind the shattered remains of a dead man’s life. He saw a crowd watching as he left and could feel the heat of their gaze but he didn’t mind… yes, it was nice to be loved but it was just as nice to be feared. Where other men of his station would have been jeered and hissed at for their actions, perhaps needed to fear clods of shit being thrown at them, none would dare do so with Norman Osborn. Little displays like the one there, showing that he could hurt you and destroy everything you had built for yourself, reminded people that while such gestures might feel good in the brief, in long run they did not earn you much. Besides, in this case he knew that within an hour they would be wondering if they should not claim the dead man’s remaining belongings for themselves. While he had only had four slaves, who Norman had seen killed when he first arrived, he did have a wife who was quite beautiful…

Making their way out of the district Norman looked about Volantis. It was an… interesting city. One that had once been quite powerful but had become a faded beauty, like a whore who had once made kings pay their entire treasure rooms for a night with them who were now forced to bite the coppers of the sailors that came to their establishment. It was emptier than it should have been, at least when it came to its size, and there were many places where Norman could see cracks and damage to the buildings that no one had bothered to repair.

The state of Volantis had been part of the reason why Norman had found it the easiest city to get his start in. There were plenty of buildings waiting to be purchased, spots on the wharf up for grabs, and the people desperate for foreigners who knew their ways to come and offer something new. There were five slaves to every freeman in Volantis and while many claimed that was a status symbol that showed their power Norman had learned that many were willing to sell off their slaves to him for far below their true worth; after all, a slave needed to be fed and clothed if they were to be worth anything, and that cost good coin. All of this had let Norman use Volantis to establish his trading empire and now it was the last he was visiting of the Free Cities before he made his way to Westeros.

He heard a roar go up and he twisted his body, craning his neck to see the great Arena of Volantis.

“What do you know of that place?” he asked his driver, one of the few people in his employ in Volantis who wasn’t a slave. Bertrum instead was a former sellsword who Norman always used to travel about the city when he was in port, knowing much about the history of the city and even more of its current politics. He also was a good sounding board for Norman’s ideas, as he knew when to speak and when to keep silent.

“The Arena?” Bertrum confirmed. “It is said it was once a temple of worship for the Valeryans. Old even before the Doom, back when they had a religion beyond themselves. The great dome shattered though and was never repaired because their Faith was in decline at that point.” Norman nodded, spotting as they turned towards the Arena the jagged and broken rock that ran along the top of the Arena. Where much of it was still rather well cared for in the present day the top of the Arena stood out like an infected toe on a soldier’s foot. “It was used for all manner of things after that, changing hands from one powerful family to the next. Plays were performed there 500 years ago when the Yukalos controlled it; they are still a rather artistic family even now. But back then it is said that they used to buy slaves to train as actors. Have you ever heard of the tragic play The Daughters of Ghul?”

“That’s the one where all but the grandmother die at the end?” Norman asked, vaguely remembering having seen it.

“That’s the one. The slaves though weren’t told that there was another scene at the end of the play… they thought the wedding party was the final scene. So they would perform it all, raise their glasses for the toast… and then the wronged bandits would storm in and slaughter them all, right on stage. The old woman playing the grandmother… her screams would be real.”

“Hmmm,” Norman murmured, “seems like a waste of time and effort.”

“As I said they were artistic and there is a reason the family no longer controls the Arena. That is now the Hudone.”

“That doesn’t sound like a Volantis name.”

“It isn’t,” Bertrum said. “They are from Meereen. When they heard that the Dragon Queen had turned her attention towards the Three Sisters they left the city and came here. Many mocked them for it, I’m told, but time has proven them right.”

“Indeed,” Norman muttered darkly.

Daenerys Firestar’s conquest of Slaver’s Bay (Norman refused to call it ‘Dragon’s Bay’ as the proclamations the Targaryen girl had sent out demanded it be known as ) had cost him a lot of business. While Norman had never gotten into the slave market he had held warehouses in Slaver’s Bay and more importantly had controlling interest in trading companies stationed there. Daenerys’ little uprising had seen those endeavors crushed; more annoyingly she hadn’t even realized she was harming him, so focused on her need to ‘free the slaves’.

‘Yes… that will need to be addressed soon enough,’ he thought to himself. ‘But not like these fools who are throwing their money at the Sons of the Harpy.’ He himself had been approached by two foolish men, asking if he wanted to give some of his money to the group that was working to overthrow Daenerys. Norman had merely asked how they planned to do that without angering the thousands of slaves, Dothraki, and turncoats that had found far more success with her than they ever had with the Masters of Meereen. When he’d been met with vague platitudes Norman had politely told them to get out of his sight and to not waste his time with such things until they actually had a plan.

No… Norman had… other ideas on how to punish the Dragon Queen for her actions. Ones that would allow him to not only get his revenge but also make some coin. Because why do one thing when you could do several, after all?

He was pulled from his thoughts as they arrived at the Arena, Norman tossing a few coins to one of the attendants who sent slaves to see to his coach while Bertrum moved to join him in entering the great stone structure. Norman pulled out a small piece of metal that had been etched with his emblem, the leering face of the Essosi Goblin, and was at once shown by a quick moving slave to one of the private viewing boxes that was available to those with money to spend but who did not wish to purchase a box that belonged only to them. There was another man already sitting there with two female pleasure slaves standing by him; one was rubbing his shoulders and the other was feeding him grapes one at a time. Norman merely settled down, grateful at the very least that the pleasure slaves hadn’t been serving the man, as he had encountered that more than once.

“Ah, new arrivals!” the man said. He was a lean figure with slicked back red hair and skin that seemed to have been pulled too tightly along his face, meaning that every look became far more twisted and sinister than he probably meant it to be. Probably. “That always makes the games more fun, to have someone to talk too!” He gestured at himself. “I am Cadenski, lover of all manner of games. And you… are Norman Osborn.”

“Yes,” Norman said even as another slave working for the arena came with two chilled wine drinks; his emblem had triggered the managers of the Arena to quickly get his normal orders and requests prepared. While he had never been here before all the powerful businessmen in Volantis knew what the other members of their station liked; Norman himself had slaves who knew the favorite drink and food of every rich man in the city and would be quick to provide it.

Cadenski wasn’t at all put off by Norman’s brusque answer. “I’ve heard about you… the Goblin of Essos.” He leaned forward. “is it true you once sold the Gold Company swords that had rusted centers after they accidently destroyed one of your caravans?”

“Do you think I am foolish enough to admit that?” Norman asked. An idiot would have either bragged or denied it… a smart man was coy. Plausible deniability was one of the most important things in the world, he’d found. So many people didn’t consider it but it allowed one so much wiggle room.

In truth he had sold them a perfectly fine swords. High quality coming out of the Westerlands. It was only one out of ten that had been specially made with the brittle center and those had been sold by a merchant in his employ posing as one of his rivals. It had cost the Gold Company 32 men… men who had just by coincidence been the ones to attack his caravan and destroyed three wagons. Of course the Gold Company had been utterly paranoid after that and destroyed the rest of those swords… and the company they’d bought them from, and come to him as their exclusive seller.

As they should have.

“And,” Cadenski asked in a low whisper, leaning towards Norman with a leering smile, “is it true that when Stannis Baratheon stole away your best smuggler you gave his daughter a doll handled by a man with grayscale?”

“That would be a terrible thing to do,” Norman said simply. ‘And deserved for taking Davos from me.’ That man… one of the greatest liars and thieves he’d ever met. He didn’t like not having him at his beck and call as it meant he was scheming against him (and Norman would never believe the man had become honest and true). And Stannis had even maimed him! His Davos! Well… Norman had returned the favor…

“Quite right, quite right, we shouldn’t talk about it anymore,” Cadenski said, pulling away from him. “So, what brings Norman Osborn to the Arena?”

“The same thing as you, I suppose.”

“You’d lose that bet if you were making it!” Cadenski replied with a laugh that reminded Norman of the Cat-Wolves that loved to stalk the southern Grass Sea. “I’m here for ideas.” Norman made no move to ask him what he was talking about but as he has suspected Cadenski continued to talk without prompting. “I find that battle and blood inspire me far more than pretty things. Probably because my work is blood and violence.” He opened his mouth and allowed one of his pleasure slaves to pop a grape into his mouth. He bit down on it hard, the watery red juice gushing down his chin. “Though it has to be entertaining, of course!” He leaned back once more, hands splayed out. “Watching a rat run through a maze? Yes, I suppose that is entertaining. Watching as a mouse tries to find their way out of a trap designed to slowly mutilate them, never able to give in to their dread because they know doing so will only bring about such pain that they will cling any hope of survival?” He chuckled as one of the slaves began to move her hands down his chest. “Why… that is just entertainment.”

“I will entertain myself by flaying your cock if you pull it out,” Norman warned, having sensed just what Cadenski was about to do. The red-haired man grimaced at that and quickly motioned for the pleasure slave to move back up to his shoulders, the other one scurrying on silent feet to get him a goblet of wine.

“I never considered that for one of my games. I’ll have to think about it.” He glanced at Norman, the threat always forgotten. “Now tell me… just what are you doing here?”

But Norman remained silent. Not stubbornly so… there was no jutting out his jaw or screwing up his face in annoyance. He merely sat there, as if the annoying little man had never said a word to him.

“Come now,” Cadenski said, leaning in close once more, “it isn’t nice not to tell your new friend what you are doing here. You never know how I might take it. After all… I’m a deranged killer and-“

Norman, without ever looking away from the Arena where the slaves prepared it for the next battle, reached over and snapped Cadenski’s neck.

The slave rubbing his shoulders let out a cry only to fall silent when Norman shoved the leering man’s corpse out of his chair.

“Sit,” he said, feeling a smile grow on his lips. One he didn’t bother to restrain. “Seems to me you suddenly are lacking employment… and I could always find room for clever girls.”

It took the two only a few moments before they shifted over to him, bringing him a new goblet of wine while he allowed the other to pull out his cock and set to work.

Bertrum, long used to his master’s ways, didn’t say a word about the death and instead stated, “The next battle.”

“Hmmm,” Norman said as he ran his fingers through the hair of the dusk-skinned slave girl, stroking her like she was a kitten. “What do you know of the opponent?”

“They are claiming they found a dragon for Kraven to fight.”

“A dragon… yes… Kraven would love to fight one of those.” He frowned. “And when it isn’t a true dragon the Hunter’s rage…”

Norman smiled all the wider at the thought of the carnage that was to come.

~MC~MC~MC~

Kraven

The darkness of the waiting area was a relief against the hot sun for most people. They couldn’t stand the rays beating down on them, burning their flesh and sapping their strength. But Kraven didn’t care; the sun was an old friend, one that had existed since childhood.

The booming of drums filled the air and Kraven rose up, knowing well the signal for the fight. And the Hunter was ready, with spear in hand, knife strapped up, and a thirst for battle.

“Ladies and Gentlemen of Volantis!” the Arena cryer bellowed out. “I present to you a battle for the ages. Two apex predators brought to this arena to battle for your delight. May I present… KRAVEN THE HUNTER!”

Kraven stepped out, listening as the cheers rang out… only to go silent.

Confusion. Shock. Disbelief.

They all thought the same thing.

‘How could this woman be the great Hunter?’

Kraven didn’t let the doubts bother her. Instead she took a moment to roll her shoulders, working the kinks out before she spun her spear in a few quick flurries, letting it whirl about her body. Her muscles danced as she warmed them up, feeling them loosen as all the tension she had been feeling only moments ago melted away. Only at this moment, with knowledge that battle was about to come, did her guilt and her dark brooding disappear, leaving her unburdened.

She had chosen to wear her customary battle garb. Boots made from Mimbu, the great black crocodile that had eaten ten fishing villages, leaving them empty save for the ghosts that haunted them. Pants created from leather that had once been The Great Striped Stallion that had lured maidens to their death. A vest dyed red over the wrappings that hid her breasts, the remains of the Crimson Death that had stalked the coastline of Qarth before the Thirteen had paid for her to slaughter it; its teeth dangled from the cord around her neck. And of course the great yellow-white mane of the Lion of the Plains that adorned her shoulders, which had managed to evade even the great Khal Drogo.

Finishing the last of her movements she stilled, falling into a ready position as she watched the dark door on the opposite side of the Arena, hearing the growls within.

‘Be real,’ she thought to herself. ‘Be real. Give me a dragon. One of scales or one of flesh I don’t care! Just give me a dragon! Give me a fucking-‘

The doors flung open and a scaly beast burst forth.

“Behold… the Dragon of Astapor!” The cryer shouted. “Left behind by Daenerys Firestar-“

Kraven tuned the man out, disgusted.

This was no dragon at all.

‘Cursun Connurs,’ she thought to herself. ‘A disgraced maester who sought to understand the darker magics of the world in hopes of reclaiming his lost arm. He thought the strange healing properties the Stone Men would, if tempered with the broken remains of dragon eggs, would allow him to regrow the limb.’ She slowly began to approach the man. ‘He got his desire.’

The creature that scurried about the Arena floor might have had the vague shape of a man but no one would ever believe it to be human. From the arms and legs that bent at too odd of angles to the long thick tail that snapped back and forth to the face with the protruding mouth with too many curved blade-like teeth, the creature before her was a twisted animal. It wore filthy dirty garments that had been torn and shredded from just as much its own actions as those it had killed. Connurs sniffed at the air before letting out a hiss that made those in the first few rows of the Arena shrink back in fright.

Kraven, in disgust, tossed her spear at the creature.

Connurs snarled as he leapt away, the spear landing well away from him; not that she had been expecting to hit him anyway. No, she had just wanted his attention and now she had it. With a scoff she undid the belt holding her large hunting knife and dropped that to down to the ground before falling into a crouched position.

“Come on then,” she said softly, knowing that Connurs could hear her even over the slowly returning roar of the crowd, “let’s get this over with.”

Connurs took a step forward but she didn’t react. He took another. She remained still.

He suddenly leapt, easily covering the distance between them, and then leapt again, getting behind her.

Kraven lashed out and drove her elbow into the creature’s face.

The lizard man was so startled by the sudden strike he didn’t even have time to try and bite at her limb. Clearly that reptilian brain had thought that he could surprise her, get her to lunge forward while it leapt over her and attacked. It might have worked… had Kraven not been used to predators trying the very same thing against her countless times. Hell, she had done the same thing herself. It hadn’t been ready for her to see through its attack and thus ended up with her elbow smashing through its left eye socket, the satisfying crunch of bone following the blow.

At once Kraven spun around, going low to avoid the swinging claws of the beast, feeling the wind whip through her short cropped hair. Her boot snapped out and connected with the creature’s ankle, breaking it and sending it toppling to the ground. At once she was on him, wrapping a powerful forearm around the beast’s neck, holding him in place as she got her hands on his head.

“Know peace,” she said before twisting hard, a SNAP filling the air and Connurs went still.

She rose up, the Arena silent for several moments before the crowd burst into cheers.

Waiting only a moment she took out a throwing knife and hurled it right into the eye of arena promoter.

“Don’t promise me a dragon you can’t deliver,” she hissed.

The crowd roared in delight.

Kraven paid them no heed, merely walking over and retrieving her weapons.

She moved through the tunnel and down a set of stairs to the lower chambers where the other gladiators and warriors prepared for their battles to come. There were men from the Summer Isles with skin so dark it looked like they’d been born from ink pots; one had decided to make himself more startling by tattooing his skin with pale white ink that curled around his form like vines. There were large bearded men with massive guts and lithe little things that darted and bounced even as they waited. One man with arms that were too long for his frame grabbed a bowl filled with red weeds and looked ready set it ablaze only for a short stocky man to shoot him a glare; most likely it was some kind of drug that would put him into a feral state. He had the twitchiness of one that needed such things.

Moving to the small cubby that was her own she sat down and began to sharpen her knife, mostly because she needed something to do.

“Not going for a bath?” one gladiator asked, flashing her a smile so she could see that several of his teeth had been replaced with silver ones. He was nude save for a towel wrapped around his waist.

“I didn’t work up a sweat,” she said. “That fight was fucking pathetic.”

“I could give you a workout,” the man said, letting the towel he was wearing fall to the ground.

“Not much,” she replied, not bothering to look up from her knife.

A few men hooted at that but to his credit the gladiator didn’t get mad, choosing instead to laugh with them. “Come now… you came down here with all of us so you must be looking for something!”

Kraven glanced at them before removing her vest. “They offered me a private chamber… usually I take one so I can have some peace and quiet. But I knew the bastards running this place thought that acceptance of that would lead to me fucking them.” She began to remove her wrappings, the men growing confused by her harsh tone coupled with her actions. “You think nudity means anything to me?” she asked as she removed the last of her wrappings, revealing her small breasts… and the many scars that lined her stomach and chest. “I used to play in the Water Gardens with my brothers and their friends, as naked as the day as we were all born. The sun was the only clothing we needed.” She took out some fresh linens and began to wrap herself once more. “Your cocks mean nothing to me.”

“…we could get another girl in here,” one man suggested, though his tone was hesitate.

“Never do cunts,” Kraven replied. “I care only about the Hunt.” She finished wrapping herself before suddenly slamming her foot out to her left, hitting a weapon’s rack and causing a sword to roll through the air, her hand snapping out like a viper to grab it. “Do you wish to be Hunted?”

The gladiators suddenly decided that they had other things to do than talk with her.

Let out a small huff Kraven returned the sword to the rack before putting her vest back on, adjusting it so it sat as she preferred before going to her knife once more, inspecting it carefully. Even though she hadn’t used it in the fight she always liked to make sure her weapons were properly cared for; a lesson her brother had taught her that she’d sadly taken far too long to learn.

“That was impressive.”

Kraven raised her eyes, keeping her head down, and looked at the new arrival. He had deep brown hair with streaks of red in it… or perhaps it was red with streaks of brown. It was hard to tell. His face was rather plain looking but the arrogance that shined through his eyes made his a face that just begged to be punched over and over again. He wore not the robes of a lord but rather pants, a jerkin, and a gilded dagger with a hilt made from black bone.

“I hope no one told you that was dragonbone,” she stated. “Its clearly dyed.”

“I know,” the man said. “People see me wearing this and they assume all the wrong things. The weak think I am someone to avoid, because fools see a sword or an axe that is well made and assume the hand holding it must match it. And the strong think I am an easy target because I am so easily fooled and concerned with wealth over skill.”

With lightning fast reflexes the man pulled the dagger out and flung it, Kraven catching it with ease.

“I am neither.”

“If you are trying to impress me you are wasting your time,” Kraven told him, throwing the dagger back. The man caught it himself, twirling it once before placing it back in its sheath. “I have no time for such things.”

“Yes, because you are so busy,” the man said with a smirk. “I am Norman Osborn.”

That caused Kraven to frown. She had heard the name Osborn before… who honestly hadn’t? Every port in Essos seemed to have a merchant that was in his pay and if they did not then the thieves and cutthroats surely were. Kraven was positive she had killed plenty of foolish men in his employ; those that had thought her someone they could easily take.

She understood at once what the man was after.

“If you are fishing to find out my worth you should move along. I am no slave… I fight in the arena of my own choosing.”

“I have no need for slaves,” Norman said. “I have plenty of them. And if I did need them I would buy up any of these men.” He gestured at the gladiators who mingled about, pretending not to be paying attention to their conversation. “No… I know your worth and I am interested in securing your services.”

“I am not a bodyguard,” Kraven told him.

“I have plenty of those too.”

“I don’t deliver things either, so whatever cargo you need transported find someone else. And I don’t fetch items for anyone.”

“Don’t need that either.” He smiled, a tight, controlled thing that set her teeth on edge. The skin around the corners of his mouth… it appeared to be yanking on his lips, desperate for him to smile all the wider.

“And the last man whose bed I warmed is dead,” she replied. “He did not die peacefully.”

“I’m not seeking that either. The man who has hired me wanted something else.”

Kraven paused, glancing at him curiously. “You… are working for someone else?”

“We all work for someone,” Norman reasoned. “Even the mightiest of kings can not say they are free.”

“I am free,” she stated. Kraven got up, moving past Norman who made no attempt to stop her.

“I very much doubt that! You have a master!”

She continued on.

“Two of them, in fact!” he continued. “Not your husband, who you didn’t kill! You let Baratheon do that!”

Kraven stopped dead.

“Oh… was I supposed to not know that?” Norman asked as Kraven slowly turned back towards him. “They changed the name of a Ford after that battle…the one where you were tucked away in King’s Landing.”

Kraven trembled. “Everyone out.”

The gladiators, all veterans of dozens of battles, rapidly left, some completely naked, others only half dressed.

“How did you-“ she began, stalking towards Norman only for him to smirk, not at all frightened.

“It was quite easy, once one knew what to look for. Your handmaidens were never accounted for… everyone believed them to have died to the Mountain in his rampage. He’s dead, you know.”

“I know,” she said bitterly and how it BURNED her that the bastard had died not by her hand. For what he had done… she had been waiting for the right time, when she was strong enough to slay him. And then the Iron Man had robbed her of her vengeance.

“He’s one of the reasons you did all this, isn’t he?” Norman asked smoothly. “I don’t know all you did in Essos to end up like…” He gestured at her body. The muscles. The height. The strength and speed that she had given up so much to claim. “Well, it certainly worked. With your hair cut and towering over most men I dare say even your husband, if he were alive, wouldn’t recognize you Princess-“

Kraven grabbed Norman by the throat and lifted him up into the air.

“Oh, did I touch a nerve?” he said with a smile… that grew before he suddenly lashed out with his hand, striking her in the face. She dropped him and he fell into a crouch, a manic grin on his face as he suddenly darted towards her, moving across the room on his hands and feet, skittering like an insect before he leapt at her and strike again. She raised her arms to defend herself, taking the blows, but was surprised that Osborn could hit so HARD.

And then he leapt back and shuddered, tucking on his jerkin before his smile fell.

“Sorry… sometimes I lose control of myself,” he said, as if he were apologizing for tipping over a goblet of wine. “Now then, let’s get down to business: I was hired by a Westerosi Lord to gather together a group of people to perform certain… tasks… should I be called upon. Two weeks ago a vessel arrived from King’s Landing informing me that I had been activated.” He paused. “You are my first recruit.”

“I haven’t agreed to anything yet,” Kraven said, wondering if she shouldn’t rush the bastard right there. He had startled her with his first attack but now that she knew he was more than a pampered lordling she’d be ready for him. He might prove an interesting hunt.

“Oh, but you will. Especially when you hear who needs to suffer.” He paused. “Stark. Baratheon. Lannister. Tully. Arryn.”

Kraven narrowed her eyes.

“And… as for payment… information on how to get to Daenerys Targaryen… your goodsister.”

Kraven squeezed her hand into a fist.

“I imagine you two have much to discuss…”

“What do you want?” Kraven bit out.

“There will be plenty of time to discuss that as we make our way to Westeros. By now our employer is dead so we must hurry to enact our revenge.”

“And just who is your employer?”

Norman smirked. “Petyr Baelish.”

“…who?”

“Someone who knows how to get vengeance beyond the grave. Meet me at the docks in two hours. We sail on The Queen’s Delight.”

He moved to the doorway only to pause.

“Tell me… why Kraven? Why that name?”

She didn’t answer him and after a moment Norman left.

‘Because I was a craven, who left her children to die.’

~MC~MC~MC~

OMAKE

Everyone watched as Jon and Joffrey walked through the courtyard together.

“Ha!” Olenna laughed from the solar they were all in. “Maybe Jon’ll be a good influence on him!”

Cersei glowered. “Or maybe he’ll corrupt Jof.”

“It won’t last!” Oberyn declared, standing closest to the window. “Lannisters and Starks are natural enemies! Like Reachmen and Dornish. Or Stormlanders and Dornish. Or Westlanders and Dornish. Or Dornish and other Dornish. Damn Dornish, they ruined Dorne!”

Cersei nodded. “You Dornish are a contentious people.”

At once Oberyn was leaning over the table, causing Cersei to lean back in fright. “You just made an enemy for life!”

Chapter Text

Natasha

“Wake up, love,” Natasha whispered, leaning over Jon’s form so she could press her lips close to his ear.

Jon… let out a groan and tried to shove her away.

Natasha though merely reached over and drew herself closer, reminding him that despite her lithe form every ounce of her was muscle and it would take more than a simple shove to get rid of her. “Jon…” Natasha urged him.

“I had a horrible dream,” he moaned.

“If it is about you being named Hand of the King and being stuck dealing with Cersei then I’m afraid that’s reality.”

“No,” Jon said. “I dreamed that in the middle of a blowjob you turned into Lady Stark… with shark teeth.”

“That is horrible,” Natasha admitted.

“Yeah… I’m going back to sleep and finish it.”

With that he rolled over and burrowed himself in the sheets.

“Jon…” Natasha complained, giving him a smack. “Get up.”

“No,” he said, sounding like a petulant child.

“Jon, you need to get up.”

“No.”

“I swear if you don’t I’ll get Cersei in here to blow you.”

Jon finally twisted around to stare at her. “Sorry, but I have the wrong hair color and eyes for that.”

Natasha huffed, though she was a bit proud that he was smart enough to not come right out and make reference to the Queen’s love of fucking other Lannisters; the walls still had eyes and ears, after all. Even with Varys on their side keeping his spies away (well, most of them; Natasha knew he wouldn’t be able to help himself from having some watch their movements) there were plenty in King’s Landing willing to keep close watch on them, waiting for them to slip up. Natasha had no urge to spend her days ripping the tongues out of the mouths nosy children.

Finally getting up Jon pressed his hands to his face. “Please tell me Tony will be back and I can get him to take care of this mess?”

“Varys is looking into what has delayed him… Braavos has been odd, as of late, when it comes to the whispers coming from it.” She moved to sit behind him, wrapping her arms around his bare chest. “But even if he did show up… Tommen would still choose you.”

“I just showed the boy some kindness,” Jon complained. “Why did he make me Hand of the King?”

“Because you showed him kindness, just as you said,” Natasha stated. Jon scowled at that and Natasha sighed, rubbing his pecs. “We’ll manage. You remember the names I gave you?”

Jon nodded. “All people that would be appropriate to join the Small Council, that most will agree too, but also aren’t so in bed with the Lannisters that they will cause us problems.”

“Exactly,” Natasha said. “And remember that Namor will be sailing out today to deal with the Iron Born. So we’ll need to see him off.”

“I remember,” Jon groaned, finally standing up, stretching his nude form to work out the kinks in his muscles. “Small Council, Namor… what else am I missing?”

“We are meeting with Sam, remember?”

“Right… the Vulture King,” Jon said. “Adrian of the Tombs is off?”

“He is,” Natasha informed him, remaining in bed. “Last night. Never seen a man so happy to join the Night’s Watch.”

Her husband scoffed at that. “You promised to make him the next Lord Commander. How I don’t know but I’ve given up questioning how you do things.” He rolled his head back and forth. “The Tyrells aren’t pleased,” Jon muttered. “We’ll have to smooth that over.”

“We’ll manage,” Natasha assured him. She watched as Jon continued to stretch, admiring the view of his perk pale ass.

“Don’t get any ideas.”

“Pardon?”

“I can feel you staring, Nat, and I remember the tales I’ve heard of the Dornish.”

“Filthy lies, all of them,” she said, though she did little to hide her smile.

“Sure they are,” Jon groused. “So… Namor, Small Council, Sam. Am I missing anything else?”

At that moment the door to their bedroom swung open and Petyr hurried inside.

“Lord Stark, I’m here to-oh!” He quickly shielded his face. “Oh man!”

“Petyr!” Gwen said even as Jon scrambled to cover himself. “I told you to wait!” Yet even as she said that Gwen hurried in, stopping to stare openly at Jon. “…woof.”

“Down, girl, that’s mine,” Natasha said lazily, doing nothing to hide her own nakedness. “You have your own.”

“A girl can dream though.”

“HEY!” Petyr complained, still hiding his face. “What does that mean?”

“Only that you need to begin working out a bit more,” Gwen said, nibbling on her lower lip as she stared brazenly at Jon.

“Why are you two still in here?!?!” Jon roared.

Before either could answer Miles came in, completing the Trinity. “Huh. So that’s what Jon’s penis looks like.”

“OUT!” Jon roared and the three youths quickly darted out of the room. The moment they were gone Jon slammed the door shut, looking it over. “We need a fucking lock.”

“I know how to pick those!” Gwen called out from beyond the door.

Natasha raised an eyebrow at that. “I should really talk to that girl more…”

“Why did we invite them here?” Jon complained as he moved to get dressed.

Natasha shrugged. “You should have had a squire anyway; you are the Heir of Iron Pointe and should have had someone helping you dress.”

“I did it just fine for the first two decades of my life.”

“Well, maybe not the first few years, unless you did your own swaddling.”

“Certainly wasn’t Lady Stark,” Jon muttered darkly.

Natasha got up and set about getting ready herself. “You needed people. So did I. Especially with you being the Hand of the King. We also needed people that knew the truth about us… I could have found someone but it would have taken too long and would have given Cersei the chance to put in a spy. Her’s or someone else. Mark my words, Kevan Lannister is taking over Tywin’s spy network as we speak. Those kids were the best bets.”

“None of that sounds like good enough reasons.”

“You really want them running around without supervision?”

As if they had sensed her comment there was a sound cry and then a crash, followed by Petyr calling out, “Uh, Lord Stark? I think you got drunk last night and knocked over a vase! I’ll clean it up though.”

“They’ll never believe that.”

“Shut up, Miles!”

“…fair point,” Jon admitted, pinching the bridge of his nose before he set about getting the rest of his clothing on. “How did we end up parents of three?”

“We certainly fucked enough to have three but I would have preferred not skipping over the cute chubby baby stage,” Natasha stated as she slipped into her undergarments. “Now then, Namor sets sail just after 2, so meet me by the Blue Room just after lunch. Do NOT let anyone distract you… I am sure Cersei will be sending people to try and tempt you into a conversation. Use some of that Northern charm you have to be as rude as possible in dismissing them.”

“Right,” Jon said. “You’ll meet with Sam?”

“While you see to finalizing our Council picks with Varys. And you need to meet with my father; we need to ensure that Dorne is playing nice.”

“Shouldn’t you meet with him then?” Jon asked as he sat down to tug at his boots.

Natasha, not bothering to get any further dressed (Gwen had to earn her keep somehow) shook her head. “My father will assume that there is something underhanded in my request… the price I pay for him and I engaging in such games of wit during my childhood. You are too straightforward to lie.” She chuckled at that, wondering if anyone would believe just how many lies Jon had told in his life; even the spies watching them were probably assuming her chuckle was one of mockery rather than knowing the truth about him. “No, if you ask him he will take it as you being truly concerned.”

“Right. Small Council meeting will be right after Namor leaves, since he won’t be able to attend anyway.”

He paused, glancing at her, and then darting his eyes towards a small scroll that was tucked away amongst all the others they had piled up; only Natasha knew what he was hinting at and with a bit of pride over him learning the first parts of the Dance of Eyebrows she gave the slightest of nods.

‘Don’t worry, my love… I will deal with Baelish’s mess.’

One of the few blessings to come out of Jon being named Hand of the King was that he had full control over the investigation into Rhaegar and Lyanna’s child. Apparently Tywin had sent a message to the Citadel about it and records had been found speaking of Lyanna giving birth to a stillborn child; that babe being what had weakened her health and led to her death. Baelish, according to Tywin’s investigation, had taken that moment and tried to use it to weaken the Realm.

It was… all of lie, of course.

And that was what worried Natasha.

‘Why create that falsehood?’ she wondered. ‘Did he know?’ She and Jon had both learned from different people that Tywin had taken an interest in them and their future children, even bringing up the idea of joining their houses with their firstborn daughter marrying Joffrey’s heir. Jon had been horrified by his child being bond to the family that had caused him so much pain. Natasha was in turn worried about why Tywin would do such a thing.

She didn’t like the answers she was coming up with.

‘If he knew… then binding the last female dragon in Westeros to his own great-grandson would have been a master stroke. It would have cemented Joffrey’s rule and created a true dynasty. With Daenerys rendered barren the only ways the line could continue would be through Jon or a Blackfyre… and Westeros will never accept them. Not after all the Targaeryns did to poison hearts and minds against all bastards.’

It was utterly cunning. If the Lannisters hadn’t done so many horrible things Natasha would have leapt at the chance to take the deal. Not because of power but of protection. Jon and her would be safe, as would their child; especially if Natasha managed to get an agreement that they stay close to their daughter, to make sure no one decided to kill them off and raise the hypothetical child as a lion-dragon. Honestly it wasn’t even the horrible things the Lannisters had done that gave her pause.

No… it was the fact that Tommen carried the same corrupted blood as Joffrey that made her dismiss such an alliance.

‘Every farmer knows to get the strongest animals you must be careful with your breeding. Select the traits you wish. And the dumbest thing you can do is allow siblings to mate. That is how you end up with mutants and freaks. The Targaryens did that and Jon is lucky that Lyanna’s blood was able to push aside Rhaegar’s madness… by adding to that the stunted genetics of Cersei and Jaime Lannister? No… it will be several generations before that family can be trusted again. And even then it will require careful selections… if Margaery was the product of siblings we’d be doomed!’

But even with the man dead that didn’t mean that Natasha could rest easy. Tywin Lannister was a man who loved plans. And plans within plans. She had no doubt that things had been put in place, so that his schemes could continue on after his end, and she needed to make sure that anything that was set in motion matched what she desired. Scuttling some, approving others… yes, Natasha would have plenty of work to do even as she had tea and biscuits with the highborn women of King’s Landing.

She made the proper goodbyes with Jon before he headed off to meet with Tommen in the training yard; the boy still wanted Jon to help with his training, especially with Sam heading off soon. As much as Jon hated all he had to do in order to keep them safe, spending time with the little king? Oh, he enjoyed that greatly.

‘It helps that Tommen is a good little chap,’ she thought to herself as Gwen entered, a scowl on her face.

“Must I?” she asked.

“You must,” Natasha said, taking far too much delight in lifting up her bare foot and wiggling it in Gwen’s direction. The young woman sighed and grabbed the Myrish stockings that Natasha had begun to wear, kneeling down she could properly rolled them up Nat’s leg. “Come now, there are many women in Westeros who would give anything to be in your position.”

“Near your stinky feet?” Gwen asked only to yelp as Natasha smacked her lightly with her sole. “Hey!”

“I wash them properly,” Natasha said sternly. “You need to… you realize how many soldiers lose their feet because they don’t bother to take care of them after a long day? Skin peeling off, fungus between your toes-“

“This isn’t making this task any more pleasant!” Gwen complained.

“But you will begin washing more carefully after you go out into King’s Landing,” Natasha said sternly. She and Jon had realized that they weren’t going to get the Spiders to stop patrolling the city so their only choice was to make sure they were safe doing so. Setting strict rules on where they could go, who they could interact with, and what must be avoided. “I know you came in late this morning… don’t think I don’t see the bags under your eyes.” Gwen grimaced at that even as she worked to put the second stocking on Natasha’s foot. “Did you three even bother to wash up after you got done?”

“I threw some water on my face,” Gwen said.

“After you are done with me you are going to order a bath. And you are going to take one.” Gwen opened her mouth to protest but Natasha cut her off. “I mean it. Tell the castle staff it’s my orders… I was offended by your stink. I want you go scrub yourself fully. Don’t just lie in the water. I want you to work from top to bottom. Scrub your feet. Make sure to get the back of your knees. I will leave some soaps specially made for your quim-“

“NATASHA!” Gwen squealed, turning beet red.

“You know why Jon doesn’t mind going down on me? Because I don’t smell like a fish market.” Natasha stood up and held out her arms, Gwen hurrying to get her dress… probably because that was something to do that would distract her from when they were talking about. “Your butt too… get deep between your cheeks. Perhaps I should schedule you for an enema.”

“A… a what?” Gwen asked.

“An enema. A hollow wooden tube is inserted several inches into your rectum-“

“YOU ARE NOT INSERTING ANYHING INTO MY ASS!”

“-and a cleaning potion is forced into your bowels. After holding it for five minutes your body will flush out the solution for about an hour, cleaning and purging-“

Gwen slammed her hands over her ears, Natahsa having to reach out and catch her dress. “I’m not hearing this, I’m not hearing this!”

“If you don’t want one then you need to begin taking proper care of yourself,” Nat warned her. “Not merely for your health either. You are a lady in waiting for the wife of the Hand of the King. It is expected you act the part.”

“I’m already wearing the dress,” Gwen complained, gesturing at the pale pink and white garment she was wearing. “I am growing my hair out… which is going to be a nightmare for my… hats.” Nat raised an eyebrow, pleased that Gwen had caught herself before saying anything out loud; the walls were listening. “But I am not going to be a pampered little thing.”

“Of course not,” Natasha said with a grin. “You’ll be pampering me!”

“…you are enjoying this far too much.”

Natasha merely smirked at that.

~MC~MC~MC~

“There is something I must ask,” Sam said as he and Natasha walked towards the docks. While Namor’s leaving was going to be a grand event Sam’s departure hadn’t even seen the prince he’d originally sworn himself to come down to say goodbye.

‘Granted, Sam is just leaving to see about obtaining some spices that Cersei requested,’ Natasha thought to herself. ‘He will be back in two months.’ Out loud she asked, “And what is that?”

“Why me?” he asked. “Why reveal all this to me?”

It was a good question. She knew that Clint and Varys had been surprised when Natasha had decided to reveal to Sam the truth about the Vulture King, that he had been defeated and his wings claimed. Even more startled when she’d revealed that rather than turn the dragonbone wings over to the Crown that she and Jon were passing them to Sam to take to one of Natasha’s contacts, so that they could be carefully stored away. Varys had suggested several Council members that they could contact that would have done the job for her; all trained to handle the mission.

“Because you have no divided loyalties,” Natasha informed him.

“And what does that mean?” the dark skinned man asked, frowning slightly.

“It means that when you swear yourself to someone… you keep to them. You do not let others pull you this way or that, feeling like you must serve different masters at once. There are many I could have asked to do this for me but I can not trust them to remain loyal to the mission. I can with you.”

Sam frowned at that. “I am loyal to Tommen.”

“You are loyal to Tommen,” she said in agreement. “And you are loyal to his wellbeing. And that means that sometimes you know that there are things far too dangerous for him to be involved with.”

And what Sam was taking was VERY dangerous. And tempting.

‘Dragonbone alone would be a desirable prize,’ she thought to herself. ‘There is a reason why so many have risked entering the ruins of the Dragonpit.’ Even though the place had been stripped clean of the bones of the dragons that had died there during the Riots of King’s Landing still plenty of wealth seekers journeyed into the rubble hoping to find a corpse of a dragon. A single tooth would allow a poor man to live like a lord for a lifetime… if they were smart about it. The same was true of many other famed dragon burial sites. The God’s Eye before Harrenhal had been dove into by countless men and women hoping to bring up Daemon’s steed. The waters off of Storm’s End as well, as people sought out the remains of Jace’s young dragon. And Jon himself had admitted that he and his brothers had explored the crypts of Winterfell not just for the dragon eggs that were said to have been laid there but perhaps a discarded tooth or a claw.

Adrian of the Tombs though hadn’t merely had dragon bones. He’d had the bones of Rhaenys’ dragon. Bones that had been enchanted to give one the gift of flight.

Wars would be fought over them, if ever discovered. The Council would tear itself apart trying to determine what to do with them. And agents that had once been loyal to the Council would hunger to claim the wings for their own.

‘I should know,’ Natasha thought, ‘I almost took them myself.’

It had taken Jon and Clynt to snap her out of her dreams of flying along side her husband. She didn’t know if that was the power of the wings or merely her understanding just what they could do and believing she and she alone deserved them. Whatever it was she knew the wings HAD to be removed from King’s Landing.

Sam though… there was something about him. Something that told Natasha she could trust him with the wings. Much like Jon had been able to shrug them off as merely interesting. Or, for that matter, Adrian.

Adrian of the Tombs.

Oh how Natasha wished she’d met that man before he’d become the Vulture King. She could have made him such a powerful ally. While he would play his role in the Night’s Watch well, and it was needed when it came to what they were going to face Beyond the Wall… it felt like a waste.

“How will I know who your contact is?”

“He’ll find you and tell you that he misses your sister’s touch,” Natasha said with a smile. “It will be very insulting… and there will be a lot of vulgarity. But when you talk about his own sister and how you took her behind the bakery he’ll lead you someplace safe. Don’t let him convince you to do anything foolish though… he has a way of sweet talking people. Which is very odd because he looks like the last person that should be able to convince you to do a damn thing.” She paused. “He’s also not my father.”

“I… what?”

“Just… he’s going to sound VERY convincing when he claims it. He’s not.”

“Right.”

“I’m serious. You will want to believe him.”

“I understand.”

“You really don’t.”

“…right.”

Natasha sighed at that; oh yes, Sam was going to fall for those lies hook, line, and sinker.

“Be safe, Sam,” Natasha said politely to him, placing a hand on his forearm. He gave a nod and headed up the ramp to the ship, Natasha watching for a few seconds more before turning her back on him; lingering too long would make people whisper far too much. It had been a risk seeing him off alone as it was but she’d wanted to give him a few final bits of information.

And… because she kept getting the dark suspicion… she was never going to see him again.

~MC~MC~MC~

Varys glanced up briefly, looking at the high ceiling of the Small Council chambers. Painted upon it was a mural of the coming of the Andals; it was an addition by Baelor the Blessed, because no other Targaryen King would have allowed a painting that didn’t deal with their family to be in the Red Keep. That’s also why it was one of the few to survive Robert’s reign. The tales of the man storming through the Red Keep, delighting in destroying one priceless art piece after another as he drunkenly mocked the Dragons (despite the fact that he was part Targaryen thanks to his paternal grandmother) and their fall.

The mural depicted some Andal Lord (who looked suspiciously like Baelor himself because despite him being ‘pious’ the man was also a Targaryen and they had egos that could make Balerion the Black Dread look like a house cat in terms of size) landing on the shores of Westeros, standing in a small rowboat wearing armor that wouldn’t actually be crafted by smiths for another 800 years, looking at the wild untamed lands while the Seven Gods of the Faith loomed behind him. The Father watching ready to bring justice. The Smith ready to forge cities. The Warrior to beat back the savages (otherwise known as the people who actually held the lands). The Crone to teach the ignorant (again, otherwise known as the people who weren’t Andals). The Mother to turn new houses into homes. The Maiden to bring about song and joy. And the Stranger to… well, the Stranger just had to be there.

It was an impressive mural that everyone in the Small Council was used to seeing hanging above their hands. Which is why none of them noticed that the naked breast of the Maiden had a hole right in the nipple that allowed Natasha to see all that was going on below her.

‘At least this way I don’t have to pretend to drink their wine,’ Nat thought to herself as she lay on her belly. ‘Whoever told them that was proper Dornish Red should be stripped naked and forced to have their asshole filled with honey before tossed into a red ant arena.’

She saw Varys look up at her again; she knew that he knew she was there. He after all was the one that had told her about that particular hiding spot. A favorite of his little birds to use, to spy on the rest of the Small Council to see if they did anything he might have missed while he focused on other signs of lies and deceit. A spy watched those around them. A good spy had others watching as well. Varys had agreed to allow her to stand watch that day, rather happy she had offered as they both knew that she was better than any of his little birds and would give a far more detailed (but also shorter because there was an art to that) account of all he might have missed.

Suddenly struck with a childish sense of glee Natasha shifted away from the nipple peep hole and stuck her thumb through it, giving her digit a wiggle. She couldn’t see Varys anymore and wondered if she had gotten a smile out of him; probably not, because he was that damn good at controlling his emotions, but it was worth a try though.

Sometimes, when one spent so many of their days pretending to be someone else and feeling the constant tension that came from wondering if the moment had finally come where they would be caught and suffer a long painful death with no one attempting a rescue… they needed to resort to such foolish things. Even the most hardened of spies had their ways of breaking free of that pain.

Finally pulling her finger out of the hole Natasha crawled back into position, looking down at the room. Varys was looking straight ahead, not acknowledging her at all… the bastard. Jon was seated in what had been Tywin’s chair, looking rather uncomfortable. She felt a stab of pity for him; honestly he’d never admit it but those few hours where they had been sure they’d need to flee from King’s Landing had been so wonderful for his stress levels. Now he was stuck in a job he didn’t want in a city he hated working for people that, for the most part, he loathed, and had to deal with the knowledge that those that knew the truth about him were probably debating how they could take the final step and plunk his ass on the ugliest chair in the world.

‘Grab Tommen, explain in full detail the horrors of being a king. How it would be so much easier for him to just be the Lord of Casterly Rock. Maybe find Tyrion and use him as leverage… Tommen loves his uncle. Cersei will need to die… perhaps set it up that she was crushed under a horny boar? Not just kill but ruin her. Reveal Jon’s parentage and convince Father to march on the Reach; the Tyrells are all here or still on the road after the wedding so Highgarden is unprotected. Signal Eddard to march at once, locked out the Westerlands. Crown Jon, declare him first of his name. Will take two weeks to flush the moon tea from my system but after that I can be with child in a month, securing the line…’

“Alright then,” Jon said, rising to his feet, hands pressed against the table. “I am not going to waste anyone’s time on pretty words: none of us ever expected me to be the one standing here. Even if Lord Tywin hadn’t passed I was probably the last person one would expect to be named Hand of the King.”

“Oh, you sell yourself short,” Varys said with a teasing smirk. “After all, I doubt any king would put one such as me in that role.” He gestured towards Ser Kevan. “Of course I assumed that his grace would have selected you, my Lord, but I suppose Tommen has his reasons.”

“Yes… I suppose he does,” Ser Kevan stated and to Natasha’s eternal concern he didn’t sound angry at all. That… was not a good sign. “But I think you sell yourself short, Lord Jon. And I know Tywin would be pleased with your selection. He hated that the Starks and the Lannisters had found themselves turned against one another… together with the Baratheons and now the Tyrells and the Martells? We can bring about a new golden age.”

‘He knows,’ Natasha thought to herself.

Varys twitched slightly at that and only Natasha knew that the man had just fought the urge to lunge forward and kill Ser Kevan were he sat.

“As there are new faces that have joined us today, to fill rolls emptied as well as stand in for those gone, I believe our first order of business must be to reintroduce ourselves and our positions within the Small Council.”

‘Smart,’ Natasha thought to herself. ‘Useless posturing. Some will think him stupid for doing it when Jon knows who they all are. Others will be pleased to boast and will be happy with the chance. Very smart, my love, very smart.’

“I am Jon Stark, Heir of Iron Pointe and Hand to the King,” Jon said simply before taking his seat. Natasha wondered if her husband had simply gone first in order to get things going… of if he had understood that presenting himself so humbly would do much for easing the worries that he would allow the sudden leap in power to go to his head.

The next to rise up was Pycelle and Natasha narrowed her eyes. “Yes, quite,” he stated. “Grand Maester Pycelle, Maester of the Citadel, humble servant to you all.” She saw her father snort at that and even Mace Tyrell looked unimpressed; of course all the Tyrells had a distrust of Maesters, stemming from the Queen of Throne’s hatred for the ‘annoying gray rats’. “And before we continue on, Lord Stark, would it not be wise to extend an invitation to the High Septon? While he is not required for all Small Council meetings it would be wise to allow him to attend on occasion.”

“I was unaware one had been selected,” Jon said. Natasha was also suspicious… she hadn’t heard anything either.

“I do believe one was selected just this morning, at long last. A good thing, as it has been quite troublesome that they have failed to have one seated yet .” The old man tugged on his beard. “The Small Folk claim that the recent disasters that have befallen the Red Keep can be traced back to the simple fact that there was no High Septon to bless the marriage of his grace King Joffrey and Lady Margaery.”

“There will be one for Tommen’s marriage to her,” Mace stated. “I am sure of it… if not I will have my goodfather speak to the Maesters of the Starry Sept. After all, once that was the center of the Faith… if the Faithful of Baelor’s Sept can not select a High Septon then perhaps it is time that we turn back to the way things once were.”

‘And you certainly don’t desire to have the Faith controlled by your lands, now do you?’ Natasha thought.

“I’m afraid you must be mistaken then,” her father said lazily, lounging in his chair. “Because I can assure you that they are having at least one more vote this evening.”

“Preposterous!” Pycelle said, turning towards Natasha’s father. “They have-“

“Almost selected. But it seems a few of the more corrupt of the Faithful do not like what the new High Septon has in store for the Faith. They will be forced to comply, of course… there are too many that have turned to his side now, but they do not like it in the slightest and are going to force one more vote.”

Ser Kevan leaned forward. “Who is this new High Septon?”

‘You have heard about your youngest asking about them, haven’t you?’ Natasha thought. ‘Lancel is seeking out… something for his life. I am not sure why. There is a piece missing. But you know that this High Septon will see him as a powerful piece and will be paying special attention to him.’

“They call him the Sparrow,” Jiffsun stated. “He is known amongst the poor of King’s Landing for his work. He also makes clear that he does not care of the sins of those that come to him… so long as they repent.”

‘So he gathers the worst to him… does he truly wish to cure them or does he wish to have a loyal army?’

“We will offer the invitation once the man is officially declared the new leader of the Faith,” Jon said before turning to Ser Kevan. “Perhaps you would be best to ask. I might… offend him.”

“Yes,” Ser Kevan said after a moment. “That might be wise, if the man is as pious as it is claimed.”

After that the introductions went by about as Natasha had suspected. Lord Kevan Lannister, due to there being no positions left for him but needing one to keep the Lannisters happy, had been made Lord of War and was tasked with dealing with the North. Jon hadn’t liked that Natasha had stated that they couldn’t appear weak on that front; make it seem like Jon was showing ANY loyalty to his family and he would be without a head instantly. Making Ser Kevan Master of War had been a brilliant stroke to cause many of the doubts that had begun to rise about him to disappear. And Ser Kevan was a smart man and not as savage as his brother, thus allowing them a better chance to finding some common ground to bring about a peace. His introduction was short, to the point, but pleasant. It made Natasha all the more worried about what him and Tywin had planned when it concerned Jon.

Mace Tyrell made up for Ser Kevan’s short speech by rambling on for a good ten minutes about what he wanted to have done as the Master of Laws. Natasha would have been annoyed… if she hadn’t seen the tells that he was laying on his stupidity thickly. The man knew the game and understood that a jester could do what a noble man could not… and an oafish lord was overlooked until the last possible second.

Her father enjoyed not bothering to stand up as he introduced himself. Namor had not bothered to name someone to act in his stead and in the end Jon had been forced to give the role to Oberyn Martell because no one else wanted it. Either because they knew it wouldn’t last… or that attempting to MAKE it last would make them an enemy of Namor who was nearly as feared as Natasha’s own father when it came to one-on-one combat. Nat’s father, however, would barely do what was needed and then happily go back to just being an advisor with no title. The perfect set up.

Varys was Varys. He put on his show, made his little comments that were hlf jests and also half hints to her of what to watch for (and Natasha rolled her eyes at that because she wasn’t a fucking fool and knew how to spot the fakes and the lies) and then sat down with a giggle.

Jiffsun Davus was the only one that seemed… normal. He stood up, awkwardly introduced himself, and even took a moment to thank Jon for taking on his boy as a squire and page, along with his best friend Petyr. That had gotten a few looks but Natasha didn’t know why; Jon had done nothing to hide that he had known Miles and Petyr before taking them into his service.

With the Lord Commander of the King’s Guard actually seeing to the King (and honestly the man had proven himself a genius by commenting that he had no taste for such meetings even before Jon had been made Hand) there was no need to introduce him. And Cersei wasn’t invited, for obvious reasons. That left the Small Council with their sole business: filling the final seat.

“I know that there have been some grumblings about this selection… that it went far too quick and that time is needed in this selection.” Jon rose once more, placing his hands on the table and shooting the rest of the Small Council a dark look. He had shown them that he could be non-threatening. Had shown them that he could work with them. And now he was showing them that he was Hand of the King and that if they were wise they would remember that. “But the Realm has been without a Master of Coin for far too long.”

“Lord Baelish’s arrest-

“Oh, our lacking of a proper Master of Coin began long before that,” Jon said. “Petyr Baelish… he has shown himself time and again to be untrustworthy. There was never a scheme that he didn’t crave like a man in the desert craved water. Would a single one of you trust him?” He looked around the table and all were quick to shake their heads. “And did you truly trust him before he killed our King? A man that allied himself with Jonos Slynt, who King Joffrey discovered to have been a traitor?” Natasha smirked, glad that Varys had dropped that little bit of information. “We speak of how he stopped Ned Stark’s rebellion but let us not forget that he had to win the trust of the Quiet Wolf of the North… Ser Kevan, would you say that Ned Stark is a man prone to trusting people?”

“No,” the man stated. “Eddard Stark might have been unfit for the politics of the south but none would call him a trusting man. In the North you had to see who was a snake if you wished to survive.”

“Meaning that Baelish had to do something to earn his trust. And to do that would have meant betraying the Crown.” Jon shook his head. “Robert and Joffrey. Both had a Master of Coin who proved himself unworthy of the title. I will not have Tommen’s reign be destroyed by that bastard.”

“Lord Stark does bring up a good point,” Varys admitted. “My little birds whisper to me that Littlefinger was hording secrets up till his death and I can’t help but wonder just what they might be. What is it they say about a boil, Grand Maester? Until it is lanced one can know just how foul it will stink?”

“Hmmm… yes, quite,” the old man said.

Jon nodded. They had agreed to be careful with how much Varys would agree with him, lest the others realizing they were far more united than they wanted any to believe. “And can any of you dismiss who I have selected?”

“He has been a good neighbor,” Mace admitted. “Though he is of the Westerlands his lands are right on the border and none of my bannermen have ever complained of him.”

“Did he not attend the Citadel?” Natasha’s father asked. “I think I heard that.” Natasha huffed at that; heard nothing, her father had attended the Citadel with their new Master of Coin.

“He did,” Mace stated. “Received links in the fields of house management, business, and several of the sciences.”

“Why did he never complete his studies?” Jiffsun asked.

It was the Grand Maester that spoke and, for once, his tone was not of derision and disrespect when it came to someone who had left the Citadel. “Oh, it was a tragic thing and not of his choosing. He truly wanted to be a Maester but his brother died during the Defiance of Duskendale. Uther was part of Aerys’ small party that traveled to deal with Lord Denys’ refusal to pay his taxes, as he had been friends with Lord Denys’ brother. That didn’t save him, of course… well, it doesn’t matter now. With Uther dead his brother had to leave his studies and become Lord of Sunflash.”

“He has done well for himself,” Ser Kevan admitted. “Built up its wealth greatly after his grandfather lost half of their wealth late in his rule.”

“And he will aid us as well,” Jon said, gesturing towards the door, where two of the Red Keep guards stood. “See him in.”

The man that entered would never have been called a beautiful man. He was a tall man yes, very tall, managing to loom over everyone even as he entered the doorway. Well over six feet with a mess of short brown hair. But his face was fleshy and round, which did much to hide what Natasha knew were cunning eyes. He had a portly body, built not for fighting at all, but he still moved with utter confidence into the room. A pair of myrish glasses sat on his pudgy nose, tinted dark for Natasha had heard tell that when he’d been younger he’d done so many experiments in the Citadel concerning the sun and the stars that he had rendered his eyes unable to stand intense light. His long brown coat wasn’t gilded but rather practical and he tugged off a pair of gloves as he bowed his head to the Small Council before passing them to a decidedly far more handsome younger man who moved just beside him.

“My lords,” he said. “Thank you for this honor.”

“We thank you for taking it,” Jon said, waving to a chair. “Please take your seat, Lord Otto Octavius.”

~MC~MC~MC~

OMAKE 1

Gwen and Petyr stared at the windows of Winterfell before grabbing more lumber, Miles just idly pounding on the wall with a little hammer while the others worked to nail more wood to the window.

“Jon!” Natasha called out. “Did you barricade the door?”

“Why?” he asked, sitting in front of the fire with a beer. After a few seconds he added, “Oh, the wights. No.”

At that moment the wights burst in, forcing the group to flee outside, Jon grabbing a crossbow with dragonglass arrows as they all rushed towards the waiting wagon.

“Snow!” a pale, rotting Catelyn Stark rasped out as she shuffled towards him. “You will listen here, Bastard-“

She didn’t get to finish, as Jon shot her in the head with the crossbow, causing her body to fall down limp, the girls gasping.

“Jon!” Petyr declared. “You killed the Wight Catelyn!”

“She was a wight?” Jon asked.

Omake 2

(3 years into the reign of Robert Baratheon)

“Renly, I want you to shake hands with… what’s your name, fella?”

The blacksmith raised his head after kneeling to his grace and said in a deep proud voice, “Rosco.”

“Rosco here runs this smithy!” Robert said, gesturing to the large blacksmith shop that stood just in front of them. After the… rumors… he’d heard about Renly and how he much preferred to be around the other squires rather than the maidens he’d decided to nip things in the bud. “He’s going to show us around and give you a first hand look at real all-Westerosi men doing what they do best!”

Renly looked up at his eldest brother in confusion. “Brother, why would I want to see that?”

Robert leaned in and said slyly, “You’ll thank me on your wedding night.”

Rosco led Robert and Renly into the smithy, where three dozen muscular sweaty men were hard at work churning out swords, shields, axes and all other manner of brutal savagery. The sight of all those tools of war was making Robert’s loins ache and he knew that after that day Renly would be the same way.

“Hey, listen up!” Rosco called out, the men stopping their work. “I want all of you to greet his highness, King Robert.”

“He-llo your grace!” all the blacksmiths said… with lisps and limp wrists.

Robert gasped in horror. “Has the whole world gone insane?!?!”

“Stand still, there’s a spark in your hair!” one blacksmith suddenly cried out.

The other began to dance about, waving his hands wildly. “Get it! Get it!”

“Eerrrr. Eerr.” Robert said nervously… just as a lad who looked VERY much like him when he was a lad walked by, wearing only a thong and carrying a large barrel of molten metal.

“Hot st-uff, comin’ through!” Gendry declared with a wink.

“AAAAA!” Robert screamed in shock.

“Brother,” Renly said, “why did you bring me to a gay blacksmith?”

“I don’t know!!!” Robert whined before turning to the blacksmiths. He held his head in his hands. “This is a nightmare… you’re all sick!”

“Oh be nice!” one of the blacksmiths declared.

Robert began to fret. “Oh, my brother doesn’t stand a chance. The whole world’s gone gay!” He bit his lip… just as a gong echoed through the smithy. “By the Seven what’s happening now?!”

Rosco smiled. “We work hard… we play hard.”

“EVERYBODY DANCE NOW!”

Robert could only cover Renly’s eyes as everyone in the smithy began to strip and dance to the music some minstrels were playing, slowly backing his brother out of there.

“What’s that guy’s problem?” Oberyn Martel asked as he grinded against a blacksmith.

Dedicated to all the Blacksmiths of Westeros
Keep reaching for that rainbow!

HAPPY PRIDE MONTH EVERYONE!

Chapter Text

Adrian

“So we’ll take this path here, away from the King’s Road,” Yoren stated, pointing at a well worn map that rested on a tree stump. It had been made from leather and rather than being inked it had been stitched, every river and forest and path in Westeros. Adrian had never encountered such a thing and Yoren had laughed at that, stating that the time to make such a map meant most lords had no interest getting one made. When campaigns were supposed to last a few months at most there was no need for a map that required skilled hands and at least two years to be born.

“But we are the Night’s Watch,” Yoren had told them, “we are eternal.”

“Why avoid Bruckwood Hall?” Adrian asked.

“Noticed that, did ya,” Yoren asked though it honestly wasn’t a real question. “Heard tell that Ol’ Ser Preston Tilldown has gone raider. He wasn’t happy with the Riverlands declaring for the North as it is; always said that he should have been a Stormlander, even though that would mean carving up far too much of the Riverlands in order to get to his keep. The War cut off supply chains for a while and he refused the help Ned was a given… from what I heard he saw it as a betrayal to the Crown and if he refused Stark’s help then the Lannisters would look upon him favorably.”

“They wouldn’t,” Adrian said with no judgment. Unlike many people in Westeros the Lannisters hadn’t been the ones to cause him problems. Honestly working for Lord Tywin had been rather pleasant. “A man who isn’t even a Lord waiting on aid rather than asking for it? How would they know?”

“I never said Ser Preston was smart. With both sides refusing him he has decided to go raider. Invites merchants and the like to come dine with him-“

“And has his raiders attack them a few days later, after he’s found out what they are carrying,” Adrian said, rubbing his chin in thought. “He’d have to be careful… couldn’t hit every one or news would travel too quickly. And probably sends out hunting parties to take out other raiders so he can claim that he’s fixed the problem. That also gets rid of the competition.”

“Hmm, sounds about right.”

‘Yeah, because that’s how I would have done it,’ Adrian thought to himself. He’d have made a few changes though, such as having the raiders trail the merchants to the next estate and attack them after that… would mean that goods had to wait longer but it would also allow the scheme to last FAR longer than what Ser Preston was up to.

But he didn’t mention that little fact to Yoren.

“So you think he’d attack us?” Adrian asked.

“We have bodies,” the Night’s Watch Wanderer stated. “Thieves and such. He’d want them to replenish his men and they’d be desperate to join up.”

“Which is foolish,” Adrian stated, causing Yoren to look at him. “A thief perhaps… depends on what they stole. One that’s made a life of it not because of desperation but fun? No… you wouldn’t want that. Can’t trust them. Rapists are just wild dogs and should be put down. But a boy who stole some bread or defended his sister’s honor? Yeah… they would work. But if Ser Preston is gathering literally anyone then the problem is going to become something else real soon: him killed and the raiders going full marauder lords.”

Yoren stared at him for a long moment before letting out a laugh. “God, you are going to have the Lord Commander kissing you when you show up! We don’t have enough tactical minds up at the Wall.”

Adrian smiled at that. Unlike everyone else Yoren was taking towards the Wall he was the only one looking forward to it.

Natasha Stark had offered him the ultimate out. A way to stick it to the Tyrells now that his ability to take true revenge against them was gone. Even Mace Tyrell, in all his power, couldn’t defy the Night’s Watch. Doing so would have him be seen as a man spitting in the face of tradition. His dungeons would never be emptied save for the headsman getting their axe and those that had committed petty crimes wouldn’t feel the need to surrender if they knew their only choose was the noose. If the Tyrells decided to house and feed to prisoners during their stay, especially during Winter, it would eat away at supplies that the smallfolk needed. Their bannermen would be enraged at it, as the Night’s Watch had been an out for many of them when it came to clearing their lands of criminals but not having to actually deal with the aftermath of the captures. And the Faith would come for them, for they had long ruled that the Night’s Watch was an honorable way for the pious that had lost their way to redeem themselves. A murderer that was taken to the block would be doomed to the Seven Hells but one who spent decades defending the realm? They could wash away their sins through hard labor, something the Most Devout were all for.

So Mace Tyrell was stuck. Adrian was free.

And honestly… he was enjoying greatly his time so far.

The first day that he had met with Yoren the man had flat out told Adrian that he would be treated differently than the rest of the recruits.

“You actually want to be here,” Yoren had told him. “All the rest of this lot only came because it meant keeping a body part or their lives.” He’d gestured at the cages that held snarling madmen who threatened to kill anyone that got near them while at the same time demanding they let them out. “This lot… if they think they have a chance they will run. You though… if you run that’s your choice. Plenty of men have volunteered to join the Night’s Watch only to realize it wasn’t for them. There’s a bit of shame in it, mostly if you’re from the North, in going back on your word but honestly the Lord Commander would rather have a dedicated man than one who is constantly looking back. So, since I can trust you… I’m gonna use you.”

And he had. Adrian had been made Yoren’s second in command, tasked with keeping the line moving, ensuring their supplies held up, helping hunt for food, getting the camp organized, and keeping everyone in line. After Adrian had helped capture a rapist who’d tried to flee the second night Yoren had used him even more, letting him into his plans and teaching him just what his role in the Night’s Watch entailed.

‘I would like being a Wandering Crow,’ Adrian thought to himself. ‘Stark wants me to become Lord Commander and I’ll do that… but nothing says I have to become it right now. Jeor Mormont still lives, after all, and the man might live for another decade.’ He glanced around the camp. ‘This… its no different than the boys. Find a group that don’t normally work together and teach them how to be a team. Weed out the bad ones, get loyalty out of the good.’ He smiled. ‘Heh… why didn’t I think of this sooner?’

Looking over the map Adrian pointed towards the very center of it. “How much trouble will we have in the Riverlands?”

“From the people? Depends on the lord and how smart they are. There are no Lannisters in this group so we are good… Ned Stark hates the Lannisters. Violently so.” Yoren paused. “You hear about the Battle of White Stream?”

Adrian shook his head. “No, though I might have… King Joffrey was pretty clear that he wanted to name all the battles himself, as he refused to have the North dictate even the names of them.”

“Heh, that sounds like the Royal Prick.” Yoren spat out on the ground and Adrian ignored him; Joffrey had caused him no problems but also hadn’t given Adrian anything either so he wasn’t going to get fussy with people cursing out the dead boy. “So the Battle of White Stream had Ser Ormon Lannister and a whole mess of his cousins leading raiding parties against the edges of the Northern Host.”

“Ormon… I’ve heard that name,” Adrian muttered. “He’s the one with the screwed up finger, right?”

“Yeah, that’s the one. A real piece of work. Said that he only got made a knight because Lord Tywin owed a favor to his father. Barely a Lannister too… I think he can trace himself back to the main line but its… aw fuck, I don’t know.” Adrian chuckled at that, pulling out a water skin and taking a drink as Yoren laughed. “Point is, he wasn’t dining with the king and all that. Not that he didn’t act like he was. Pompous shit. You know the type.”

“Oh, I do.”

“So Ser Ormon and his cousins are all making themselves annoying little shits to the fringes of the Northern Army. Doing petty things that make war all the harder… spoiling wells, setting fires, leaving rotting carcasses about so that all manner of insects show up. The annoying things that make marching all the worse.” There was a sudden commotion and the two looked up but saw it was just some of the recruits having decided to do arm wrestling.

“I’ll take a wager with anyone: I’ll dig the next shit hole if Big Tom loses!” Adrian called out, getting a cheer from several of the lads.

“You’re going to lose that bet,” Yoren said.

“I know,” Adrian said softly. “And I’ll do it with good humor. I’ve found that lowering yourself to their level, from time to time, and showing you can have fun and take your licks will breed loyalty.”

“Hmmpf,” Yoren said though there was a twinkle in his eye that spoke of approval. “Anyway, Battle of White Stream. So Ser Preston-“

“Ormon.”

“Right. Ser Ormon. Too many fucking Sers today. No offense.”

Adrian smirked at that. “None taken.”

“Anyway, Ser Ormon and his cousins, they are getting a bit too bold… you know how that happens. You get some small successes and suddenly think that you can charge against an army, all by yourself, and slay them all. Like all those shit stories they tell pampered little lordlings who won’t actually see battle because its too important for them to survive. They keep managing to avoid the hunting parties that were sent out to find them and Ser Ormon feels like he’s invincible. Now, I can’t for sure, because I sure as fuck wasn’t there, but from what I hear-“

“Which is probably been already embellished to the Seven Hells.”

Yoren laughed, pointing right at Adrian. “You are fucking right there! But from how I’ve heard it about half a year back, right after the wedding at the Twins, Ormon decides that he wanted to try his luck hurting the supply routes. Nothing too fancy… just wanted to sneak in and take out a bridge. Wasn’t even a big one… on a good day you could easily get across it. But with winter coming the waters will be getting too cold for that and I guess the banks are going to flood over and make it harder on the horses. The North would still be able to get across but it would eat up their time. So Ormon gathers up all his men and goes out in the middle of the night to tear down the bridge. They all dress in leathers, so they’ll be nice and quiet, and the plan was to remove some boards and all that then burn it from afar with some Lannister Spirits; otherwise known as taking some high proof ale, shoving a rag in the bottle, and lighting the thing before giving it a toss. Thing is… the Northern armies knew they were going to go after the bridge. Someone talked… or a scout spotted them staring at it. Who knows? Point is that when they arrived the Northmen were ready.”

Yoren smiled, leaning over the map.

“And at their head was Eddard Fucking Stark himself.”

Adrian had never met the man but he’d heard enough about him. Before coming to King’s Landing it had been boasts of Mace Tyrell that he could have defeated the man, had he truly wanted to hold Storm’s End, but the war was over and he had already been deciding to break the siege when Stark had arrived. All knew that he had been King Robert’s dearest friend… and those who saw beyond the songs of tavern bards knew that he had been honored poorly by his friend and his goodfather after the war, receiving nothing but the bones of his family for his efforts.

In King’s Landing the man’s name seemed to be on everyone’s tongue. The Smallfolk whispered that Lord Stark, despite all signs showing he was merely settling in to rule his chunk of the Seven Kingdoms, desired the Iron Throne. That he would come and he would tear down the Sept of Baelor where he had lost his eldest daughter and in its place he would plant a giant wierwood that would cover the entire city under its branches, so that it would be eternal dusk. He would outlaw the Faith and force them all to follow the Old Gods. That whose that refused would be sacrificed to his dark gods, their blood frozen to create a Red Wall that he would use to build a new Wall in the far north.

The Lannisters and the court had more sense than that but their opinions of him had been wildly different. The Queen had dismissed him as a fool, claiming that any success on the battlefield was because of thefailures of their own armies and not anything Stark had actually done. She would brazenly tell anyone who listened what SHE would do and more than once Adrian had listened in with amusement as she detailed battle strategy that would get everyone on her side killed. It was… honestly impressive how stupid she was when it came to war tactics while being so confident in such stupidity.

Joffrey had just wanted Stark dead. Would rant about how he had declared he would die and how dare Stark ‘defy his King’s command’. Any losses they took were lies because he was the King and kings did not lose battles. His father had never lost a battle was his excuse… and when Mace Tyrell had pointed out that he had defeated Robert once the boy had sputtered before claiming he must be thinking of a different Robert, something the Fat Flower hadn’t pressed.

Pycelle thought Stark skilled but too cautious. Baelish a fool that would defeat himself any day. Varys that he had changed from what they knew and they all needed to be careful.

That… had been the opinion of Lord Tywin as well. Though he never said it out loud Adrian had spied the battle plans hung in his solar, the worry that the man would hide when a new message would arrive of a loss.

Stark was dangerous.

“Ser Ormon drew his sword and commanded his men to attack but Stark just stepped forward and raised his hand. There was a burst and a wave of heat and suddenly there was a ring of fire around him and the Lannister forces. He was dressed all in black with just the weirwood tree upon his breast, the white of it making it look like a skull. Ser Ormon demanded to know what he desired… what ransom they would need to pay to be free, for he already had gold so that he could just pay off his own ransom right there. But Stark? He never raised his voice… and that was the worst part. The Fury of the Wolf King. And the Lannisters discovered why this man, who had never lost a single battle in the Rebellion, had chosen to remain in the North: He was being kind.”

Adrian nodded. He’d heard that little statement many times in the taverns of King’s Landing. ‘They used to say that about the Lonely God,’ he thought to himself, amused.

“The first Lannister got scared… or brave… or stupid. Honestly it could have been all four. Whatever it was he suddenly rushed forward, screaming like a madman, swinging his sword about. Stark threw a dagger right into his throat and he went down hard, drowning in his own blood. Three went after him after that. Stark drew out a short sword and cleaved the arm off one before kicking another to the ground; the hit was so hard it nearly caved in his chest. The third actually was able to put up a fight… for all of 20 seconds before Stark lopped off his head, stabbed his sword through the mouth, and flung it back at Ser Ormon like it was a cabbage. The fallen Lannister got his own sword driven through his belly for his troubles, the blade going 6 inches into the ground and pinning him like a butterfly on a maester’s board.

“Ser Ormon and his cousin Raymund were the last to face him… tales differ on the size of the party they brought with’em. But they were the last. Raymund was a big fellow, and because there were always rumors that his mother had cuckold his father there was some that called him The Hill. You know, like The Mountain. Course no one said that to his face… anyway, doesn’t matter anymore. Only thing he’s called now is ‘that corpse’ because Stark at that point finally took out Ice and met his first swing. Shattered The Hill’s sword and sent pieces into his face, blinding him. He began screaming and running around and fell right into the fire, burning up. And Stark… Stark was mad. Because there was only one thing in this world that could calm the Wolf’s Blood that was now singing in his veins and that was dead Lannisters. And he’d been robbed of killing The Hill so Ser Ormon was going to have to pay the price. He toyed with him for an hour, hacking off little pieces of him. A finger here, an ear there. And if Ser Ormon tried to stop fighting Stark would hack off something else and grind dirt into the wound until the man lifted up his sword.”

Yoren blinked.

“How the fuck did we get talking about this?”

“Hell if I remember.”

The two laughed.

“Go check to make sure those idiots didn’t cut too much firewood. I hate leaving waste behind and we’ll be moving tomorrow.”

“Right,” Adrian said, getting up off the ground and brushing off his pants.

It was a good life, traveling with Yoren. If the cold didn’t agree with him up on the Wall he would consider working towards becoming a Wandering Crow. It would be interesting, traveling Westeros. He could gather up people that weren’t just criminals but who just needed something new and different and far away from where they found themselves trapped. Boys that were beaten by cruel fathers. Smallfolk stuck with moronic knights and lordlings ordering them about. The South treated the Night’s Watch as a joke and honestly Adrian had felt the same but knowing now what was coming? That the fate of the world was rushing towards them? Well… he had wanted to be a part of something and this was his chance.

It almost made him losing to the Spiders worth it.

‘Almost,’ he thought with a dark smirk, shaking his head.

“Adrian.”

He stopped, half leaning over a stack of wood (and no, the fools had finally learned their lesson about doing too much work for no pay off), and glanced about, trying to figure out just who had hissed his name. Or if anyone actually had. Bryan One Ear swore up and down that the woods they were traveling through were haunted by the Children of the Forest who would call out a man’s name to lure them away so they might eat their tasty livers. Adrian normally would have scoffed at that but he had flown on fucking dragonbone wings and fought flying knights and spider people so he wasn’t going to dismiss that bit of insanity out of hand.

“Adrian!”

The voice was a bit louder, a bit more insistent… and a lot more familiar.

Ambling over Adrian couldn’t help but smirk as he looked over the portly little man trying to hide behind the trunk of a large old oak.

“I’d heard the Children of the Forest were ugly…”

“What?”

Adrian just shook his head. “It was a joke, Phineas.”

His oldest friend shot him a dark look. “Ha fucking ha. You should have become King Tommen’s jester with that wit.”

“But then what would you have done?” Adrian asked, folding his arms over his chest and flashing his friend a smirk. “You can’t tumble, that’s for sure. I’ve seen you drunk… you more flop like a seal on the beach.” He considered him for a moment. “Do you jungle?”

“Maybe. Why don’t we get the fuck out of here and I can show you.”

“Come into the camp and we can have some dinner. I’m sure Yoren won’t mind.” He paused. “Fine, he might mind but if I hunt for an extra rabbit to make up for your share he won’t say boo. And if you have any supplies that would go a long way to help out.”

Phineas let out a chuckle that wasn’t mirthful at all. “Yeah, sure, I’ll get right on it. Now come on, let’s get moving.”

Adrian frowned and didn’t move even as his old friend turned and began walking away. “Phin… what do you think is happening right now?”

“I’m getting you the fuck out of here.”

“That’s great. I could leave whenever I wanted.”

“Uh huh, yeah, sure. Just… just keep claiming that. You can thank me later.”

“I’m serious.”

“I am too. I’ve been hiding out in the shadows for the last three hours waiting for you to sneak away.” He gestured at the forest. “I thought for sure a wolf would get me or something.”

“They have better taste.”

Phineas finally turned and glared at him. “You are being rather mean to the guy busting you out of this mess.”

“Phin, I don’t need busting out.”

“Yeah yeah, you would-“

He finally grabbed his friend and forced him to turn towards him. “Phin!” he snapped, giving him a shake. “Listen to me: I wasn’t captured. I wasn’t arrested. This wasn’t forced on me. I… I chose this.”

“…what?”

Adrian sighed, letting go of the shorter man. “Listen to me, okay? Listen good. The Spiders beat me. They beat me and I was down and out. And then the red head, Lady Stark-“

“The Viper’s daughter, the Black Widow?” Phineas asked. “She was there? Some of the boys who managed to escape mentioned that but I thought they were delusional.”

“No, she was there and she is in up to her neck in things even I don’t understand. Working for some big people. The point is… I cut her a deal. You and the boys get off scott free. Whatever coin or goods we stole? They are yours. In exchange I got to the Night’s Watch.”

“You just said you weren’t forced into this,” Phineas pointed out. “That sounds a lot like you being forced into something.”

“Yeah, yeah, it might but it really isn’t,” Adrian assured him. “Listen… there are things going on North of the Wall. Bad things. Things that are going to mean that even if we ran we’d never be able to truly outrun them. Even if we never stopped. And Lady Stark… she has connections. I volunteer to join the Night’s Watch and she’s gonna get me a plum assignment. Wants me to be the next Lord Commander.” Phineas screwed up his face at that and Adrian shook his head. “Trust me, this is the best deal for all of us. The Tyrells? This was a fucking kick in the teeth for them! They can’t go against the Night’s Watch. They’d have everyone coming at them from all sides if they tried and pulled me away. And with the North and the Riverlands in the way it would be hard to do so anyway. And hey, nothing says I have to instantly become Lord Commander. No one knows how long it will take the fucking Others to show up so I have plenty of time to be a Wandering Crow. Eat good food, sleep in castles… heh, I might just make visiting Highgarden my first stop.”

Phineas gave him a long, steady look. “The Others.”

“Don’t get on me, I flew just a few weeks ago!”

“Oh, believe me Adrian, I’m not getting on you for that.”

He stared at his friend for a moment, puzzled by that little comment, but then quickly brushed it aside. “Honestly its no different than what we did with the boys. These guys… they had a rough turn and I can help them out. Teach them things. Alister Thorne is up there… you remember him, right? He’s a prick but him and I work well together. He can be my new hammer and I’ll be his new glove. We can whip these boys into something special. I think… I can be happy with this.”

Phineas let out a sigh at that. “I… really wish you hadn’t said that.”

“The boys will get over it. I know they arranged a rescue party-“

“No, not the boys,” Phineas said, cutting him off. “It was just me. They thought it was suicide trying to grab you. So I worked on it and worked on it… till our new benefactor found me.”

“New benefactor?” Adrian asked.

Before Phineas could answer… the screams started.

Darting like a stag during a hunt Adrian rushed back to the camp, leaping over brush and trees before the roots of one gnarled old sentinel caught his foot and sent him crashing to the ground. He groaned, pulling the wet leaves from his face, and looked up to find that the fall had sent him tumbling into a world of madness.

Parts of the clearing where they’d made camp were burning, with trees crashing down even as he got his wits about him. The camp fires had been abandoned, allowed to grow in intensity, as the new recruits ran about in a panic, no sense of order able to be brought to them. Adrian could see why: the cage that had held the most foul of the recruits, the rapists and the murderers who had spit curses and threats at everyone from the most timid of thieves to Yoren and Adrian themselves, was on its side and its bars reduced to slag. Within lay several glowing skeletons, the bones blackened even as the stringy remains of flesh and the roasting organs lit up every crack and hole and crevice in them.

There standing in the middle of it all, holding Yoren by the throat, was a monster.

It stood like a man. That was the only thing that made the creature before him vaguely human. Completely silver it was far too slim to be a man in armor and that was ignoring the fact that the plates that made up its form moved in a way that would have shredded any person that tried to wear it. It was huge too, nearly 8 feet tall, with glowing red veins that pulsed in a rhythm of madness along its body. The head was like that of some demonic insect, with a wide leering mouth and a set of mandibles upon its cheeks. It stared at Adrian from a long time before finally turning back to Yoren, who struggled in his grip but it was clear to all that was due to utter terror.

“Ah… I see Phineas found you,” the creature said, holding out his hand. “And you already know to kneel to your king. Good… good! He said you were a smart one! Oh, we are going to do so much, Vulture King.”

Adrian slowly got to his feet and shot a dark look at Phineas, wondering what the fuck he’d gotten him into. His friend, for his part, made a small bow before scurrying over to the metal man’s side.

“Now now, I can see on your face,” the creature stated, wagging a finger at him. It was almost… playful... in how it wiggled that digit back and forth. “You are upset that he let slip that secret. You shouldn’t think so cruelly of your friend. He didn’t tell me a word. He was loyal.” The creature let out a light chuckle. “I found it all out on my own. You learn so many things when you are dead.”

“D-dead?” Adrian got out, hating how his voice trembled.

“Oh yes. The secrets I came across. Jon Stark is the Centurion… my money was on Tyrion Lannister’s sellsword friend so color me surprised! And of course that means Tony Stark is the Iron Man. Those three children… Petyr and Gwen and Miles… they are the Spiders. Oh if I had gotten to them first…” The creature let out a wistful sigh. “I only stuck around King’s Landing, mind you, as I worried if I drifted to far the Seven Heavens would be awaiting my innocent little soul-“ And Adrian could tell that even the monster didn’t believe that statement, “-but when I found out about this armor that was just waiting for a spirit to take it over? Well…” the helm began to retract, revealing the ghostly form of a familiar face, “who was I to resist?”

“Lord Baelish,” Adrian got out.

“…I like you, Adrian of the Tombs,” the phantom said suddenly. “Oh, I very much like you. Its King Baelish now but you can be excused for not knowing about my title change. But you still show me respect. Yes… yes I think Phineas is right. We can do SO much together.”

There was a pause and Phineas began to rapidly speak. “He knows about us… what we did. About the wings and the Shocker gauntlets and all that. He says he needs our help, Adrian… and the rewards…”

“You wanted to escape the Tyrells?” Baelish asked. He clicked his tongue in disapproval but Adrian found himself thinking for one mad moment that it should be impossible for a ghostly tongue to make a ‘click’. “That’s the coward’s way out. Now, I get why you are thinking like that… I did too, back when my goals were so very small. But now I know… the true way to beat your enemies is to utterly destroy them. To tear them apart, burn the bits, and then scatter the ashes to the seven winds. You want revenge of Mace Tyrell? I will give you all of the Reach. Your’s. And he will watch as you turn his daughter into your whore, his sons into your sparing dummies, and his mother into a corpse.” Baelish paused. “I admit none of that is very creative, standard conqueror fare. We’ll think of something better.

“The point though is… I am a King. Power goes to the strongest and I am now the strongest in Westeros. But… I need my Small Council. And you, Adrian of the Tombs… are going to be part of that. Not the first… well, not the first I selected but the first to know about it. And the most important role!”

Baelish smiled and Phineas tossed him a set of thin metal gloves.

They were like… nothing Adrian had ever seen. Thin, flexible. They moved like silk but he knew at once they were are strong as steel. He glanced up at Baelish and the man stared back with an eager smile on his face and, deciding he didn’t want to anger someone that could reduce people into burning skeletons, slipped the gloves on.

“Think wings,” Phineas said.

Adrian did… and his eyes went wide as from the gloves rapidly grew metal feathers that spread from his wrists up to his shoulders. He flexed them and moved them and found that while they shifted similar to his old wings there was a power there that the other ones, even being enchanted dragonbone, couldn’t match.

“Phineas is such a wonderful mind,” Baelish stated, answering Adrian’s unasked question. “And being dead I discovered so many secrets. Together… we are making miracles. And we want you to help us.” Baelish took a step forward, dragging Yoren along with him. “Adrian of the Tombs… I name you Hand of the King.”

He paused.

“Or should it be Wings?” He chuckled at that.

Adrian swallowed and bowed his head. What else could he fucking do? Say no? “Your grace.”

Baelish nodded before his voice grew chipper. “Now then, we must really be off. Let me just clean up…” His helm reformed and his mouth began to glow, the air wavering around it and at once Adrian knew what was about to happen to Yoren.

“Your grace!” Adrian shouted, stepping forward. Baelish snapped his head towards him and Adrian flinched but pressed on. “I ask for one more boon!”

“Someone is getting greedy…” Baelish warned.

“Yoren and the recruits. A king needs a court and they can serve.”

Baelish considered that.

“It would be good to have some hands to help,” Phineas whispered.

“…very well,” Baelish said with a casual air, as if he hadn’t been seconds away from melting Yoren’s face. “Bend the knee.”

Adrian was next to Yoren instantly and pulled him up. “Fucking do what he says.”

“I’m not an idiot,” Yoren hissed back, the Crow kneeling. The recruits who hadn’t fled at once fell to their bellies, foreheads pressed to the ground all around Adrian and Baelish.

“Well…” Baelish said, bemused, “come on now… we have WORK to do!”

~MC~MC~MC~

OMAKE

Tywin sighed as he sat in his solar. “Kevan,” he said, head dropping down, “do you realize if I had died today there would be no one to carry on my legacy? Now I have no one to give my enormous fortune too.”

Kevan cleared his throat.

“You, brother?” Tywin asked. “No… I’ve planned a far greater reward for you.” He motioned Kevan to follow him over to a table where a small replica of the tomb Tywin wished to have made for himself was. “When I pass on,” he said, reaching into the tiny tomb and pulling out a coffin, “you will be buried alive with me.”

He opened the tiny coffin to reveal a doll that looked like Tywin, lying in state, and Kevan… screaming in terror at Tywin’s feet.

“Oh… goodie,” Kevan said with a swallow.

Chapter Text

Pepper

“Tony?”

“In here!”

Pepper sighed as she walked into Toad’s workshop, her husband standing in front of a table with some sheets of parchment, a piece of charcoal wrapped in thin leather clutched in his hand as he stared down at the drawings he’d made. Around him were bits of metal in various states and conditions, each done up in a different color. He’d taken off his outer coat at some point and was wearing only an undershirt which was already dirty from the general mess that came about in working with metal.

“And why am I not surprised that you are in the one place I told you NOT to be?” Pepper asked.

“Come on, that’s like asking a fish not to be in the water. You know what they call a fish not in the water? Dinner. Do I look like dinner to you?”

“One I might send back to the cook,” Pepper stated. “Tony, we are supposed to be packing.”

“Packing makes it sound like we are going on a pleasure trip,” Tony commented. “There is nothing pleasurable about being dragged around as glorified hostages for a demented would-be Overlord.” He paused, bobbing his head from side to side. “Okay, admittedly my mind is thinking up about 5 different scenarios in our bedroom where that would be very pleasurable but that is beside the point.”

“Yes, and the point is that we are supposed to be getting ready so we don’t anger the Overlord that can move metal with his mind.”

“He doesn’t use his mind, actually. His body produces magnetic waves and he uses that to manipulate the metal. See, he has to be a certain distance in order to do it and it loses strength the farther away he is. That’s why he can’t just thrust out his hand and make the Iron Throne eat the Lannisters.” He chuckled at that. “Which would be funny to see in a horrifyingly violet sort of way.”

“Tony?” Pepper said. “Getting ready to leave?”

He waved his hand dismissively at her. “I’m working on more important things.”

“And what exactly is so important?”

“Armor.”

“Of course,” Pepper said dryly.

“Hey!” Tony complained. “You might be fine with your armor being all intact but Rhodes got screwed!”

After Braavos had repelled the Mandarin and his forces the Brotherhood had stormed his manse, searching for clues and pillaging for spoils. Down in one of the basements they’d found Pepper’s armor, is perfectly fine. No one was quite sure how it had ended up there as the entire ship attack was a blur of chaos and destruction, but it was there and Pepper was glad to have it back.

“So I need to get him a new suit. And I want to work on your’s as well… Erik might be delusional but he’s really good at metal and showed me a few tricks. I think I can slim it down so you could wear most of it comfortably under your dresses. Of course it might be too warm for that right now but winter is coming as Ned always loves to remind us so-“

Pepper reached over and pressed her hand to his mouth to get him to stop talking.

“Tony… we are leaving in a few hours. You won’t even have time to ink your drawings.” She stepped closer and locked eyes with him. “I need you to say this with me: you aren’t going to get to work on any armor for at least two months.”

Tony mumbled something and she pulled her hand away.

“Kind of hard to say something with you when you are covering my mouth,” he pointed out. Pepper shot him a look and he laughed. “Come on, I get it. I just-“

“No.”

“I mean-“

“No.”

“Why-“

“No.”

A dry chuckle filled the air and Pepper turned to see Mystique lounging in the doorway. “You know… you haven’t trained him very well if he’s still talking back at you. Maybe you should use a rolled up scroll, bop him on the nose.”

“I would pay to see that,” Arya said, phasing through the wall and entering the room.

“I must admit that is a neat trick for getting around people,” Pepper said.

Tony though shot Mystique a look. “Aren’t you going to get on her for misusing her gifts or rot like that?”

“Why would I?” Mystique asked, tilting her head in bemusement. “Would you complain if she used her fingers to scratch an itch rather than paint a mural?”

“Depends on where the itch is,” Tony said. “I mean, if it was a king or queen and she began to scratch at her ass because she can’t wipe properly-“

“Could you not!?!?” Arya exclaimed.

Tony frowned. “…you do know how to wipe properly, right? I mean, that’s something Ned told you?”

“I… you…”

Mystique suddenly shifted in Ned. “Daughter, it is important to make sure you are clean, for Winter is Coming.”

“And the stick up your ass should go in cleanly,” Tony added.

Mystique shifted back and shared a smile with Tony but Pepper noticed that Arya wasn’t looking delighted at all. And not just because she was mortified by the teasing. No… when Mystique had become Ned the girl had… well… frozen up. Stared at him for just a second utterly haunted. Pepper got the feeling that Arya hadn’t known if she wanted to flee, attack, or latch onto her ‘father’.

‘Oh, the poor child,’ Pepper thought to herself sadly.

All their plans had been scuttled by the Mandarin. No one had been allowed out of the city for a week due to the attack. Charlus had called for all who had attended the festival to aid in the recovery efforts, as there was so much to do. Cleaning streets that had been filled with fallen buildings. Removing half burnt wood and broken stone. Chopping up the Sentinels, which many had delighted in and was a task so popular that they’d been forced to draw up lots so everyone could get a turn. Wealthy merchants who hadn’t done a hard day’s work in years suddenly found old strength again as they took up axes and cleaved at the wooden creatures. The pampered wives strolled out wearing their husband’s or son’s clothes so they could attack the still creations. It was common to hear a grieving mother or father cry out the names of their dead as they attacked the sentinels, ripping them to pieces.

The dead.

That was another task and one taken with far less joy than the Sentinels.

The streets had been cleared of them by the second day but that had begun to horrible task of trying to indentify everyone. First was the fact that there were cultists mixed in with the fallen Braavosi that needed to be removed. The Red Priests had proven helpful in that, moving silently to inspect the bodies. Many of the cultists had exploded when killed, thanks to Arya’s method, but there had been a fair number that did not… no one knew why. But the Red Priests were able to look over the bodies and tell which was which; Hank had tried to explain it to her as they watched but much of what he had said had gone over her head.

Then had come the slow, painful task of identifying the fallen

‘If this had been Westeros the bodies would have been give to the Silent Sisters who would have done little to determine who was who.’ She bitterly added, ‘Unless they were a lord’s family.’

Everyone liked to say that the Silent Sisters were the only objective and neutral group in Westeros. Even the Night’s Watch had a reputation of being ‘Of the North’ since they focused on the Wall and all that lay beyond and would call on the Starks for aid. But the Silent Sisters would journey from place to place, dealing with the dead. None ever barred them from doing so; the only case Pepper could think of was Tywin Lannister and when he’d destroyed Castamere but from what Tony had learned it hadn’t entirely his need to make an example out of them that had caused him to stop the Silent Sisters. Rather he had warned that the flooded mines were so dangerous that they would lose more trying to claim the dead. The Sisters had finally decided to leave it be.

But while everyone liked to say that, the truth of the matter was that they only were able to function thanks to the wealth of Lords. And thus when they cleared the battlefield they looked for the richly decorated dead first and foremost. The common soldier? They were prepared yes but nothing was done to determine who they might have been. Enemies were all placed in the same shallow graves, no marker to state who they were. Many times where they were laid to rest was forgotten within a year.

But in Braavos it was different.

‘They have long memories. They remember when they were slaves and to die meant that you were left to fester in the sun, your family and friends and those around you forced to work on even as you rotted. An inconvenience at best.’

As such all the Braavosi dead had been brought to cool dry cellars and left in state so families might inspect them and try and determine if they were a loved one. Rolls were kept of the missing and the numbers constantly changed as the days went on; there were people who had fled during the attack and only returned days later, much to the excitement of their families. Pepper had witnessed one father burst into tears when a soot-stained little girl of three had emerged from her hiding spot two days after the battle; she’d somehow squirreled herself away in a bakery and lived on breads and jugs of water until the rubble that had trapped her inside was removed.

And through it all, the clean up and the recovery of the dead, the Brotherhood and Charlus’ students had been there.

“Is Magneto doing well?” Pepper asked. “He looked tired yesterday.”

Mystique let out a sigh at that, shifting back to her blue-skinned form, a white dress forming as she walked over to them, easily leaping onto a table and settling down. She motioned for Arya to join her and the poor girl did so, it clear she didn’t know if she wanted company or to flee as fast as she could. Mystique began to lightly run her fingers through the young woman’s hair, Arya shutting her eyes as she did so.

“He worries,” Mystique stated.

“Yeah, kind of blows his chances to claim he can unite the Seven Kingdoms if his own home base gets attacked,” Tony snarked.

Pepper glared at him. “Tony, that isn’t polite.”

“…and that is a shock to you?”

“It is when you saw both Lannisport and Iron Pointe attacked under your watch. And Magneto isn’t even the true leader of Braavos.”

Tony held up his hands. “I’m just saying-“

“No, you’re just being rude.”

He frowned at that, brow furrowing. “Why are you defending our kidnapper?”

“I am not defending our kidnapper. I’m defending a man that has spent the last week doing all he could to help out Braavos.” She waved her hands about wildly. “I know you had to have seen it! He helped gather bodies. He has been clearing roads. Repairing buildings. He dredged the bay all by himself! Can’t you give him a little bit of credit?”

Tony paused.

“…did they give you some of their fruity cult drinks? I warned you-“

“They did not-“

“-not to accept anything they offered you. I thought you knew better than that.”

“-offer me anything. Or have YOU forgotten that my family is Blackfyre loyalists!”

Mystique chimed in. “I have not and neither has Erik. It is why we plan to name you Warden of the West.”

Pepper’s eyes went wide at that and Tony smirked, looking rather pleased. “Ah, so from unofficial-“

“Not you,” Mystique said coolly. “You are her husband. You will run the household and throw feasts and make sure her clothing is ready when she rides.”

Tony chuckled. “I was actually going to say that Pepper was already the unofficial Warden of the West, running things when I had my head up my own ass.”

“A common occurrence.”

“I’m sorry,” Pepper said, cutting in. “You want… me to be Warden of the West?”

“Erik is… far more proactive when it comes to the roles men and women must play. Arya will be Warden of the North. We are undecided on the Riverlands… perhaps Toad? Though that seems a bit-“

Tony cut it. “On the nose? River. Toads.”

Mystique conceded that point. “You can still have your heir rule after you. Jon Stark… I will pleased to meet him.”

‘And I will do all I can to avoid that,’ Pepper thought. She knew one thing about the Dragons, red or black: they didn’t share. ‘If they learn that Jon is Rhaegar’s son they will know he is a threat to them. The Blackfyres and the Targaryens… they nearly tore Westeros apart. Magneto and the Brotherhood would at best lock Jon away. Most likely they would kill him.’

She knew this because of where they were being forced to go.

Magneto had announced that they would be traveling to the newly named Dragon’s Bay to call upon Daenerys. And Pepper knew it wouldn’t end well.

“She has no hope of ruling,” Magneto had told them all at dinner two nights ago, when he had taken a rare break from working on fixing the damage done to Braavos. “Her father was the Mad King and while I am sure her advisors will try and claim she is nothing like him her family blood tells the true tale. Her father was a mad man who should have been smothered in his crib. Rhaegar was a fool who dreamed of prophecy so much he couldn’t even see Robert’s warhammer until it struck his chest. Viserys got himself killed by the Dothraki… oh yes, that tale has spread to Westeros by now, I am sure. People will not trust her… not with that history of madness.

“Then there is the matter of her allies. Dothraki screamers. Former slaves. Exiled knights. We dine with the daughter of the Warden of the North; she sups with mutilated sellswords. And there is of course the matter of her heir… she has none. Her desire to save her dothraki warlord husband caused her to turn to a witch. A foolish choice which only shows how unfit she is to rule, especially when said witch had seen her village burned to the ground, her loved ones raped and killed, and she herself made into Daenerys’ slave. Her spell gave the girl what she wanted in the cruelest sense: the dothraki lived but as an unseeing, unhearing, soulless shell. Her child was twisted and mutilated in the womb and removing it left her completely barren. When she dies her line will end. For a Lord that is fine… they can select an heir. But for a Queen? No… no the lords of Westeros will never accept that. We will ensure she… understands… that.”

Pepper knew what that meant. At best Magneto hoped that Daenerys would agree to be a privileged guest of his for the rest of her life, much as Baelor had done with his sister-wife. But as he had said himself Daenerys had the blood of the Mad King running through her veins and a brother who had whispered in her ear since birth that they were supposed to rule.

‘No… she will not give up her claim. And so the Blackfyres and the Targaryens will go to war one more time. And after dealing with her… will they accept another child of the line of Aerys? Would they ever accept Jon?’

Mystique looked over at Tony’s plans. “Interesting. But unneeded at this moment. You should be preparing for our trip.”

“You know King’s Landing is going to wonder about me not coming back,” Tony pointed out. “Varys has his little birds probably already whispering to him that I am not staying at some grand manse.”

“They were whispering when your ship never arrived at port,” Mystique pointed out. “And you have been spotted often in the city.” She gave a casual shrug. “And why would we care? How many times as the King of the Seven Kingdoms rattled his sword and proclaimed that they would make Essos pay? Time and time and time again the people of this city have heard the proclamations. Your King Aerys alone stated on five occasions that he wished to be Emperor rather than King and would do so by take over all of Essos. And yet your flags do not fly. You will forgive us for not being concerned.”

“You’ll think differently when Tywin Lannister sends a minstrel to you. I believe even across the Narrow Sea you have heard ‘The Rains of Castamere’.”

“We have,” Mystique confirmed. “Just as we have heard of the Field of Fire and how the Lannisters fled like cowards.” She glanced at Arya, who was being unusually quiet as Mystique played with the strains of hair. “People always mock Torrhen Stark, saying he was ‘The King Who Knelt’. Yet from where I stand the Starks were the only ones in all of Westeros to see giant fire breathing monsters and realize that it was wisest to bend the knee. The Lannisters, the Iron Born, the Gardeners… all knew what Aegon had and decided to foolishly attack.” She paused, leaning forward to look Arya in the eye. “The greatest mistake of my house was not seeing the cunning and intelligence of the Starks and making them our close allies. It is an error that Erik and I will not repeat.” She looked back at Tony. “But Tywin Lannister? I do not fear him.”

“You should,” Tony said bluntly. “Because everyone that has uttered how he isn’t a threat has had a habit of… dying.”

“Then he must have uttered those very words about himself.”

Tony frowned at that. “What do you mean?”

“If all has gone according to plan then word will be received in the next week or two that the Old Lion has finally perished.”

Silence stretched for several moments before Tony let out a chuckle. “That… that is a good one.”

“It is no tale.”

“Uh huh, sure.” He shook his head. “Sorry but I’ll believe that Tywin is dead when I see his corpse. That man… I think he’ll outlive us all.”

“That may be but it does not excuse you from preparing for the trip.”

“See, that’s what I don’t get. Your merry band of cultists-“ Tony paused but for once Arya didn’t interrupt him to proclaim the Brotherhood wasn’t a cult, “-well, yeah, them I get. But me? Why drag me along?”

“You developed a suit of armor that allows you to fly, Lord Stark. You truly believed that we wouldn’t be interested in that?”

“Magneto can rip the suit off my body that I would appreciate it if he didn’t. Mostly because, uh, it might end up ripping me apart and no one wants that. Well, not no one as I’m sure the Mandarin would love me hacked up but you get the idea. Point is you still don’t need me.”

“Tell me this then: if you have a chicken that can lay a golden egg do you allow it to wander off or do wait to see if more will be produced?”

“…am I the chicken or the egg in this scenario?” Tony asked. Mystique merely smirked and Tony shrugged. “Okay, fine. Packing for my hostage taking that’s going on the road.” He rolled up his plans. “I’m assuming Arya is already packed. Got lots of warm coats?”

“I assure you that Meereen is rather warm this time of year,” Mystique said.

“The Riverlands has a dish that is made with four kinds of fish but uses a beef-based sauce.”

“Pardon?”

“I thought we were spouting off random facts.” When the blue woman just stared at him Tony waved his hand vaguely in Arya’s direction. “She still needs a warm coat-“

Pepper felt her heart freeze. ‘Tony… don’t you fucking dare!’

“-what with her going back to Winterfell.”

‘Gods damn him!’

Mystique slowly turned to Arya. “What?”

“I… I was-“

“Arya, leave,” Pepper said firmly, stepping forward. “Go to your room and finish packing.”

The girl, thankful to have everyone’s attention focused elsewhere, quickly phased through Mystique and the table and hurried out of the door.

“You,” she snapped, pointing at Mystique who was clearly ready to chase after the young woman, “stay.”

“I think you forget who is in charge here…” Mystique threatened.

Pepper grabbed a forge hammer and slammed it down onto the table, causing it to crack.

“Its not an axe but it will fucking do.”

Mystique, terror suddenly flashing through her eyes, sat back down.

“By the Old, New, and-“

“Shut your mouth,” Pepper snapped, twisting to glare at Tony.

“Right. Shutting up now. I can do that.”

“You will go and you will pack and if you put up any kind of fuss or try to weasel your way out of it I swear I will drive a tent post through your scrotum!”

Tony help up his hands in surrender. “Right. Yeah. Totally on board withtthat.” He quickly fled, leaving Pepper alone with Mystique, the blue woman looking all sorts of confused.

“We are going to have a polite conversation. Do you understand?” She brushed off a space next to Mystique and hopped up onto the table. “And before you begin with the threats… yes, I know you probably have about 7 different ways you could kill me right now with just your bare hands.”

“With just my hands,” Mystqiue confirmed. “If I can’t use them I can kill you 4 ways with my feet, so long as I remove my shoes.”

“Right,” Pepper said dryly. “But if you want things to go right between you and that young woman who just fled out of here you are going to listen to me.”

That made Mystqiue frown. “And why would I listen to you to begin with? You aren’t a mother.”

“No… no I’m not,” Pepper conceded. “But I am a daughter. And once I was her age and had a mother who felt that she could control all I did. So I have a far better understanding of what Arya is going through.”

Mystique didn’t say a word.

“My parents were against me marrying Tony and not for the thousand little jokes you are ready to make.” She had seen the way the woman’s jaw had begun to twitch, longing to make some joke or insult which Pepper completely understood as she had set herself up for them. Living with Tony though had taught her how to cut such jokes off at the knees. “We didn’t leave Westeros in disgrace. We were proud to have supported the Blackfyres and refused to bend the knee to the Targaryens. Not a single Targaryen king or queen left a stable line of succession. Even the Conciliator muddied things up horribly. The Dance of the Dragons showed their greed and the Blackfyres… they were a chance for something new. My family left because we wanted to have the world we believed they could bring and not the one that the Targaryens would offer. One that was just… the same after the same after the same. So we traveled to Essos and waited. And even when the Blackfyres wasted away we remained. In Westeros we’d been lords, yes, but never on the level of the Tyrells or the Tullys. We were at best at the level of the Freys, as horrible as that is to consider.”

“Quite,” Mystique said with a smirk.

“In Essos though the name Potts means something. My brother is wealthy enough to buy entire villages, merging them slowly together into a great empire of commerce. Tony had come to learn from my family and when he fell for me… well, my parents weren’t thrilled. ‘He is just a kneeling bastard who supports those Targaryen bastards. The kind that mock us even as we hold more wealth and power than many of them ever will.’ They were clear that I was not allowed to marry Tony. That there was no chance that I was going to be allowed to do so.”

“And we see how wrong they were,” Mystqiue stated.

“Yes but that is the point I’m trying to make.” Pepper sighed, shaking her head. “I was a child, honestly. Barely ten-and-three and I had decided that this foreign devil I had just met would be my husband. If my parents had suggested that we stay at their estate, get to know each other better and spend more time together… well, I hope I would have made the same decision because I wouldn’t trade my time with Tony for anything but who knows. He could have easily said the wrong thing and caused me to banish him from my sight. Instead my parents threw him out and declared that I wasn’t allowed to see him and… well… I ran off with him the next night. It took over a decade before I was willing to open the lines of communication with them, sending messengers to let them know that I was okay. But we never really recovered after that. They still saw me as their willful child and I saw them as my stubborn keymasters holding me in a gilded cell.

“Arya is young. She might not look it but she is. You have to remember that if Magneto hadn’t performed his ritual she wouldn’t have even bled her first time yet.”

“Believe me, I know that,” Mystique said with a faint smile. “After it happened the first time she broken into Magneto’s cabin on our ship and began to shake him, screaming that she wanted him to undo this all because, “Being a grownup isn’t worth pissing blood 3 times a month and feeling like a bear was twisting up her innards.”.”

“If he actually could undo that for all of us then he’d be able to take the throne bloodlessly… and I am so glad Tony isn’t here to make a joke.” She shook her head, a faint smile on her lips before she continued. “The point is… she’s a little girl in a woman’s body. One who has led a very sheltered life. From what Tony has told me his cousin Ned… the Rebellion caused him to pull back. He was fostered in the Vale. Brandon was fostered for a while in Barrowtown. His brother Benjen, according to Tony, was supposed to be fostered with Ser Kevan Lannister. There was talk of Lyanna going to Sunspear or perhaps King’s Landing to serve under Elia Martell, in the greatest of ironies. But Ned refused all offers for his children until he allowed Tony and I to take his bastard, Jon.”

And how she hated calling Jon a bastard. But… it was his armor. His sworn shield. The one thing that would keep the Blackfyres from killing him.

“In any other house Arya would have been sent to be fostered. Instead she was kept at Winterfell. Catelyn Stark took Robb and Sansa to visit the Riverlands but I don’t think she went after Arya was born. King’s Landing was her first grand adventure. You showing up? It was like… the old tales come to life. A call for exciting and daring.” She paused before leaning towards Mystique, well aware that the woman could kill her right there. But she had to try, if only for Arya’s sake. “Did she even understand what you were offering?”

“…no,” Mystique whispered softly. “No… I suppose she didn’t.”

“She swore herself to you all because you gave her safety and strength. And I don’t doubt for a moment she is forever grateful for all that. But it doesn’t change the fact that she never really had a choice. It was either go with you or end up like her sister… and we know how that ended.” Pepper let out a sigh, remembering the pretty little girl who hadn’t understood the world at all and who hadn’t been prepared to be a part of it. “I don’t want it to sound like you were in the wrong or forced her into it. You didn’t. You deserve… every ounce of praise I can give. You kept her alive. Her father couldn’t do that. Her mother. Her brothers or her sister. It was you, Raven.”

It was a low blow, to use her real name.

Pepper Stark didn’t fight fair.

“But,” she said after letting Mystique digest that, “it doesn’t change the fact that she’s a little girl. One who has suddenly found herself far from home. The shine of adventure is beginning to go away and that is making her suddenly realize all she left behind.” Before Mystique could speak Pepper pressed on. “I’m not saying she didn’t gain more coming with you. I can tell how much she loves you all. She wouldn’t care if she never got any powers… she would still love being with you all. Learning from you. Relying on you. And you relying on her. It tore her to shreds coming to the decision that she wanted to see her family again.”

“So she leaves me,” Mystique said bitterly. “Rogue. My children. Kurt. All of them leave.”

“But Arya will come back,” Pepper stated. “But… and I can’t stress this enough… if you make her choose you will lose. If she leaves and you shut her out then she’ll never come back. And if you try and keep her here she will not forget what you took from her.” Pepper gently patted Mystique’s hand. “Let her go home. Let her not look at it while only remembering the good. Let her remember all of it, good and bad, so she can decide where the winds should take her.”

“I… I don’t know if I can let her go-“

“Then don’t,” Pepper said.

“Pardon?”

“Magneto doesn’t need you to go talk with Daenerys. That’s why you formed your Brotherhood, is it not? Go with Arya. Take a few of the Brotherhood with you if you need to. Show her that you are willing to meet her halfway.”

“I couldn’t… Erik-“

“First off if he truly is your husband and you are the woman I think you are then it should be simple enough to convince him. And if he still presses… I don’t know… tell him you are preparing for his arrival. Seeing what the state of Westeros is like. Joffrey is dead and if you are right and Tywin is too then things will be different. Isn’t it better you see it all?”

Mystique considered that for a long moment.

“You are a wise woman, Lady Stark.” She smiled and got off the table, walking away.

And Pepper ignored the voice that whispered in her head that she’d just sold out all of Westeros.

Fuck Westeros.

Family came first and Arya?

Arya was family.

Chapter Text

Author’s Note: This chapter includes descriptions of assault. Reader discretion is advised.

Jaime

The Night’s Watch was breaking thousands of years of tradition and allowing the people North of the Wall (‘Not the Wildlings, for they are not beasts’ the Old Gods whispered to him, ‘And not the Free Folk for the people South of the Wall are just as free. All of you are people, joined together’) to make their way south to avoid the Others.

Jaime had taken to watching the long processions as they made their way towards the Wall, making sure that none of the wights or Others decided to attack. He hadn’t encountered any of the Great Enemy but had fought plenty of wights, though he kept his distance enough that if anyone did see anything it was only a flash of flame against the horizon. But those attacks were few and far between and thus he was able to simply watch the people as they made the journey. He wished that Tyrion had been there as he would have made a game of it, creating fake conversations and backstories for those that were traveling.

‘Oh, that is Limp Dick Dick,’ he could almost hear his brother said. ‘Not that he knows that he’s called that. He thinks he is a ladies’ man; that one lie with them will ensure that they will never desire another man. That much is true… after being with him the male gender is so stained by his incompetence that they decide to become chasm lickers.’

The bitterness over his brother’s refusal to save him had disappeared when the Old Gods had informed him that a shapeshifter had made them believe Jaime was dead. Normally he would have scoffed but considering all he had gone through it honestly made sense. He planned to make fun of his brother quite a bit when they saw each other again.

He ignored the pang in his heart, the longing to see him NOW.

‘You always thought that I could be better, brother,’ Jaime thought as he watched the long line of Free… of people continue on towards their only hope. ‘Said that if I only got away from the people that drove me towards my worst impulses that I could become the man I always wanted to be.’ He looked down at Dark Sister and smiled sadly. ‘And as always… you were right.’

He hoped he would be able to show Tyrion that one day.

The night was coming to an end and with it people began to put away their bundles as they began their march. Those fleeing to the Wall had learned that the safest time to rest was during the day, when the sun was high and the few watchmen they set could see the threats coming. At night is when they were all awake, the guards sleeping on sleds that were dragged by what beasts of burden they had; trainedwolves, a few horses, some elk and even a moose once. It was when Jaime watched over them, just another shadow in the dark, his now enhanced gaze able to pierce the night and see any threats.

What amazed him was how, if he didn’t know where they all were, he would have never thought them to be ‘Wildlings’. He remembered the stories he had been told from his boyhood; the tales of the dreaded savages that made even the burly and gruff Northsmen tremble. The eaters of man flesh and the slaughters of all who only knew heat thanks to the blood of their enemies.

And yet all he saw was… people. A father talking quietly to his son. A mother cradling her child. An older couple leaning on each other before a truly MASSIVE man walked up and, with a laugh, lifted the woman into his arms while the man clung to his back like he was a rump sack. They ate their meals together and chatted away about minor things. When they retired to sleep they did so no different than any other traveler.

His father had always dismissed them as meaningless. His sister that they were stupid monsters that the North should have been able to wipe out easily. But Jaime saw they were people.

People who needed to be protected.

There was a sudden shift in the air, even though the wind wasn’t blowing at all. It was as if he were a lute and someone had plucked a string, making his entire core vibrate. He had come to understand what the sensation was.

Sin.

At once Jaime’s flesh burned away, his long legs covering far more ground that should have been possible as he raced towards a cluster of trees that stood all by themselves along the empty plain. He was moving far quicker than he should have been able to, something that his transformation allowed, but it was still not quick enough for him when he heard the whimpering coming from the trees. He pushed himself forward, coming to a stop only when he broke through the treeline and came to the source of the vileness that had called to him.

At once he went for the wilding (for such a hard figure with half an ear missing and beady dark eyes could only be considered a Wildling), grabbing him by the cloak and yanking him away from the whimpering girl who tried her best to cover her nakedness. Jaime grit his teeth together, the flames around his skull burning taller as he easily slammed the bastard into a tree.

“She is six,” he hissed, doing his best not to look back at the crying girl with bruises around her throat and upon her arms. She deserved that much modesty and respect, considering what the foul thing before him had forced upon her.

The Wildling, stinking of the fermented goat milk the men North of the Wall drank to chase away the chill, stared at him with unfocused eyes, seemingly not realizing just WHAT he was looking at. “So? You need to wait your turn.”

Jaime trembled before letting go of the man’s cloak before latching onto the sides of his face, forcing him to stare right at him. His gaze locked with the Wildling’s and finally the man began to realize that he was faced with a burning skull rather than a fleshy face.

At once the man began to scream, clawing at Jaime’s wrists, but his actions were utterly futile and after 20 seconds the man went slack as his body burned from the inside out. With one final death rattle that came with a plume of black smoke the wildling went lax, falling to the ground when Jaime let him go.

“What… what did you do to him?” the little girl whispered.

“Penance Stare,” Jaime said, refusing to turn towards the girl and frighten her more than she already was. “He felt the pain he has caused all others in his life, all his innocent victims.”

With that he turned away and began to walk off.

“…thank you!” the girl called out. “Gods bless you!”

The Gods did something to him. He was still debating if it could honestly be called a blessing.

Much of the trek back to the great Weirwood that Brynden Rivers had made his abode was spent with Jaime slowly regrowing his skin. It was an odd thing, his transformation. Becoming the Spirit of Vengeance didn’t truly hurt, despite what it looked like. The fires were… well, he didn’t want to call it ‘cleansing’ as that would make him sound far too much like Ser Thoros and while the knight had been the entertaining sort he was still part of the Red Priest Cult and Jaime had no desire to add himself to their ranks.

‘Even though they’d all probably worship me,’ he thought to himself as he moved along a half frozen riverbank.

When he became the Spirit it was so very quick and usually it meant he was going into a fight so he didn’t have time to think about how it felt for his flesh to burn to ash and leave only his ivory bones to rest within his fires. It was rather like awakening to find a camp was under attack: one didn’t have time to worry about a pebble in their boot, they were too focused on getting armed so they could fight.

But the long walk back to the Weirwood? He had nothing to do but focus on regrowing his skin and how odd it felt. He remembered how his cousin Orson, who had been rendered an utter half wit due to a wet nurse dropping him on his head, spending his days in the garden smashing beetles with a rock. Kurcunk kurcunk kurcunk. Tyrion had been obsessed with him, trying to figure out why he smashed the beetles. One time when Jaime had been trying to get his brother to do something else Orson had taken a tumble and fallen onto an ant hill. Jaime and Tyrion had rushed to help him up, for even if he were simple he was still a Lannister, and he never forgot the sensation of all those angry ants crawling along his skin, trying desperately to figure out what had happened and where they were going. That was how it felt when he regrew his skin. Thousands of ants scurrying over him.

He took his time with the process. When he’d first pledged himself to the Old Gods he had regrown his skin in seconds and it had been such a horrific experience he’d been left trembling on his knees. But that hadn’t stopped him from taking on the mantle of the Spirit of Vengeance… after all, the Old Gods had been right: save for a final horrible death he would never be free of his vow. He had to become the Spirit. So he had worked to figure out the best way to deal with the unpleasantness and discovered if he went slow, allowing his skin to slowly regrow, inch by inch, then it didn’t bug him so much. Some might have argued that he was mentally torturing himself by prolonging the sensation but he would argue that it was better to slowly raise the temperature of bath water rather than dive into a boiling pot.

The sun had poked out over the horizon, causing the snows the gleam like thousands of diamonds, when he finally arrived at the roots of the great Weirwood with all his bits back in place. Osha was standing near the entrance to the tunnels, spear in hand, watching him carefully.

“You were out late again,” she said. “What do you do out there, all by yourself, in the dark?”

“What do most people do in the dark?” Jaime asked with a smile. “What would you do?”

“Try and find someplace that wasn’t dark,” the Free Folk woman told him, causing Jaime to laugh.

“If you weren’t that smart then. If you were as dumb as me.”

“You aren’t dumb,” she told him. “I don’t know why you say that.”

Jaime chuckled again. “That’s something I have never understood. When I brag about things such as my looks or my skill with a blade people become upset. Even though it is entirely true they are mad that I am stating such things. And yet when I state that I am stupid in so many things they also get mad. I wish you all would make up your minds.”

“It is because you aren’t dumb, Jaime,” Osha told him. “You are far more clever than you give yourself credit for.”

“Ah, but only in certain things. My brother, who I truly hope you get to meet as I would love to watch the two of you have a conversation… it would either lead to a battle or you stealing him, there is no middle ground there I do believe… once told me ‘All men are stupid Jaime. All women too. It is the smart man who admits they are stupid about things’. It is one of his little comments that I actually understand and makes me wish he had been a maester because a book on his muses would aid many.” He gestured at her. “Take you, for example. You are stupid.”

Osha merely raised an eyebrow. It was only the fact that he said it with no bite that probably kept him from discovering if his transformation into the Spirit would allow him to heal a broken nose.

“You have no idea about how to dance with a king or manage the wealth of a house. Why should you? You have no need for it. What you are brilliant at are the things you must know. You are the best tracker I have ever met. A far better hunter than I am. I know swords but you know spears. You know how to find food even under all this snow and how to stay warm. You are smart when you need to be and dumb in what you do not. And you know that.”

“How is it you make calling me stupid a compliment?” she asked, bemused.

“A rare gift,” Jaime stated.

“It still doesn’t change the fact that you ain’t dumb.” She took a step towards him. “Because you managed to almost distract me so you wouldn’t have to tell me what you were doing out there all alone in the dark.”

Jaime gave her a more bashful smile. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to just drop it?”

Osha considered him for a moment before a smirk formed on her lips. “Well, I have been rather bored just roamin’ around. Meera and I train but she needs to rest, Jojen isn’t that interesting to be around, and watching Bran and the Tree Crow sit around doin’ nothing isn’t that entertainin’. So I suppose I have to fall back on old favorites.”

And with that she reached down and cupped his groin.

“I-“ Jaime stammered in shock.

The Spear Wife though merely began to fondle him. “We’re north of the Wall now, Jaime. We don’t do sweet words and pledges to be only with each other. A man and a woman see each other, like what they see, and they go fuck. I’m not gonna take in the boys’ cocks, Meera’s too young for ya-“ Jaime scowled at that thought; he had come to care for Meera but not in… that way, “and I’ve seen how ya look at Mantis. Ain’t no lust there. So unless ya want ta fuck Summer or the Tree Crow then I’m your only option.” She smirked and gave him a squeeze that had Jaime choking. “Don’t worry… if ya hate it we won’t do it again. And if’n ya like it we can keep goin’. Hells, if you get me with child at least I know it will be a strong daughter.” She began to walk away but considering she still had a hold of his cock Jaime had little choice in following after her. “Besides, what else are we supposed to do?”

Not able to argue with that Jaime allowed her to lead him on.

~MC~MC~MC~

Hours later Jaime splashed some of the warm water onto his face before using a rag to wipe under his arms and between his legs. There was an underground hot spring that fed the Weirwood and there were spots where the waters bubbled up, allowing Jaime and his group a chance to clean themselves without freezing. Behind him Osha murmured before curling under the heavy fur blanket that hide much of her nude form.

She was nothing like Cersei. Hard where his sister was soft. Yet soft where Cersei was hard. With her nearly non-existent breasts and corded arms and legs it had been like lying with another knight. Yet Osha knew how to make sex feel amazing, understanding how her body worked and what to do with it. There was no part of her that she didn’t understand, much as Jaime did his own. And there wasn’t a single inch of skin she wasn’t willing to use to bring them pleasure. Cersei, at her most daring, had allowed him to take her from behind, rutting like dogs. For her the thrill had been fucking where they might get caught, taking needless risks. But Osha? For her it was all the many different ways they could pass the time using only their naked forms.

He had plunged himself between her breasts. Watched her scream and pant as he plundered her ass. She in turn had forced him between her legs to lap at her cunt and then mocked him when she’d turned and spread her cheeks and told him to get to work. He’d fingered her till she’d sprayed and in turn she’d had him lie down as she used her feet to stimulate him.

Pulling on his britches and donning his shirt he carefully grabbed her clothing and draped it over a chair so they might warm near the fire before donning his boots. He cast one last look at her and decided that yes, they would be doing that again before he headed out into the dark earthen tunnels.

The dread he had felt in there the first time he’d traveled through the tunnels had disappeared thanks to having to constantly move through them. And, if he were honest, he always felt like the Old Gods were with him as he moved through the Weirwood. Where before it had been him alone, approaching Bloodraven’s chamber, now he walked with the gods supporting him. More than once he’d been struck by the sensation of one of them placing a hand on his shoulder, whispering that all would be well and they would not allow him to become forever lost in the darkness.

‘Cersei always mocked the Northerners. Said that their gods were not real for we could not look upon even a carving of their faces. That they worshiped silly things like the rocks and the trees.’ He wondered what she would think of him now, having becoming a worshiper of them. ‘Mockery, most likely.’

After a few minutes he entered into one of the larger caverns in the tunnel network, nodding to Meera who was sharpening one of her frog spears, checking over each of the tines to ensure that they were perfectly sharp. Summer was dozing by the small fire that the Marsh Girl had started, the remains of some animal the direwolf had caught lying beside him. Jaime took a seat next to her, not saying a word as he grabbed a potato and began to peal it. The thing was tiny, a fourth the size of the ones he was used to, and its skin was as black as coal, but the northern potatoes were able to grow deep under the dirt and snow of the true North and made for a hardy meal if one were desperate.

“You were up early,” Meera said.

“Chatting with Osha.”

“Oh, is that what you call it?” Meera asked. Jaime shot her a look and the young woman gave an unladylike snort. “You two were fucking.”

‘Summer can smell it in the air. You rutted often. In ways that will not produce pups, Summer thinks.’

Jaime just shot Summer a quick look; he still wasn’t for sure if the direwolf talked to anyone other than him. It would do no good if he began talking back to Summer only for everyone to just stare at him like he’d lost his mind. So instead he turned his focus on Meera and stated, “Are you old enough to be using terms such as that?”

“There are women who have already birthed heirs who are my age,” Meera pointed out. “High born and low.” She paused, considering him for a moment with a teasing smirk. “Not going to say that ‘fucking’ is too vulgar for a noblewoman’s mouth?”

“That would depend on someone believing you were a noblewoman,” he pointed out, Meera making a rude gesture at him. Or he assumed it was a rude gesture; he wasn’t up to speed on all of the northern customs but he assumed based on her narrowed eyes that it wasn’t a blessing upon him. “What are your plans for the day?” he asked, finishing pealing the potato and working to cut it into chunks that were tossed into the small fry pan that sat on the fire. The oil from something that had been made by… well, he wasn’t for sure who but he trusted all of them to cook something non-disgusting… was still in the pan and thus the potatoes began to bubble and hiss in the oil the moment he tossed them in.

“Need to stock back up… check the traps to make sure nothing tripped them and ran off.” Unfortunately when she said ‘traps’ she didn’t mean snares for rabbits. No, it was for the wights that would occasionally wander by, searching for humans to convert into their ranks. Jaime did his best to thin them out each night but sometimes he just missed one.

“I’ll come with, if you don’t mind,” he said.

“You’d be welcome,” Meera said with a smile.

“Then we’ll head out in an hour. Osha will have gotten enough sleep that if Hodor gets into trouble she can help him out.”

“He won’t,” Meera assured him. “He’s been following Mantis around, doing odd jobs for her.” She looked down at the pan as Jaime focused on stirring his breakfast. “She still bothers you, doesn’t she?”

He didn’t snap at her with a sarcastic comment, even though he honestly wanted too. Instead he merely said, “If someone you knew, had cared for, had tried to protect, suddenly returned after you had thought them died… how would you feel?”

“Grateful,” Meera stated at once. “I would be happy to have a second chance to be with them again.”

“Well… I guess we are just different.”

“I suppose,” Meera stated. “Though that’s why we work together so well.”

Jaime smiled at that before reaching into his boot and pulling out a knife. “You’ll need to make a sheath for that but it will be good for you to have more than one. A proper warrior should always have more than one knife.”

“Oh, I’m a proper warrior now?” Meera teased.

“Of course you are. Any fool who doesn’t see that deserves the beating you’d give them.” She looked down at the knife and her eyes widened.

“This is good steel!”

“Found it while I was wandering around this morning,” he lied. In actuality he’d found it on a wight who’d been a member of the Night’s Watch. It had been sticking out of the man’s jaw and Jaime had claimed it after cleaving the top of his skull off with Dark Sister. He’d figured that Meera could make better use of it than he ever good. “I’m thinking we need to explore a bit more… forage for more than food. You never know the dangerous you might find.”

She huffed at that. “I keep telling Jojen he needs to train with a blade for that same reason but he keeps telling me his place is to help Bran.” Her eyes narrowed but she didn’t say a word, much to Jaime’s relief. The tunnels they were in… he couldn’t prove it but he had the feeling Bloodraven was always listening. They’d made too many small comments about needs only for their requests to be made by the man. If he’d thought that would endear him to Jaime he’d been mistaken.

‘I remember the tales,’ he thought to himself as he scooped out the potatoes, putting them in a wooden bowl and adding a few scraps of dried fox jerky to it. ‘He might try and portray himself as a noble sort but Brynden Rivers has always been a dangerous man. Claiming he was doing the work he did for the ‘good of the realm’… which just so happened to be in his benefit.’

During the reign of Aerys the First a trio of grain merchants united together in order to control the price of their wares. Each was the second son of a powerful Reach family (Jaime couldn’t remember which each belonged to) and thus had called themselves the Second Seeds. They were able to rip control of their family’s lands from their fathers and brothers, using their alliance as proof that THEY should rule. Prices had already been rising because of a drought and the Second Seeds took advantage of that.

Brynden Rivers had stepped in at that point but rather than use force like so many had thought he would rely upon, instead he’d baffled the realm by giving the Second Seeds a seat on the Small Council.

A SINGLE seat.

A whispered word here. A friendly smile there. Rumors spoken in the right ears. Soon the Second Seeds began to believe that each of them were secretly working to make a deal with the Iron Throne. Brynden of course would always deny this when confronted and offer the accuser something… which only made the other two members of the Seeds grow all the more bitter. Finally he arranged a meeting with each one at the same place and the same time and never showed himself. Men who had their senses and were able to remain calm would have realized the trick and torn apart his plot. But the flames of anger and mistrust had grown too high and when Bloodraven finally arrived hours later he had found three corpses.

His supporters claimed he did it to lower the prices of grain. His detractors that he didn’t like anyone with more power than himself.

The truth was that one of the merchants had danced with Shiera Seastar, Brynden’s great love, and he had decided to destroy him for that offense.

Cersei had tittered over the tale, stating that it showed how far a man would go to defend his beloved.

Jaime had thought it cruel that Shiera allowed her half-brother to do so much over such a petty thing as a dance.

‘The Old Gods warned me that we can not trust Bloodraven. But we also need him… what he can teach Bran…’ It reminded him far too much of his father, who had such skill in so many things yet at the same time was a man that no person, smallfolk or lord, should have hold in their trust. ‘He will use us all until it is to his benefit not to use us… and then he will cast us aside or worse.’

“Jaime?” Meera said.

“Sorry,” he stated, realizing he had become lost in his thoughts. “Let me finish this and we’ll head out to check the snares and traps.” Meera shot him a look, it clear she wanted to press just what had caused him to lose focus, but politeness meant she wouldn’t ask outloud. Which was good because Jaime wasn’t ready to share just yet.

Better she live in blissful ignorance for a bit more.

~MC~MC~MC~

The chambers of the Bloodraven would never stop bothering Jaime.

There was something so very… wrong… about them.

It didn’t feel like they were connected to the Old Gods; not as Jaime was now. He understood now what the Northsmen meant when they said they needed no Sept to practice their faith. The Old Gods truly were EVERYWHERE. Every rock. Every tree. Every stream. Their influence ebbed and flowed, so that there were places where they were more powerful to the point that Jaime imagined he might be able to feel them even without being their Spirit of Vengeance. And there were places where their touch was diminished. It reminded him of the many times during the battles and campaigns he’d fought in when he’d gotten and sense of foreboding or a sense of relief yet didn’t understand why. In the former it was because the Old Gods were weak in that spot while the latter was where they could whisper to his unhearing ears “We are with you”.

He wondered what he would feel in the Red Keep. Would the Old Gods have been driven from there by the Targaryens and their magic? Or had Maegor with his blood sacrifices caused them to become stronger and that is why Kings of Westeros had faced so many hardships? Every Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms had failed to have a proper succession that wasn’t marred in controversy; could it be the Old Gods? And what of other places? Would he feel them in Casterly Rock, where his father had done all he could to drive out the Faith of the Seven for he saw it as useless? Should he be allowed to step foot in Winterfell again would he collapse under the weight of their influence?

But the chamber Bloodraven was held in?

It was completely and utterly void of the Old Gods.

Bran suddenly awoke, eyes flickering as he gasped. His pupils and irises returned and movement came to his form again. It was all very much a relief to Jaime because when the boy began to warg into the Weirwood it became nothing more than a corpse that didn’t truly understand it was dead. Hodor at first had panicked and it had taken all of them holding him back to keep him from crushing Bran in a hug as he tried to awaken the boy. He was better at it now, understanding just what was happening (or not… Jaime at times didn’t understand exactly what Bran and Bloodraven were doing), though he tended to avoid the chamber all together or, if he had to enter, remain on the very edges of it.

‘I don’t blame him,’ Jaime thought as Brynden awoke, his return to reality fair more leisurely.

“I can’t do it!” Bran exclaimed. “I keep getting so close but I just-“

“That is because you allow your emotions to rule you, rather than you ruling them,” Bloodraven said in his calm, unbreaking voice. “The Weirwoods feel it and listen to their desires rather than your own.”

“But my emotions are me.”

“They aren’t,” Bloodraven said, his voice calm yet Jaime felt his teeth ache at how patronizing the man came off as. It was the same tone his father used when Jaime had told him about Ned Stark’s actions in the Capital and his father had only cared about Jaime’s own failures. Trying to make it sound like a lesson when in reality it was little more than a harsh scolding. “We are made up of many parts. Our emotions. Our needs. Our desires. They rule us or we rule them. Your emotions rule you.”

‘Like your desires for your sister ruled you?’ Jaime desperately wanted to say, just to see what the bastard (and he meant that with nothing about the man’s birth) would do.

“I keep failing,” Bran complained, shifting about. Jaime moved to help him up but Brynden, spotting him, lifted a single hand and Jaime grit his teeth as Bran was forced to crawl on his arms like a worm.

“Of course you do,” Bloodraven stated. “You are unfocused. It is as I told you: I do not know if I can teach you. It was always a gamble that you would have the skill. Its fine though, there is no shame in failure.”

“I can do it,” Bran insisted, cheeks heating up as he turned back to the Bloodraven.

“Perhaps a bit of food and some sleep,” Jaime said, stepping forward.

“Today has been a failure,” Brynden admitted and Jaime forced himself not to scowl at that. “Perhaps tomorrow you will finally be willing to actually take this seriously.”

“I can do it,” Bran said, his frustrations wiped away and left with dark determination. “We can try again.”

“…very well,” Bloodraven said and at once the two fell back into their warging trances.

‘Damn you,’ Jaime thought bitterly as he stalked out.

“You must trust him,” Jojen said softly; he had grown so used to the pale boy suddenly appeared that he only jumped a little when the moon-eyed jackass decided to suddenly speak up.

“And which ‘him’ are we talking about? The boy that is working himself to near death? Or the man that is half tree and half corpse that is happily allowing it to happen?” Jaime continued to stalk away from the chamber, making no move to shorten his strides so that Jojen could keep up. Part of him honestly wished that he be left far behind him, huffing and puffing as he tried to catch up, or would trip and fall and end up coughing up old dirt and moss as he watched Jaime leave. But Jojen once more disappointed and kept up with him.

“Bran is the key to saving the world,” Jojen said. “The powers that Brynden Rivers is teaching him will help us all.”

“And he won’t be able to use them if he starves himself to death,” Jaime argued. “Were you even listening to them? The Bloodraven is manipulating Bran, playing on his fears and his desires. He knows he is going to fail again because unlike Bloodraven Bran needs to eat and sleep still. But he works him to exhaustion so he can claim that he still has many flaws and then send him off in despair, knowing that Bran will return even more dedicated to continue. I have seen this mummur’s farce performed many times… I was in the starring role myself.”

“Bran must learn,” Jojen repeated.

“Because you saw it in your visions,” Jaime growled as the boy moved to walk side by side with him.

“Yes. I have seen it.”

Jaime’s foot lashed out, kicking Jojen’s ankle and causing him to crash to the ground.

“You didn’t see that coming, did you?” he taunted with his old smirk.

Jojen though merely rose up. “It doesn’t work like that.”

“Seems like piss poor future visions if you can’t see when you are going to get hurt.” He huffed when Jojen stumbled; he struck the boy harder than he’d meant to and now he was limping. In one sweeping movement Jaime lifted Jojen up, holding him in his arms much as he did with Bran when he needed to be moved about. Having the boy close though allowed him to whisper, “Sometimes I wonder, Jojen, if you truly care for any of us. Or if you are just Bloodraven’s puppets.”

That caused the dreamy lad to finally focus on him. “I care for you all,” Jojen whispered.

“Then maybe you should start acting like it. Because Bran is dying. He is losing weight. He used to be able to crawl around easily enough now if we don’t care him he is little more than a grub in the dirt. He barely eats. Barely sleeps. The Bloodraven is killing our savior… or worse making him into his duplicate. And do you think that root-covered bastard truly cares about us?”

Jojen’s silence proved there might just be hope for him yet.

~MC~MC~MC~

The Old Gods did not demand their followers bow to them. Did not need to see the masses bend their knees and lower their heads. They knew their power and did not need to be reminded of it. Did not need to be paid homage. It was refreshingly blunt, much like the North itself as Jaime was finding.

It was always why he knelt down all the same.

“Arise, Jaime Lannister,” the Old Gods proclaimed. “You have done well to protect life. Not just from the threat of the Others but your own kind who do not see the value of the living.”

“I made another vow. To protect the innocent. I… have not kept it as I should have but I will keep it now.”

“We know,” they said with a finality that made Jaime’s bones ache. “And now we have a new task for you.” The roots of the Weirwood began to slither and slink about and it took Jaime a moment to realize they were forming a great map of the North. “Throughout these lands there are items of power, left behind by those that fought for the Dawn. We would see you return them to us, so they might be given to those that will fight against Thanos and his army. “

Jaime nodded but didn’t raise his head.

“You are troubled.”

“Bran is being used by Bloodraven. The man… even without your warning I would see that he is a danger. I do not trust the others around him. Jojen is too easily swayed by his visions and Meera will not act against her brother. Hodor is loyal to Bran and until Bran sees that Bloodraven is a danger that means Hodor is Brynden’s creature. That leaves only Osha and possibly Summer to defend against his schemes. If you send me away they will fall.“

“You forget,” the Old Gods said, “there is Mantis.”

“…she is just a little girl.”

“She was a little girl,” the Old Gods said. “Now she is a warrior. Do not let her actions fool you… she is quite cunning, Jaime Lannister. She will watch over your friends while you are away. And you will return to us often.”

Jaime sighed but accepted that, looking over the map. “I assume the leaves are points I must go to.” He examined the spots carefully. “They are spread out… some even back in Westeros. It will be a long journey.”

“Which is why you must have a steed that can handle such a trip.”

There was a cold gust of wind and when Jaime looked up he nearly scrambled back. There, looming in front of him, was a sabercat.

It was as big as a horse with fangs nearly as large as his forearms. Its dark eyes gleamed as it approached him, dark tongue flicking out to lick its lips. It was no ordinary beast, not even for its own kind, for there was a black glow to it, flames the color of ebony rising from its fur.

“Your mount,” the Old Gods stated. “Hellfire. She will see you to your locations and at a greater speed than any on this world have ever known.”

Jaime approached and on pure instinct allowed himself to take on his Spirit form, his own flames mingling with Hellfire’s. The sabercat allowed him to settle himself onto her and he gripped her fur before the roots shifted again, creating an opening beyond the Weirdwood.

Without saying a word Jaime was off, Hellfire racing away from the tree leaving a trail of flames behind her.

Chapter Text

Catelyn

There had been many Queens of the North, Catelyn had known that fact well. There had to be queens, after all, unless the Kings of the North had merely had bastards that they legitimized. Even with her recent work to be more… understanding of people like that (‘it isn’t the child’s fault; hatred and scorn should be sent towards the fathers who get young girls with babes and the mothers who long for it because they believe it will raise them in station’) she knew that there was simply no way a king could remain in power if they engaged in such actions. Having a bride allowed one to make ties with houses stronger or create them with those that were a risk.

There had been many Queens of the North. Even the most snobbish of Southern Lords couldn’t deny that, for the simple fact that the North was the oldest of the Kingdoms. Lines were broken often in the South. The Lannisters, Proud Kings of the Rock, had their origins in Lann the Clever stealing the crown from the Casterlys, the kings that came before them. The Stormlands had always had the Durrandon but Catelyn remembered who Maester Parton had told her that the Citadel believed that they had only ruled for 200 years, not the 2000 they sometimes claimed in order to try and match the Starks, for it had been common in the Stormlands for conquerors to take the names, sigils, and colors of their fallen foes. The Durrandon is dead, long live the Durrandon had been a common saying, according to Parton.

There had been many Queens of the North. And yet for all her knowledge that this was true she knew nothing of them!

The records were rather scarce about them, with the best of them stating their names, the dates of their marriages, and the children born to them. But otherwise there was almost nothing about them. Not like in the South, where the deeds of the Targaryen Queens were well known, told by the Maesters to eager children; sometimes proving FAR more interesting than their royal husbands!

Maester Luwin had been apologetic when he’d shown her his findings. “It is said in the North that the best of Kings and Queens are the ones that people forgot existed. It was a sign of their steady rule that there was little need to record their deeds. When a King is written of in the North it is either because of a war, which to the North was a sign that they could not beat their foes into submission without the backing of others, or scandal which would see them rather quickly overthrown by their kin.” The last part had been true; Catelyn had been startled at how many times the Stark Kings had resorted to kinslaying to remove cruel or incompetent rulers and then been PRAISED for such actions. Kinslaying was a sin yet the North saw it as something easily forgiven if the kin was a beast in man’s skin.

It didn’t help Catelyn in the slightest though.

‘How am I to be a good Queen if I do not know how to be Queen?’ she thought to herself as she sat in Winterfell’s Great Hall. ‘There are no true queens I can look to in the South. Alysanne is the most fondly remembered of the Targaryen Queens but her rule was marked with misery when it came to her children. So many lost to her, so many made into strangers or taken by the Stranger. I can not bear any more myself, not with what I have gone through.’ She looked over at her children, studying them one at a time. Robb in his monstrous form, happily consuming a whole pig, drool dribbling down his lips even as his wife Roslin watched on, amused. Sansa seated on the ground as her great size meant that even plopped down on the floor she was still eye level with her sister. Arya dressed in wild Essosi garb, speaking in a tongue she didn’t understand. Bran secured to a chair so he might not fall, sullen and quiet as his twisted legs, more like tree roots than limbs, dangled uselessly towards the floor. Rickon, now older than his brothers, telling some bawdy joke that had the shapeless figures around him letting out laughter that echoed around her like water in a cave.

She had suffered enough. She couldn’t look to even the best of Southern Queens.

But the North did not tell her of their own. What they had done to receive praise and honor for their families. She had no idea what to do-

A clear voice cut through her thoughts. “The petitioners are here, your Grace.”

“See them in,” she said, settling back on the throne, watching as the first entered.

The first impression Catelyn had when she looked at the woman was ‘cold’. Everything about the woman was as cool as a Northern storm. She held herself stiffly, with her gait being like a tree branch that had been caught in a sudden freeze and thus unable to move without snapping. Her head remained firmly pointed forward, never glancing around the hall as she made her way towards Catelyn. She was dressed in fine Southern garments that made Catelyn pull her own furs tighter around herself, for they were far too thin and airy for even the warmth of Winterfell. And her eyes… there was no warmth there, not even from anger or rage. It was like finding a beehive that had been long abandoned by the colony, left to sit there, hollow and empty.

“Your grace,” the woman said, bowing her head though it seemed to pain her greatly. Her hair had once been red, perhaps as fiery as Catelyn’s own, but now was streaked with grays and whites that did not belong to someone of her age. “I come seeking aid.”

“What is it we can do for you?” Catelyn asked.

“My lord husband… he has cast me from our home.” She gestured at her dress. “All I now have is what I wear. He is a beast, a wild creature who has no idea how to rule… I tried to show him how it must be but he turned against me and refused to listen. My children have been kept from me… I must have my children. Who will tell them what to do? How to think? They need no teacher, no instructor… no husbands or wives! I will be their spouse! All that matters! They are extensions of me! I am the only one that knows what is best for them!” The ice remained even as the woman grew more manic. It was… odd… to say the least, to hear the crazed words from someone who looked so stilted. “That is why I was sent to the North! I must change them all! Force them to become like the South! You see that, don’t you? How they are barbarians and savages and only my Southern ways can cure them? Can’t you see? I will make the snows disappear and the crops always grow and the summer never end if people just become like me! Can’t you see-“

She lunged suddenly at Catelyn and she leaned back, startled, only for guards to suddenly rush forward, grabbing the woman and dragging her away, her pleas and demands filling the air long after she had been removed. Catelyn remained sitting on the throne, her hand pressed to her chest as she felt her heart beating rapidly in her chest.

“The next petitioner,” the servant said.

“I need a moment,” Catelyn stated but the request went unheard and another woman entered, this time not alone. She moved with the grace and strength of an Empress, head held high and every movement filled with utter pride. Beside her was a lad with auburn hair, dressed in gallant clothing, smiling at the crowd. Yet… Catelyn saw that those in attendance weren’t awed by the young man’s smile. Instead they seemed ready to hiss at him like a cat cornered by an angry cook.

“We come to ask for your aid, your grace,” the woman said, bowing to her with a flourish. “My son has been removed as his rightful place as Lord and he must be put back into command.”

“If I must,” the auburn haired boy said with a dramatic sigh.

“What do you mean that he has been removed?” Catelyn questioned. “By whom?”

“By the people!” the woman exclaimed. “They say he is weak! Unfit to lead. And while it is true that he does not know the ways of war I have taught him the ways of the South. That makes him superior to all others, does it not? Anyone can see that! Our ways are the best ways… why would he need to know how to hunt or to fight? He looks handsome on a horse and can woo soft delicate maidens and that is all a ruler needs!”

She stared at the woman, wondering if she could truly be that foolish.

“They worry about their winters when all know that if you pray to the Seven you will not be harmed! They hold no tournaments, saying the money is better served preparing for the cold to come! Ice and snow! Ice and snow!” She reached over and patted her son’s cheek. “But we know better, do we not my dear boy? We know what truly matters. We know better than them. We always knew better than these savages. If only they would be like us…”

Catelyn shut her eyes, grimacing as the words hit her like body blows.

When she opened them again the woman and her son were gone, replaced by a new petitioner who was accompanied by what Catelyn could only assume were her daughters. All three were dressed in leather and furs, their hair either cut short or tied up in braids that kept them from failing into their eyes. The daughters were vastly different, with one sporting crimson hair and tall while the other was short with dark locks. But both had weapons strapped all over them and even as all three knelt before her she knew that they were ready to battle at a simple command.

“We have come to swear fealty to you, your grace,” the mother stated. Catelyn, startled by how different this woman was from the previous two, raised her hand and the three rose up once more. “We will fight for you. I have raised my daughters to understand life in the North.”

“We are ready to defend our homes,” the elder stated.

At that moment Madge Mormont stepped out of the crowd, offering a hand clasp to the mother. “And I know your girls will do so, Cat.”

The Queen in the North blinked. It was as if she had been staring through a grimy window only for someone to come by and wipe it clean, removing the distortion. She saw now not a stranger… but herself, standing with Arya and Sansa.

“We really must stop meeting like this.”

“Lannister,” Catelyn said, turning her head to look down at the Imp who had appeared beside her throne. He was wearing a dark blue shirt and dark pants, a red cloak hung over his shoulders and several gaudy golden rings upon his fingers.

“I’m still not for sure which one of us is dreaming this though I am beginning to believe that it is you. This certainly isn’t helping me with my troubles. Not unless you know how to deal with a mad sorcerer who wants to bring some otherworldly demon from another dimension into our reality.” He paused, glancing at her with a tilt of his head. “You… don’t know how to deal with that, do you?”

Catelyn shook her head.

“Aw. Didn’t hurt to ask.” He waddled away from the dais, hopping down to the floor and moving to a table, clamoring onto a bench and pouring himself a cup of wine. He lifted it up and sniffed it only to frown. “You, Catelyn Stark, know nothing about wine. If this were my dream I’d be able to smell the wonderful aroma. Understand what flavors were awaiting me. Instead… nothing.” He shrugged. “Still, I suppose beggars truly can’t be choosers.”

“I don’t understand…” Catelyn said, looking about to try and find someone that might have answers only to discover that everyone was gone, leaving only her and the Imp in the Great Hall. Except as she looked about she realized that it wasn’t the Hall of Winterfell at all. Or, at the very least, not all of it. Rather it seemed like it was every important place in her life pressed together like a child smashing together clay. The throne that Ned so hated sitting on the dais but around her were the pillars of Riverrun with their carved fish leaping from streams. The sept where she and Ned had been wed in haste was represented by the statues of the Seven that she remembered from her childhood, including the Mother with the small chip just above her right eye that no one could ever remember being done yet always seemed to startle the servants and Cat’s family when they saw it. The moondoor that had confirmed all her mistakes when it came to the Imp’s capture…

“Yes, I noticed that as well,” Tyrion Lannister said dryly, looking at the very door that had captured Catelyn’s attention. “I could have done without you dreaming that up.”

“I didn’t mean to dream any of this,” she snapped in annoyance. “Do you think if I had I would have allowed you here?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Tyrion said with a smirk, one she remembered all too well from their travels to the Eryie, when he had done all he could to mock her efforts, “there are plenty of women who dream of being with me. I’ll be the first to admit that many of them do it out of an almost… sick perversion. They wonder what I must be like. How twisted I must be. In my travels I have encountered many depraved things that make even me shudder in disgust. In Essos there are pleasure houses that openly boast that their whores will have sex with horses or donkeys for all to see.”

Catelyn scowled at that. “I have no need to hear of your depravities.”

“I didn’t attend… were you not paying attention when I told you that there were things that managed to disgust even me?” He shook his head and took a large swig of wine. “Of course I’d think you wouldn’t be so judgmental… from what I hear your dear Brandon once fucked a horse himself. I wonder if he remembered the moon tea-“

“Enough of your lies!” Catelyn shouted, leaping to her feet.

But Tyrion wasn’t moved. “This is a dream, Lady Stark. Or is it Queen Stark? I can’t tell with the Northerners how it goes. I would think Queen but you can never be sure. A very practical people. Except when they are fucking horses. That doesn’t seem practical at all to me.” He shrugged. “There were other things as well. Do you know how many men have come to me, seeking to be with me because they saw me as a child they could fuck? Women too, though they are rarer. Still, despite them being rare there are more than you would believe.” He paused. “Your dear friend Baelish made much of his wealth from such things.”

That Catelyn didn’t call it a lie but she was in no mood to discuss such vulgar and sinful things. “I am leaving.” She marched through a door only to blink when she found herself once more in the Great Hall. She looked back through the door and saw Tyrion wave to her, then looking into the room she was standing in to find him there as well.

“Dream logic, you will find, is no logic at all.” Tyrion held up a glass and the other Tyrion returned his toast before Catelyn slammed the door. “But we were discussing the two of us. You will deny it all you want, as will many women in the Seven Kingdoms, that you ever thought about me. But…” he rose in the air, floating towards her. “I know that you wonder about it. I pay for so many whores and yet… not a single one of them have ever said an ill word about me. There is no gossip from their corners about how disgusting and twisted my body is. They are oddly… quiet. Why might that be?”

“Enough,” Catelyn said. “I do not know why you are here but if you are correct this is MY dream. MY mind. And I want you out!”

The Imp just continued to stare at her, the aggravating little smile remaining on his lips.

“…shoo.”

“Oh! Are we resorting to that now!” He sniggered at her, sitting down on the table and pouring himself another glass of wine. “Will you attempt to get me to obey by threatening to send me to bed right after supper?” He shook his head at that. “No, Lady Stark. I will not ‘shoo’. I have been dragged away from my studies to assist you and I will do just that.”

Catelyn shot him a dark glower at that comment. “And what exactly, Lannister, could you assist me with? The destruction of the North? The slaughter of all I hold dear?”

“You forgot ‘how to be creative in bed’. Now, I admit that you lucked out that Ol’ Ned is easy to please so I won’t have to teach you much, if you desire the lessons. Brandon though… oh, if you had married him he would have grown sick of you after your first child if you hadn’t learned to adapt. He was a wild creature, a beast given the form of a man.”

She refused to confirm that was true. But… there was truth to Tyrion Lannister’s words. Having spent only a small amount of time around Drax, as Brandon was now called, had shown that a marriage between the two of them would have been utterly frustrating. Ned had come home with a bastard (that wasn’t even his own, she now knew) and worked hard to earn her forgiveness. Brandon would have abandoned her to sleep with any maid or servant or Bannerman’s daughter that caught his eye and made his loins swell. He was… he was Robert, honestly. Probably why Ned had loved his lost friend so very much but much like Lyanna… Catelyn would never want to be married to such a man.

“As for the other two,” Tyrion stated, “I am not interested in causing those. Quite the opposite.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Others have returned. You know this.”

Suddenly the doors to the Great Hall burst open and with them came the coldest wind that Catelyn had ever felt. It rushed over her, finding every hole and gape in her clothing, and at once chilled her so hard she was shivering. She trembled as around her the tables iced over, the floor become so heavy with snow that it rushed over the dais to her feet, and the Imp looked as if he were standing on a sled rather than a table. Thick icicles hung down, so large they were more like barbarian clubs, and even with all that white around her a darkness settled in her heart as she sat back down on her throne, curling up on herself.

“But,” the Imp stated, “it is not Winter yet. The Fall remains… and with it you must look East, not North.”

The snows were gone but the chill remained as Catelyn slowly forced herself to stand up once more.

“Something had returned from the other side. A power that is making all who are training me tremble with dread and rush me through my lessons. One that could rival the Others, if we do not prepare. And you are the key, Lady Stark.”

“Me?” she asked. “I am no warrior.”

“No,” the Imp said and every hearth and torch in the Great Hall exploded. Catelyn looked about wildly as everything began to burn except for her and the Imp; burn yet also retain its shape, so that the Great Hall became made not of stone and wood but fire. And when she looked at her hands she saw that she too was the fire. “You are the Phoenix.”

Those words were what caused Catelyn to awake, eyes flying open as she ripped herself from the dream and returned to the waking world.

She had suffered many nightmares in her life. No one was able to go through existence without having them. Even the worst monsters had nightmares. But this one had been different. The cold sweat that usually was the final result, leaving her chilled with the sheets clinging to her, wasn’t there. She felt warm instead but not feverish; she knew that sensation as well. No, she merely felt as if she had thrown too many blankets onto the bed which was a rarity for her. Ned loved the cold and often she had awoken to find that he had thrown open the window of their room to let in the Northern chill. He had offered to sleep in the bedroom that was connected to their own room, one he had used when she had been pregnant and needed her rest without him disturbing her, but she always told him it was silly and they would find a compromise for the chill.

Now it was her standing up, not bothering to grab her robe, and walking over to the window. The moonlight and the cold air ran across her naked flesh, making her nipples harden from their touch, yet it did little to make her feel cool. There was a fire in her belly at that moment, hot and demanding, and it left her feeling restless.

“You are the Phoenix.”

Why did those words have such an effect on her?

“Cat?” Ned said groggily, slowly rising up from their bed. He threw off the sheets and moved to get up but the heat in her belly suddenly shifted as she looked him over.

‘Oh,’ she thought to herself before she was suddenly racing forward, leaping at Ned who caught her, startled by her rash rush. But Catleyn didn’t care. She began to kiss him and fondle him, the heat racing through her body and only his cold Northern seed would make the flames quell down.

They didn’t go back to sleep.

~MC~MC~MC~

“Where is father?” Robb asked as Catelyn entered into the Great Hall, looking away from Sansa who he had been helping to eat her breakfast. Ned had commissioned a larger chair, more like a massive stool, for her to sit on comfortably when at the table with them but without hands she still needed help eating her breakfast. Robb and Rickon were kind though, swapping who would assist handing her bacon or chops of ham or chicken breast, while Sansa was delicate in how she snapped them up. Catelyn knew that her daughter still snuck out to hunt with the wolf pack that now held domain of the Wolf Woods that surrounded Winterfell but it was important to her that her daughter remember she was a woman even if trapped in the furs of a wolf.

“He will be having breakfast in his chambers,” Catelyn stated as she moved to sit down next to her son.

“He ain’t sick, is he?” Yondu asked, raising an eyebrow. It had been… awkward… getting used to having Ned’s father around but Yondu as he insisted she call him had tried to make things easier on her; unlike Drax who merely had to say a word to leave her flustered and red-faced. “I warned that boy that the mutton didn’t smell quite right last night-“

“No no,” Catelyn said as a servant walked over to her with some bread and butter, another bringing a glass of chilled milk. “He is merely… worn down. He needs a bit more rest. The duties of a king.” She looked at the servant. “Three slices of ham, glazed with honey. Bacon, a rasher or… yes, two rashers. Some honeycakes-“ Sansa’s head lifted up before she ‘wuffed’ at that, for they had found that her beloved honeycakes did not sit well on her direwolf stomach, “-and two potatoes, fried.”

Everyone stared at her as she finished with her request.

“Duties of a king, huh?” Yondu said with a smile that proved he was Drax’s father.

Catelyn felt her face grow heated but refused to allow herself to break her eye contract with Yondu. The man considered her for a moment more before, with a slight nod, he turned back to discussing something with Rickon. She had won some victory or past some test… she wasn’t for sure which but she knew she had and that pleased her greatly.

“Will father be able to hold court?” Robb asked. “Because Roslin and I were planning to see how the workers are doing installing the sunstone lamps on the King’s Road.”

That had been one of Lord Karstark’s first major projects to help deal with the bandit attacks that would begin to rise up as the days grew shorter and the nights far longer. Desperate people leaving their farms to make it to places like Winter Town or other villages designed to take in mass influxes of people would always attract robbers. Lord Karstark had stated that while he could send Snowcloaks to patrol the roads what would help all the more would be the installing of sunstone lamps. Great timbers roughly 20 feet tall were pounded into the ground beside the King’s Road at a spacing of 40 feet. Attached at the top were large bronze bells with sunstones filled into them. The bronze helped project the light down onto the road, illuminating it far better than even moonlight, creating a cone roughly 35 feet to 45 feet in diameter. Travelers would be able to move for longer and see dangers coming. It would also aid when the snows came, as travels would be able to follow the light, knowing they were on the right path. According to Ned while starvation and exposure were the two biggest dangers of winter both could be mitigated if one did not get lost. Lord Karstark stated that they would only be able to complete the King’s Road before Winter came but when it finally broke they would have enough knowledge that they could complete all other major roads, creating a branching network of lit roads that allowed one to travel safely throughout the Kingdom.

“No, your father will be holding a Small Council meeting in an hour. He just needed a bit more rest. There is no reason to change your plans.” She paused. “I understand the appeal but I do hope she won’t grow bored.”

“We will visit some of the farms as well, to hand out some coin to help them,” Robb stated. “And Roslin said that if she is the be Princess of the North she must understand it better. We will take a picnic lunch and return well before supper.”

It pleased Catelyn that Roslin was thinking like that… and made her feel a twinge of guilt that her good-daughter had learned the lesson that Catelyn had taken far too long to learn. “And you will take an escort?”

“Why?” Venom asked, forming on Robb’s shoulder. “We said we were taking lunch already, no need for more.”

Catelyn pressed her lips together at the reminder that Venom preferred fresh meat… and didn’t care if said meet could hold a conversation with them. “While you can protect yourself a Prince does need to show some restraint. And caution. For me…”

Robb looked at Venom who, after a moment, retreated back into him. “We’ll take a few guards. I’ll talk with Mina in the kitchens to have extra food made up for them.” He stood up and bowed slightly to his mother, a teasing smile on his lips. “Do not worry, we will be careful.”

Catelyn nodded in thanks before looking at Rickon and Yondu. “And what of you two? What plans do you have today?”

“We’ll be heading out of Winterfell as well,” Yondu said with a grunt, reaching over and grabbing a mug of dark beer and taking a long pull on it.

Rickon continued. “Even with Euron Greyjoy dead there is something that is keeping Yondu from being able to fully gaze the events around the Wall. We’re going to look at some of the old runic sites the Children had left behind and see if there has been damaged to them.”

“We don’t need a guard,” Yondu said as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, standing up and stalking away from the table. “They’ll only muddle things up. Bad enough I have to take this one and he was at least trained to know how to walk around those places.”

“Hey!” Rickon exclaimed as he got up, Shaggydog leaping from where he’d been laying and following after Rickon as he chased after his grandfather. “I remember a certain someone slamming into a ritual pillar a few years back and undoing 100 years of work! And his name starts with an Y.”

“What’s that boy, I can’t hear ya over your incompetence!”

Catelyn, completely forgotten by the two, watched as they left the Great Hall, bickering with each other but without the harshness that would worry her that they might end up in a brawl. That left her with just Sansa who she turned to and smiled.

“Plans for today?” she asked, trying to keep the conversation normal.

Sansa let out a ‘wuff’ but then suddenly went ramrod straight, eyes widening before, in one fluid motion, she easily leapt over the table and darted out of the room as quickly as she could. Catelyn frowned, fear gripping her heart at what could have so startled her daughter, only to hear the scrape of a chair against the floor. She turned and saw just what had caused Sansa to flee in a panic and while she wished her daughter had remained she also understood why she had fled.

“Hello goodsister,” Gamora said setting her chair directly across from Catelyn’s place at the table. She sat down with a plate loaded with thick meats, grabbing Rickon’s abandoned knife and fork before she set about wiping them off. “You are a hard person to get alone.”

“Lyanna,” Catelyn said, trying to keep her greeting light enough that it didn’t offend but strong enough that it showed she wouldn’t crumble like a damp scroll. “The duties of a queen…”

“Yes,” Gamora stated, never breaking eye contact as she pulled out a whet stone and set about sharpening the knife. “Let us assume it was only that. We are… family, after all. Family, Duty, Honor. Those are your House Words. Good words. Respectable ones. After so much strife in the Riverlands thanks to the Mudsd and Harren the Black I imagine that the smallfolk were quite pleased that their new liege lords were focused on those three first.”

“I did wrong by Jon,” Catelyn said, already knowing exactly what Gamora was dancing around. “It didn’t matter if he was my nephew or my husband’s bastard… he was still of the blood of House Stark. Robb sees him as a brother… always will. I think that is why he has so readily accepted Venom; he misses Jon and needs someone at his side. Sansa… I admit I did wrong there. In so many ways. Her suffering is my fault and the fact that she hasn’t ripped my throat out is more out of her own good nature than anything I taught her. Arya probably would have fled Winterfell ages ago if Jon hadn’t been here to keep her grounded. Bran and Rickon knew I treated him differently and didn’t understand and I can only hope that with Rickon you taught him better.”

“We did,” Gamora said darkly, putting the whetstone away and beginning to cut into her breakfast, the knife sliding through the thick ham steak like it was water. “You say pretty words, Catelyn. I think that is how you and Ned managed to create a good marriage. My brothers both have a weakness: they aren’t men of words. Actions. Deeds. They are what they deal in. Words are fluff that get in the way, cloud the world around them and make it impossible for them to see truly what is happening.”

She paused.

“I should know… Rhaegar did the same with me.”

Gamora popped a piece of ham into her mouth, chewing on it as Catelyn stared at her, the weight of her words hitting her like a barbarian club.

“I am… nothing like Rhaegar,” she whispered.

“He sung such pretty songs of what we would have. People, at least those that don’t believe that foolishness that he kidnapped me and raped me… as if I could ever be taken. I’d have killed myself before I allowed any man to have me without my wanting. The fact that Robert believed I didn’t go willingly with Rhaegar only proves how ill suited we were.” She stabbed another bit of ham, swirling it in a bit of honey that was on her plate. “But the people who know me yet think that I wanted to be Queen.” Lyanna shot her a dry look. “That’s what you believe too, isn’t it? That silly little Lyanna dreamt of crowns and Iron Thrones?”

“…no,” Catelyn said softly. “No. Ned… he said that Arya was you born again. A second chance at life.”

“She’d be better at riding horses if she had my soul,” Gamora commented.

“It was Sansa who longed for crowns and noble husbands. And… for the wrong reasons.”

Catelyn had thought much about her daughters and spent a lot of time with the servants ever since her return to Winterfell to try and determine just where things had gone wrong. For some of it she would never know; Sansa’s septa was dead and thus Catelyn would never know fully what lessons the pious woman had been gifting to her child. But when talking to others such as Jenye Poole, who had barely managed to escape King’s Landing with the help of a loyal Stark guard, a tale of a child far too sheltered to survive the world outside her home had become clear. It had been utterly innocent. Each person had just wanted to make sure that Sansa didn’t suffer heartbreak and tragedy. Even Ned had done wrong by her, fearing that if he let her wander too far from Winterfell she would end up like Lyanna… or worse, since Sansa had always been a more fragile child than Ned’s sister, prone to crying if scolded even slightly. But all their actions had resulted in a girl who did not see the fairy tales as just that but as reality. She had walked into the den of lions and vipers and thought they would speak with her in pleasant tones and invite her to drink tea.

‘Now though it seems she has learned her lessons,’ Catelyn thought to herself. ‘The journey from King’s Landing was a hard one; even if she could speak of it I do not know if I’d want to hear all she went through. But she has come out of it stronger.’

“Rhaegar did not promise me a crown,” Gamora stated. “He offered me my freedom. He wed me proper, as I refused to be his mistress, but he was not going to set aside Ellia. She would be queen. He would be king. And I would merely be free to do as I pleased. I would warm his bed… or her’s.” Catelyn made a face at that but Gamora merely continued on, not bothering to comment. “I would be able to hunt and fish and travel the realms as I desired. No man would dare touch me for I was the King’s.” She shook her head. “Stupidity. That was what it was. But… I was desperate. I believed him when he said he wouldn’t mind a boy or a girl. I know differently now.”

That made Catelyn look at her in surprise. “What do you mean?”

“I look at things now and I wonder how I missed so much. The hints and clues were all there but I was obsessed with my freedom at first. And then when I was with child I became concerned only with their safety. Never mind that motherhood is the ultimate prison. When you are a mother… you can never be free again. I held Jon only for a moment before he was taken from me and still I feel his tiny fingers grasping me like chains around my wrists.” She smiled even as her words sounded dark. “Chains I was willing to bind myself with.

“But Rhaegar… he never wanted a boy. Jon would be a threat to his precious Aegon. We picked out names for boys and girls. But he always focused on the girl’s names. When we talked of our child it was always how ‘she’ would be strong and powerful. Any attempt to shift towards us having a boy…” Gamora shook her head. “He would have been doomed.”

“I’m sorry,” Catelyn said, not quite sure what else she could say.

Gamora’s eyes though bore into her own. “It should have been you, Jon.” She hissed the words like a cat and Catelyn flinched at them. “Don’t act as if you would mourn him.”

“Back then I wouldn’t,” Catelyn admitted, feeling herself step onto ground that might be more sturdy… or as fragile as fresh ice. One wrong move and she would plummet. She was keenly aware that she was no warrior… and Gamora was a killer who had helped her sons battle a Thrall of the Others. “Now… I would not mourn him because of who he is to me. It would be for everyone else. Your son. My children’s brother. Ned’s child even if not from his body. I would mourn with them.”

Gamora continued to stare at her.

“If it had been Robert-“

Gamora cut her off with a glare. “I don’t know,” she snapped. “I pray I wouldn’t have been like you.”

She didn’t deny it though. That was a victory. One that Catelyn pressed close to her heart. She knew she had done wrong by Jon but she was oh so TIRED of everyone acting like she was some monster out of a legend, something rare and dangerous. All the rest of them, every high born lady, would have done the same as her. Would have looked upon the boy that looked far more like a Stark than her own children save for one and known them to be a threat. Showing kindness to Jon… it might very well have encouraged him to become exactly that. The Blackfyres had shown the threat a bastard could be if they were given too much kindness and respect. Catelyn had only done as anyone else would have and she was so weary of people pretending that wasn’t the case.

“I can understand you, Catelyn,” Gamora stated coldly. “But I will never forgive you.”

Well… that was that then, wasn’t it?

Before Catelyn could say another word Maester Luwin burst into the room, huffing and puffing hard. “Your grace… you must come at once…”

“What is it?” Catelyn asked and for a brief moment she thought of Bran. Had he returned? Had someone found him? And if they had in what state?

“Prince Robb was preparing to leave when he spotted the riders. A messenger came ahead of the rest. The Snowcloaks, your grace… they are racing towards Winterfell.”

At once Catelyn was on her feet, hurrying towards the door.

“Do you see anyone else with them?” Gamora said, their argument from only moments earlier forgotten as she joined Catelyn in heading towards the door. “Were they guiding someone or were they pursued?”

“Not pursued,” the Maester stated. “They bring someone…”

He paused.

“Maester Luwin?” Catelyn asked as she made for the door that led to the outer courtyard.

“Your grace… they claim someone fell from the sky.”

They picked up their pace.

As they reached the courtyard and made for Wintertown Catelyn saw the rest of her family and those they had gathered close to them coming from all directions, alerted to the news. Sansa lopped from the Godswood, fur dripping wet as she nimbly darted around, racing towards the others. That was probably a good idea considering Nymeria’s pack lay just behind the gate and needed to be warned; sure enough after a moment Sansa’s howl pierced the air. Ned was at her side in a moment, Jory struggling to keep up as he held Ned’s cloak and crown in his hands, fumbling to pass them over to the man.

“You heard?”

“No brother, your wife and I have decided to run each morning,” Gamora snarked. “Its oh so wonderful exercise.”

Ned though smirked at the comment. “You need it. You have gotten a bit doughy.”

“ME!?!” Gamora exclaimed.

“Ha!” Drax roared, leaping out of a two story window and rolling before bursting to join them. “He says you have a fat ass!”

“I actually didn’t say that,” Ned commented.

“Do not be ashamed though, sister!” Drax continued. “Were you anyone else I would get down on my knees and worship that pillow of an ass!”

“I CERTAINLY didn’t say that!” Ned exclaimed, horrified by the thought.

They came to a stop near the gate, tense and ready. Rickon and Yondu were pacing, Rickon constantly pulling out his small crossbows only to place them back on his hip while Yondu’s arrow followed after him like a loyal pup. Shireen Baratheon was tense, the shadows around her seeming darker and larger, while Maester Cressen spoke quietly to Maester Luwin. Rocket and Groot were the last, Groot declaring his standard, “I am Groot” that had Rocket asking ‘What the hell is a Go-Bot?’

“Robb!” Ned called out and Catelyn looked up to see her son and Roslin on the top of the gate wall, Robb fully in his Venom form. “What do you see?”

“The Snowcloaks near. Four of them. There is a fifth rider,” Robb/Venom declared. He paused, tilting his head. “Their smell… it is different.”

“Different?” Ned asked.

“Of sea. And thunder. It’s… golden.” He jabbed a finger down right at Shrieen. “She smells like her.”

“Like me?” Shireen said only to stop suddenly. “Her?” She took a step forward, wings flaring out, and Catelyn was struck by the fact that a winged woman was no longer an odd thing for her. “Her?” she asked again.

But before Robb/Venom could answer the gates opened and they saw the Snowcloaks riding towards them. They were dressed leathers and armor designed to allow for quick movement even in heavy snows while also offering more protection that the standard bandit. Lord Karstark had done well with what coin had been provided to him and Catelyn, in the back of her mind, dimly made a note that Ned and her needed to recognize him once more for his hard work.

But then she saw the final rider, the one that the messenger had claimed had fallen from the sky. She wore armor similar to Shireen’s but she wasn’t as large of the Baratheon woman; more around Catelyn’s own height. No, her armor was green and black, more robe-like in appearance but still clearly designed to protect. Her hair was brown and she had a heart shaped face but there a way she held her head that made it clear she wasn’t merely a beautiful woman. She knew how to fight. Catelyn spied a set of daggers on her hips but more impressive was the long bladed pike spear that hung off her back. And upon her brow was a small crown of silver.

“JANE!” Shireen cried out, leaping over the crowd and grabbing the woman off her horse, flying her down to the ground even as she hugged her. “Jane…” Shireen said again as the woman embraced her back.

“Shireen,” Jane said softly, holding the warrior woman close. “It is good to see you.”

Ned stepped forward and Shireen turned, smiling brightly. “May I present King Eddard Stark, King of the North. Your grace, this is my mother, Jane Lokidotter, Crowned Heir of Asgard.”

“King Eddard.”

“May I also present his wife, Queen Catelyn, as well as his family.” She began to gesture at the others. “Prince Robb and his wife Princess Roslin,” Catelyn’s son shifted Venom from his head so his face was visible while Roslin merely dipped her head slightly, “Princess Sansa,” the direwolf wuffed, “and Prince Rickon.”

“You have a lovely daughter,” Rickon said, stepping forward. “Amazing and beautiful and kind and I would do anything for her-“

Yondu smacked Rickon on the back of the head. “Boy, flirt later!”

Shireen shot Yondu a grateful look. “This is Yondu, King of the Children of the Forest and King Eddard’s father. And his other children Drax and Gamora.”

“Ah, now I know why you fell from the sky!” Drax said. “You lost your wings!”

…that actually wasn’t a bad theory, as Catelyn thought about it.

But Jane shook her head. “I fell by choice… and in a hurry.” She looked about. “Thor and your father?”

“Not… here…” Shireen said slowly. “They-“

“Landed somewhere else. We had to hurry and Heimdall could not prepare the Bifrost properly.”

“What do you mean?”

Jane let out a sigh. “Thanos moved quickly. The Nine Realms are being sealed shut, one by one. Asgard was the first.”

Yondu stepped forward at that. “That was rash and not like him. Your people will fight to break free and when they do they will come for him.”

“Yes,” Jane agreed. “But something has happened… something has come from the land of the dead and returned. Something that worries him.”

She paused.

“Something… calling itself… Ultron.”

Chapter Text

Daenerys

“The mistake many young lords make is believing that they have earned luxuries due to their status,” Viktor had once told her. “They believe that once they take up their father’s seat that they will be able to sleep till noon, wander about without any to call them out for their sloth, and feast and fuck well into the night. And they can do these things… and watch their house be rendered penniless, offers to join their families with their neighbors dry up, and eventually have their heads on blocks by wrathful smallfolk who do not take kindly to lords who believe that they deserve honors and respect without doing anything for their people.

“And for kings this is all the more true. Robert Baratheon believed that he could go to seed and the Kingdom would thank him for it. A rebellion within his first 10 years on the throne was his reward for such foolishness and the current civil war his legacy. His son Joffrey was little better; even if one removed his foolish actions the laziness of that boy forced his Small Council to rule in his stead. Aegon the Unworthy nearly destroyed the realm yet again with his inability to rule himself, so that any bastard born of House Targaryen must be smothered in their crib lest they rise up in revolt.

“A king does not earn the right to such luxuries as sleep. In fact they sacrifice them. Aegon the Conqueror would wake up at dawn so he might go down to the yard and train; it was not uncommon for him to also take time to teach the pages and squires who were preparing armor and swords new methods of battle. Jaehaerys the Wise would often leave feasts not to sleep but to return to his solar to work a bit more on some project. Eddard Stark even now finds time to tour his new kingdom, making sure that it is ready for Winter.

“Remember this, Daenerys. And remember well that they are men and you will be a woman and the shortsightedness of your subjects will see you always needing to do a thousand more than any man just to earn the same amount of respect.”

That was why, while her advisors and Small Council slept still, Daenerys slipped out of bed and quickly dressed, not bothering to awaken her hand maidens. She knew that they would help her dress if she asked but she saw no reason for them to do so; honestly it felt a bit silly. Drogo hadn’t needed three men to pull on his smallclothes and make sure every strap was in the right place. And Daenerys wasn’t even wearing any undergarments, choosing instead to merely slip on a simple long robe and a pair of sandals that the former slaves still favored due to being quickly and cheaply made. Which was important as Daenerys made her way through the Great Pyramid of Meereen with only the torches to keep her company. Her hair had been simply braided and there were no rings or gems adorning her fingers or dangling from her neck. Simple. That was what was needed.

Reaching the window Daenerys took a breath before bursting into a run. No matter how many times she did it there would always be the delightful terror of her leaping out a window hundreds of feet up from the ground below. The rush of air on her face, the sudden sensation as she began to fall…

…and then her opening her mouth and allowing the flames to flow over her body, burning away the robe and the sandals as the fire became her clothing and caused her to rise in the air.

Like the red comet that had heralded the birth of her dragons Dany streaked across the skies above Meereen, making sure to take a weaving, erratic flight. She wasn’t foolish enough to believe that she was beloved by all and there were people down there that longed for the return of the old ways. Masters who had seen their easy lives destroyed. Merchants of Flesh who found their livelihood destroyed. Even, sadly, former slaves who hated their freedom and longed to return to the comfort that was the chains. They were down there and they wanted her dead. Daenerys was sure that even now they plotted how to kill her and while she was rather sure her fires would burn up any arrow that might be shot at her it was something she did not want to test; nor did her Small Council when she had suggested it, though Wade had gotten rather… creative… in suggesting where they might shoot her just in case it did fail to not damper her ‘sex appeal’.

‘Why he went on that long rant about Queen Alicent and her feet I’ll never understand,’ Daenerys thought as she banked left and made for the lands just on the edge of the city.

There, curled together and under the watch of a few trusted Dothraki, were her children and Daenerys smiled as she came to a stop before them, hovering in the air.

“Well?” she called out, crossing her arms just under her breasts.

Drogan cracked an eye before closing it.

“I know you are awake.”

Viserion let out a snort that was the dragon equivalent of a fake snore.

“Come now!” she called out in a chipper tone. “Up! Up!”

All three dragons snuggled closer together and she heard in her mind the whining that it was too early.

“Well… if you want me to have all the steers to myself…” she said slowly rising in the air.

She forced herself not to burst out into laughter as the dragons all scrambled to get up, flaring out their wings and roaring in protest that she would take their breakfasts. Rhaegal was bouncing like a puppy who had seen a piece of bacon while Drogan growled low, clearly pouting at her comment.

“No,” Daenerys said when the black dragon flashed his teeth at her. “No.” After a moment Drogan ducked his head and Daenerys nodded, flying over to stroke the snouts of each of her children. She had come to realize that her children needed a strong mother to keep them in line, as otherwise they would become rather savage and violent. Ser Barristan had suggested she read about the history of her family and dragon care and while there were few tomes written about such things the history books on the Targaryens all mentioned the wild dragons of Dragonstone; dragons that had been allowed to become feral beasts due to improper care and attention. They could be trained once more to listen to their human riders but it was always a dangerous process and Daenerys didn’t want that. Furthermore her dragons were not beasts to be taught tricks but her children. They would behave as such.

Sure they were awake Daenerys focused, smiling as all three instantly perked up as the flames around her expanded and swelled until she was inside a fiery burning construct of a truly gigantic female dragon. Three times the size of Drogan her dragon flame form flared its wings at her mental command before she took to the skies, her children following after her.

‘They are my children but they are still dragons and must learn how to live as dragons,’ she thought to herself as she flew to the great grasslands that lay roughly an hour’s ride on horseback outside of the city. For a dragon though it was far quicker to get to the area and soon Daenerys saw the flags bearing the sigil of House Targaryen snapping in the breeze. ‘And they learn far quicker what to do and what not when I appear like them.’ It was one thing for Dany to call out a way to roll or to dodge (for while she hated to think about it she knew that one day her dragons would need to know how to fly in the middle of a battle) and another for her to show them with her own ‘wings’. ‘And it is good training for myself,’ she thought. ‘This is a powerful weapon I have, to create this shape.’ Bruce had suggested she try other ones as well, once she had mastered fully the dragon form, pointing out that being able to become burning monsters would strike fear in her enemies and also make her harder to battle.

She put such thoughts aside though as they swooped over the grasslands. An area roughly three times the size of Meereen had been selected on the very edge of the grasslands, with great wooden fences erected to separate the two and flags of yellow and black spaced every ten feet; only the first two, at the main gate, were of her House. Within the fenced in area were the steers, all of whom had a yellow x done in paint upon their sides. She paid good money for the cattle but it was worth every penny to ensure her children were well fed… and knew what food was theirs.

Wade had been the one to bring up that idea, surprisingly, at one of their first Small Council meetings.

“Listen, I know Chaos and he’s not going to be happy having your dragons chained up in some underground pyramid.”

Dany had balked at that. “I would never imprison my children!”

“Even if they began to rampage about, killing innocent people because they wanted a snack?” Wade had countered. He’d learned back in his chair, feet kicked up on the table they were all sitting around. “Because that’s what’s going to happen if you don’t find a way to teach them that we all aren’t little snacks on legs.” He wiggled his index and middle finger back and forth. “You need to come up with a solution before he does and trust me he can get creative with solutions. Maybe have it that we find Pym Particles and all your dragons shrink down to pocket size.”

She hadn’t liked that talk but as the others had pointed out… Wade was correct. Her children were getting bigger. She couldn’t keep them with her anymore. And because she was the Queen of Dragon’s Bay she had duties she had to attend to. The Dothroki could try and help keep eye on the dragons, just as the Dragon Keepers of old had done for her family before the fall of the Dragonpit, but they were horsemen, not dragon men, and her children would rebel like all youths did.

It was up to her.

The solution had been rather simple, once Daenerys had finally settled upon it. The grasslands were stocked with cattle that were meant only for her children. Most had yellow Xs painted on their sides; these her dragons could eat whenever they wished and knew that. They didn’t need to wait for her to arrive and take them to the grasslands; if they were hungry they could fly over and snap one up. But there were a few though that had no paint on their sides; the largest and according to the sellers, tastiest of the cattle. These ones her dragons could ONLY consume if she were there. The former slaves that had been hired to watch over the cattle would do regular checks and if it were discovered that a dragon had tried to sneak a bite they would be punished by not getting the right while their brothers did. Dany had learned that her children all had different ways of attacking and cooking their food so it was easy for her to determine which dragon had done what.

It taught her dragons that they could hunt and eat but only what she wanted them too. Yellow Xs meant that it was up for grabs. Anything else they needed permission; it wouldn’t do if she were forced to go into battle with them if they refused to use their fires against her foes because they lacked the Xs and the paint.

Hovering over the grasslands she turned to each of them, the flames of her dragon construct turning with her. Bellowing out as loudly as she could she roared, “Kisalbar va sepār mēre, ñuha riñar!”

Drogan, Rhaegal, and Viseron all let out roars and swooped past her, eager to claim one of the special cows before selecting a second to finish their morning meal. Daenerys watched them fly off, their body language making it clear they were in full hunting mode, before looking down to notice a figure watching her who was not dressed in the standard shepherd clothes that the former slaves in charge of the cattle pens had taken to wearing. Diving down she smiled and shook her head as she saw who was waiting for her, a robe draped over his arm.

Dany landed and the man turned so she might reabsorb the flames into her body, allowing her privacy as she slipped on the robe. “What are you doing out here, Bruce?”

“I was sleeping,” he said, reaching up and scratching at his stubble-covered chin. “Now I’m awake.”

“Hmmpf,” she said with a smile, running her fingers through her hair. “And here I thought that I gave you a perfectly good bed.”

“I thought that a queen would be more disturbed talking to a member of her Small Council in just a robe with her hair tangled and her face free of makeup. You don’t even have sandals.” He gestured at her bare toes and Dany responded by wiggling them in the grass.

“A true queen does not need such things,” she commented. But then she added, “And you are… different… Bruce.”

“Oh?” he asked, leaning against the wooden fence and watching as Viseron dove at a cow, clearly playing with his meal before cooking it. “And why is that?”

“Because you understand what it is like to have to portray yourself as one thing when you are truly something else. What it means to have something savage within you that you must be careful in using.” She glanced at him before looking back at her children and the cattle there were stampeding in an attempt to avoid a roasting death. “Why are you out here, Bruce?”

“The savage that lets us connect,” he commented. “I get nightmares, your grace. Anyone would after what I’ve seen in my travels. And the Other Guy? The last place you want to be if he wakes up from a nightmare is under the same roof as him. Better for me to head out here when I can tell a nightmare is coming. Better for everyone.”

Dany found herself nodding at that. “I have been meaning to ask you about that… there are rumors of where you went to. How you managed to become the Hulk. Is it true-?”

“Yes,” Bruce said flatly. “Its true.” He took a slow, steady breath. “I went to Pentos and had some nice clams. Next day I was the Hulk.”

Daenerys gave him a dry look.

“Come on, that was a little funny.”

“Not in the slightest.”

“Eh, you had to be there.” Bruce shook his head. “Valyria. I’ll give you this… you are at least not dancing around it. So many people want to know what happened, what I saw there, but they don’t actually want to ask me, you know? They want to dance around the topic like it’s a glass of wildfire.” He let out a weak chuckle. “Its actually rather refreshing that you have just come out and asked about it.”

“What did you see there, Bruce? What happened?”

“There are some things I’ll never reveal,” he stated simply. “The world is better off not knowing. Many have tried to go to Valyria… I’m only one of two to get out of there alive and the other one didn’t survive.”

“Princess Aerea,” Daenerys whispered.

“You remember the tale?”

“Oh… very well,” Dany said and suddenly she wanted nothing more than to drop her robe and bathe herself in flames. “At one point my brother got it into his head that we should sail to Valyria. ‘It is our birthright, Dany’ he hissed at me. ‘The lands of our people. If we were to reclaim it the entire world would bow to us again!’ He thought for sure there must be armor there, and swords, made of Valyrian Steel. Or relics only spoken of in the texts. Weapons of power. Artifacts of destruction. For nearly a moon’s turn he was obsessed with returning there but then Master Illyrio held a feast. He said it was for his daughter, because she was marrying the Lord of the Reeds, but I know that in reality it was so he’d have an excuse to bring in storytellers and mummurs. One told the tale of Princess Aerea.”

“That must have made for an upsetting dinner. ‘Here, good people, listen to the story of the poor little girl whose eyeballs melted and had snakes with faces wiggling out of her vagina’.”

Dany screwed up her face at that. “I wasn’t supposed to be listening. I was told to go off with the other children. But Viserys was going to hear that tale and I wanted to listen as well.” She shivered. “I wish I hadn’t.” The nightmares that the story had given her still sometimes returned… but it had always, thankfully, forced Viserys to abandon his plans to try and take by Valyria.

“The maester was wrong. They weren’t snakes with faces.”

“You… know what they were?”

“I do,” Bruce said. “Just as I know what caused the Doom.”

Dany didn’t even need to say a word. Not a single thing. Bruce already knew what she desired and began to speak.

“The Valyrians were the first dragon riders. That is how they rose to power. But while dragons gave them power they eventually grew to hate them. That was the true reason, I think, that your ancestors fled. They still loved their dragons.”

“I… they hated their dragons?” Daenerys hated how dumb she sounded saying that and yet what Bruce was telling her went against everything she had ever heard about Old Valyria. They had been the dragon lords who had worshiped the great beasts, treating them better than they did their own children for they understood that their power came from-

Dany’s eyes went wide.

“Oh,” she whispered softly. “They hated them because if the dragons gave them power…”

“Then it was the dragons that were powerful, not them,” Bruce confirmed.

Rhaegal let out a roar and there was a blast of flames as he finally decided that he was done hunting and was ready for a meal. Bruce winced as the flames darted towards them but Dany merely held out her hand, drawing them to her. She let them dance along her fingers before she opened her mouth, sucking in the fire that clung to her fingers like a dock worker licking their fingers clean after eating some chicken. She looked back at Bruce and smirked but the man merely rolled his eyes before continuing on.

“The Valyrians came to resent their dragons because so many feared them and not their riders. The Valyrians believes themselves to truly be gods who had descended from the Heavens; they forgot much of their origins and only the tales they told themselves to stroke their egos and justify their crimes against the rest of the world. Now, they couldn’t just kill the dragons as that would be foolish… they were a great weapon, after all. It would be like someone having a famous sword and being annoyed that their name didn’t hold as much sway; you don’t shatter the sword…”

“You build up your own name.”

Bruce nodded. “They sought many different ways to build up their own power. Some through studying what we now know as the maesters’ arts. That is how the supposed war machines they were said to hold came into being. But others… others knew that even if they created something that could kill a thousand men with a single pulling of a lever it still didn’t make the Valyrians strong. They’d just replaced one dragon for another. No… to become strong they had to focus on themselves.

“At first it started simple, according to the records I found. A few of the lesser families decided to learn the ways of the slaves so they could make their bodies like them. To be able to run harder, jump farther, swim faster. They would still have their slaves but they would be their betters, able to slaughter and kill by their own hands if needed. But even that wasn’t good enough to compare to a dragon. After all, the dragons had shown themselves the equal of a thousand slave soldiers… in the end a war would be won by them, not a man skilled with a sword. So they sought other means.”

“How do you know all this?” Daenerys asked.

Bruce smiled ruefully. “Everyone who went to Valyria was seeking wealth. Their gold and gems, their swords, their relics. I wanted answers. A way to save my cousin. So I was quieter… sneakier. That’s how I survived.” He looked out and Dany saw that while he appeared to be looking at the cattle pen in reality his gaze was back in Valyria, looking upon that destroyed land. “When I first arrived I was startled to find… so many ships. So many of them, Dany.” She didn’t call him out for his slip of the tongue, of being so informal around her; she was captivated by his story. “Designs and shapes and builds so strange that it was wrong to see them all there. I had been forced to row out myself, in a tiny little boat that barely kept the water from lapping up inside of it, and yet there were all these massive galleons all around me. I felt like a child swarmed by adults. When I made it onto the dock there were… swords. Bags upon bags upon bags of Valyrian Steel Swords. Axes. Daggers. Spears. Heaped up around the ships. I ventured onto a few of them and found the same thing. Valyrian Steel. All left behind because everyone that came to Valyria… they got just a bit more greedy. ‘Go farther’. ‘The really good stuff is deeper’. Had I come with a ship seeking to plunder I could have simply loaded up from the dock, never stepped foot on Valyria’s shores, and left the richest man in the world. But everyone is tempted to find the better stuff because… well, if this was what so many had left behind surely what could be found deeper in the ruins would be all the better.

“I didn’t care about that though. I wanted my answers. So I entered Valyria and searched not for swords and shields but books. And that’s where I learned what had happened. The Valyrians sought to make themselves greater than the dragons and to do that they turned to the darker aspects of the world. The hidden things. And that’s how they found the Ritual.”

“The Ritual?”

He finally turned to stare at her. “Does this not sound familiar? Sacrifice a person in a fire, feed the flames the blood of a Valyrian… and you will unlock your power.”

It did sound familiar. Horribly familiar. ‘Drogo’s funeral pyre. The bloodriders Logan brought back. And my blood… the blood that dripped from my shattered womb after that witch destroyed my son and left me barren.’ It was how Logan had gained his claws and the ability to heal from any injury. It was how she was able to control the flames. Suddenly Dany very much wanted to corner Wade and find out how he had become able heal like Logan as well. She had a feeling the answer would also sound familiar.

Bruce continued on. “They sought to make themselves truly gods. And for a short time… they were. They were beyond their dragons. The scrolls I read, the diaries left behind... my High Valyrian is a bit rusty but from what I could tell they succeeded. There was even talk of giving their slaves powers, because there was no fear of them rebelling as the Valyrians were so powerful. But you should know that when one has power it does not merely satisfy. Power craves power. Their powers weren’t enough. They wanted more. Far more. To be even mightier. Until… they went too far.”

“What… what did they do?”

The man beside her swallowed.

“Bruce?”

“The final survivors… they wrote his name once was En Sabah of House Nur. But by the end he was known by a single name: Apocalypse.”

Daenerys felt as if every death god that had ever existed had suddenly walked past her, ghosting their fingers along her skin.

“None of them could decide what he could do. Whatever it was it was… horrible. World breaking. It took the full might of all Valyria, united as one, to defeat him. Millions of men, women, and even children charged Apocalypse, along with their dragons and their chimeras and everything else they could bring. Five survived to see his death and even then they were doomed to die. One day… one battle… that was all it took to destroy the Empire. And the lands remain cursed because of it.”

“Cursed?” Dany asked.

“Apocalypse’s corpse still rots even now, centuries after his death. It is a massive thing and since nothing wishes to go near it the decay is slow. I saw it only from a distance but I had nightmares for weeks that he would suddenly rise up again, alive and well and seek to continue his war. If he did we would all die, I know that. His blood taints everything, pouring from a thousand different wounds on his body, running down the dried up riverbanks and tainting wells. I had to be careful how far I journeyed because each day I had to return to the ships and drink from their casks of water; I didn’t trust anything in Valyria. Because all that drink of it are blessed with power… but go mad.” He paused. “Princess Aerea’s did not have snakes with faces writhing in her. Those were maggots, drunk off the blood of Apocalypse, rendered giant with lava for blood. Those with hands were becoming dragon flies… and I don’t mean the ones you see buzzing about on clear wings. Disgusting, twisted things… insect and dragon forced together into a hideous creature that seems to be in agony so it wants to cause all others agony as well. They get into anything that lives and roast them alive, consuming them before laying their eggs and bursting out of the charred remains. I saw the corpses of dragons turned into their hives. Had Barth and Benifer not submerged her in that ice bath those maggots would have attacked them too… and most likely swarmed the Seven Kingdoms from Dorne to the Neck.” Bruce shook his head. “The poor fools… they had no idea they’d saved all of Westeros.”

Daenerys swallowed at that. “And… the Hulk?”

“My own curse,” he admitted. “A cut on my finger near the wrong puddle. Believe me though… I will take the Other Guy over what happened to some of the people that I saw.”

“You… saw other people?” Dany whispered.

“If you can call them that,” Bruce stated. “That’s the thing about Valyria: the people who come to plunder it? They don’t leave. They become just more guardians. Everything in Valyria becomes obsessed with it, unable to leave. You go deeper expecting to find more, the great prize. You remain there forever its protector.”

He turned to look back at the dragons as they feasted on the cattle. Her children hunched over the cooked and charred flesh of the cows they had selected for their dinner, crunching on bones and gulping down great mouthfuls of darkened flesh. The ground around them was cooked and cracking, and suddenly Daenerys saw not the earth but a girl’s skin, blistering and blackening. And from the cracks came slithering things. Horrid things. Creatures that were the heralds of twisted wrecks of flesh that would drag her back to the place of her ancestors. Force the blood of Apocalypse down her throat and then watch as her limbs became distorted and her mind shriveled until her only waking thought was to protect the very thing that had destroyed and doomed her.

“Well… I should head back,” Bruce said, causing her to jump. “Your grace?”

“I’m fine,” Daenerys said. The dirt was just dirt again. She was in Meereen.

Bruce looked at her before nodding in acceptance. “I’m going to head back to the city. A bit of a walk and I know you wish to start the Small Council meeting soon. You going to stay here? Will be a quick flight back.”

Daenerys thought of her powers. Thought of the leaps and bounds she had made. How she was making herself stronger. Of the Valyrians doing the same.

She turned to him and forced her voice to be steady. “If… you do not mind… would you escort me back to the city? Perhaps tell me of your cousin? You care for her very much and I would like to know more about her. I hope she might be a friend as you have become one to me.”

Bruce smiled at that. “Of course, your grace. Brienne was born a sickly girl, I think I’ve told you that far too many times so I am sure you are growing bored of hearing that-“

“No no, I don’t mind,” Daenerys interrupted. “But she is not now?”

“Not from what I’ve heard! My work on my own blood helped her out greatly… her transformation far more controlled. In fact I dare say she prefers her other self though that might be because she has full control. But even before that she was a delight. So utterly determined. When she was but a girl…”

The two began down the path, Dany not cared as the stones poked at her bare feet or the wind chilling her skin as it slipped through her robe.

Never once considering taking flight.

Chapter Text

Bran

“And you are sure you’ll be fine on your own?” Osha asked, looking down at Bran as she settled him down against a set of weirwood roots. They were the most comfortable ones that he had found, allowing him to be close to the Three Eyed Raven but not find himself toppling over mid-way through their lessons. It was something so few thought about when it came to his useless legs: comfort. People tended to focus only on getting him to sit up straight and not the fact that his back could still feel things. Robb had gotten belts to help secure him to his chair when he came down for meals in the Great Hall but didn’t consider how they cut into his skin or made it hard to breathe deeply. Hodor tried to be gentle when carrying him but would more often than not bounce him about. Servants had tried to prop him up in bed only for Bran to wish they’d just let him lie there, for his back would ache and his neck would begin to feel tenderness from the positions they put him in thanks to him not having the muscles needed to support himself.

‘Ser Jaime tries better than most,’ Bran thought to himself as he shifted on the dirt ground, grabbing a root to support himself. ‘He is careful, actually asking me if I am comfortable… and he can tell when I am lying.’ It was strange that it was him and Lord Tyrion who had done the most to make him comfortable; Bran had mentioned to the knight that his brother had made him a special saddle (which he had sadly only gotten to use once after Osha and her group had attacked him and Robb) that was designed not just to let him sit a horse but do so comfortably. Ser Jaime had smiled at that, shaking his head and flashing a wistful look before commenting that was his brother.

“Little lord?” Osha asked again.

“I’ll be fine,” he said with a soft smile. “I think you’ll get bored rather quickly just watching us.”

“I don’t mind-“

That’s when the Three Eyed Raven spoke up. “I think it would be better for you if you focused on learning more about this place, Osha.” His words were slow, measured, like a cook measuring out bits of ingredients to make sure they didn’t ruin a meal. “As young Brandon said we won’t be doing much and with the threats that continue to grow it would be wise for you to know all about this hallowed place, so you might defend it if danger comes.”

Osha stared at Bran for another few seconds before letting out a sigh, nodding, and making her way out of the main chambers that sat at the very center of the roots of the weirwood tree.

“Do not feel bad for her, Brandon,” the Three Eyed Raven told him, seemingly reading Bran’s thoughts as he watched the wildling woman go. “We all have a purpose and a role to play in what is to come. She must play hers while you play yours.”

“I know… but she worries for me…”

“Which is good, for you are very important for what is coming,” the old man said. “But that doesn’t change the fact that she isn’t needed here.” He turned his head slowly towards Bran, his milky eyes studying him carefully. “Would it not be cruel of me to demand that you march about the perimeter of the place, to make sure that all was secure and there were not threats that might come upon us?” He answered before Bran could even say a single word. “Of course it would be. That is the point. We all must understand our place in the world, what we are meant to do. Too many times people believe that they should reach up for what does not belong to them or put aside what does, all in the name of so-called fairness. But the truth of the matter is that the world works far better and is far stronger when all understand their roles within it.” He paused. “And I believe that is where we will begin.”

With that Bran settled against the roots of the weirwood, palms pressing against the twisting gnarled roots. He took several deep breaths before he closed his eyes, allowing the darkness to overcome his senses as he drifted down into himself. It was similar to falling asleep and the first time he’d done it he nearly had drifted into a light slumber before the Three Eyed Raven had shown him his error.

Bran fell, further and further, but rather than allow his mind to embrace the darkness and slumber he instead looked about for the connection he needed. It took only moments for him to find the weirwood itself, and with that discovery to reach out and grasp it.

‘Everything is connected,’ the Three Eyed Raven had told him when they’d first begun. ‘Not just the living… but all things. The rocks. The sea. Even the air itself. All is connected. To warg is to push past the boundaries you have created in your own mind and move into another. So too is it possible to move beyond the body and into the essence of others.’

Bran traveled along the weirwood, feeling how all its branches spread out into the sky above them and the roots burrowed deeply into the earth. He understood that it would take a thousand men a thousand days to bring the tree fully down, its roots were that deep.

“And even if they did,” the Three Eyed Raven stated with a smile, appearing next to him, “the tree would still survive.”

Bran looked over the old man, careful not to let his gaze linger too much less he embarrass him. It always amazed him how they looked when they talked like this. For Bran himself he was whole again. Able to walk, with his legs strong and solid like they had been before his fall. Not the pathetic pale things that were little more than bone wrapped in skin but actual legs. But the Three Eyed Raven’s transformation was far more extreme. The rot and the roots that had taken hold of him were gone, leaving him looking normal. Well… normal for him.

He had skin as pale as milk and hair that was white but not from age. Bran could tell that. It wasn’t the years that had left the man’s hair void of color. His sole eye, for the other had been lost at some point, wasa deep red, which only served to make him look like some great weirwood tree that had lost all its leaves, branches drooping down to the ground. His body was strong though, far stronger than in the waking world where he had to be supported by the weirwood roots, lest he topple and crumble. He wasn’t big and muscular like some of the knights Bran had seen, or even his brothers Robb and Jon… but he was strong all the same.

In body.

In mind.

“What do you mean?” Bran asked as they two of them began to walk the path of the roots, checking to make sure that all was right with the great heartstree. It was a daily task for them, to inspect the tree and ensure that it remained healthy and strong.

“Everything is connected,” the Three Eyed Raven informed him. “Many saplings have been produced by this tree, and they in turn have produced their own saplings. And that connection remains. Even if this tree were to be ripped from the ground and every bit of it from root to branch was burnt to ashes it would remain thanks to the trees it grew.”

“Like how my family traces its lineage to Bran the Builder?”

The old man smiled at that. “Exactly.” He paused. “Exactly.”

“So… does that mean we can travel to other weirwoods?”

“It does,” The Three Eyed Raven said with an enthusiasm that had Bran smile. “And do you remember how I showed you the memories of this tree?”

He had. The Three Eyed Raven had shown Bran his own arrival to the heartstree, how the Raven had become a part of the tree and mastered the secrets of warging into it so they could become one. It had been one of his very first, and most important, lessons to learn in order to ‘gain his wings’ as the Three Eyed Raven kept telling him. To be able to understand what he was entering, rather than merely controlling it. He had warged into Summer several times since then and taken the time to not merely walk in the direwolf’s skin but the learn of his faithful companion’s thoughts and feelings and memories, allowing him to deepen the connection.

“Well, if the connection can be made between parent and child,” the Three Eyed Ravens stated, guiding the two of them along a path they had never taken before, “and through the memories of one we are warging into… why not merge the two?”

Bran felt a great rush that made him lurch. He felt as if he were on a horse that had become startled and scared and was running at a full gallop. It wasn’t even the speed that concerned him… it was the lack of control. The sudden rush that he hadn’t been expecting and the knowledge that he had no way to stop it. A scream tore through his lips but the moment he did he suddenly found himself still, embarrassment flooding him for his actions.

But the Three Eyed Raven showed no signs of being annoyed at him or finding him to be a silly little boy for reacting as he had. No, he merely placed a hand on his shoulder… or had the hand always been there? Bran couldn’t be sure.

‘And the hand isn’t actually there,’ he thought to himself as he regained his bearings. ‘There is no hand. No arm. It is our minds that are connected, nothing more.’

That said… he could still feel his heart thundering in his chest.

Once he had calmed himself he looked about their new location, extending his senses so that he could try and determine just where they were. The first thing he realized was that it was dark. But not a natural dark, like the night sky. The kind of darkness that only men could make, hiding away from the sky and the sun and the stars in stone. He felt the weight of years upon him, like heavy blankets layered upon his body and no matter how much he asked them not to more were being thrown on top of him. There was history around him. Good and bad, he could tell that.

‘Perhaps more bad then good,’ he dimly thought as he continued to inspect the area he found himself. It was rather warm but not the kind that brought comfort. While North of the Wall was bitterly cold, so that at times he wondered if he weren’t regaining feeling in his legs for even they seemed to ache, the air around him now was too oppressive and stifling. Not smoky though either. It was… terribly hard to explain.

“It is the air of a million bodies pressed together,” the Three Eyed Raven informed him. “Even in the depths of this cellar you can feel the stink of the unwashed smallfolk and the stench of their chamber pots and the rotting of their rubbish. Combine it with the moisture of the bay and the heat of the sun and it becomes baked into the very stones, so that even when Winter does arrive it somehow remains.”

“Where… where are we?” Bran asked.

The Three Eyed Raven turned and smiled at him. Even though Bran could sense everything the Raven had said to him he couldn’t TRULY see it… not really. Rather it was like when one awoke after a long sleep in a familiar room. You didn’t have to see your pillow or the table to the right or the furs that kept you warm, you just know they were there and what they looked like. Could see it in your mind even in the dark.

But this place… Bran had never been there before.

His father’s words suddenly echoed in his head. “Starks don’t do well in the South.”

“We are in King’s Landing,” The Three Eyed Raven informed him. “To be more exact we are in one of the deep storerooms within the Red Keep.” Bran turned and looked at the man. “Here is where the survivors of Robert Baratheon’s mindless hatred and rage were able to survive his purge. The trinkets and bobbles of the Targaryen Dynasty that weren’t shattered and smashed by him are kept, tucked away. Some because he knew that he couldn’t get away with destroying them, such as the great dragon skulls that once filled the Great Hall. Others because cunning servants knew it best to tuck them away so that Robert’s warhammer didn’t find them.

“Of course, that doesn’t mean all are here because of Robert’s actions. The Targaryens hid plenty of important things away themselves because of their own phobias and fears. Aerion Brightflame found it quite beautiful to burn tapestries… he thought that the flames on them should be real, for fire that didn’t crack and bake the flesh wasn’t true and thus was a sin against him and his family. Others hid away cherished items of their fathers and their brothers due to jealousy. And others... madness was what guided them.” The Three Eyed Raven gestured around them. “This pendant was crafted from a fallen branch of the heartstree found within the gardens of the Red Keep.”

“But my father told me that there was no heartstree in King’s Landing. Not a true one.”

“And he is correct. What is there now is a forgery, a fake created to try and supplicate the angered Northern Lords. But… once there was a weirwood, though it isn’t talked about in the annuls of the maesters. It was torn out, root and stem, by Baleor the Blessed, who thought it to be an affront to the Seven. The pendant we are now in was given to one of his sister-wives as a gift… and a way to secretly spit in the man’s eye. The last surviving piece of that tree. The weirwood was brought to the Aegon Fort by Aegon the Conqueror and later placed here… ah, but we will deal with that in a moment. The point, Brandon, is that this pendant has seen much history, both as a simple decoration whose importance was forgotten, and as a tree that stood as a silent watcher to the rise of the Dragon Lords. It has secrets… so many secrets… and it has longed to tell someone just what it knows. I think… it is ready to tell us.”

Bran felt the sensation of falling while also spinning and he desperately reached out to grab something even as he heard the Three Eyed Raven inform him that it was okay, that this was supposed to happen, to LET it happen. But he couldn’t! He was falling and he was spinning and he-

And then he was standing on solid earth, perfectly fine.

“I admit… the first time is mildly stressful,” the Three Eyed Raven told him in the same tone that Ser Rodrik had used when he informed Bran he was holding a bow wrong. The boy glowered at that but his look of annoyance clearly only further amused the man. “Look about… get a feel for where we are.”

Bran did just that. They were no longer underground but rather were in a small wooded area, the sky above them blue and clear. He sniffed and tasted at once salt water, meaning they were near the ocean even though he had never seen the ocean and did not know what salt water smelled like. The trees weren’t overly big… the tallest was perhaps only 10 feet tall, not good at all for climbing and while he knew that they were there so he could learn he still wanted to scramble up the bark, feeling the wood scrape against his hands and his toes search for the perfect place to step. He frowned though as he looked down at the roots… he didn’t know HOW he could tell but he just knew that the trees hadn’t been always there. The dirt was too thin for them… they were forced to spread their roots wide, tangling them together into a great web rather than plunging down deep into the Earth.

“Noticed that?” The Three Eyed Raven said with a fond little smile. “Yes… this is the godswood of the Red Keep. When Aegon first crafted the Aegonfort he thought nothing of having a godswood but after he took control of the Seven Kingdoms he decided to continue the practice of his other lords and have one made. The heartstree was brought by a Green Man, one of the last times they left the Isle of Faces. He warned that the soil was too thin and that Aegon was building the godswoods too high but he didn’t listen and… well… this.”

Bran looked at the heartstree in question. It was a small thing, perhaps the smallest weirwood he had ever seen. Thin too, and the bark was too smooth in his opinion. The face was a sorrowful one, the red sap truly tears of despair and pain that it had been forced from its home and placed here where it could never grow as big and as strong as it wished. Bran reached out and touched the tree, shutting his eyes as he apologized that he could do nothing to help it. That he knew, per the Three Eyed Raven’s own comments, that the weirwood was destined to be hacked apart with only a single pendant to remain of it.

He was pulled from his thoughts by the sounds of footsteps and turned to see two very striking men enter the godswood. They at once held his attention but very different reasons. The first was richly dressed, wearing deep purple robes that made his curly silver hair stand out all the more. His beard was slicked straight and was pointed, framing a soft mouth and full lips. His eyes were a pale lilac color and seemed to look about the world with interest despite Bran knowing in an instant thanks to the weirwood that he had walked through the godswoods a thousand times.

Next to him was an even taller man. Where the first was lean his companion was built like a bull, with broad shoulders, a thick neck, and huge muscular arms. His hair was cut very short, both on the top of his head and his beard, the latter of which framed a stern mouth that was lowered into a glowering frown. He wore black painted armor, the red dragon of House Targaryen on proud display as he moved with the other man through the woods. It startled Bran how quiet he was, for despite his size he was able to easily move without a sound, his feet ghosting across the thin grass that covered the godswood.

“Aenys Targaryen and his brother, Maegor,” the Three Eyed Raven informed him, moving to stand beside Bran.

‘King Abomination,’ Bran thought to himself, looking not towards the larger of the brothers but the smaller. ‘So named because he upset the Faith by wedding his son to his daughter. Also known as the Weak Dragon after he proved to be too kind and forgiving to those that stood against him.’ He turned to the far more remembered of the brothers… though not for any good reasons. ‘Maegor the Cruel. The Abomination as well, but for his destructive nature and violet ways. He killed his own nephew and murdered men to claim their wives in a desperate attempt to gain an heir.’

But in that moment he did not see the weak king that nearly killed the Targaryen Dynasty in its crib nor the violent monster that tore apart the Westeros that his father had worked so hard to pull together. He just saw… well… two brothers. Walking amongst the trees, no thought of the destruction that they would bring entering their minds.

“Can you not talk to father?” Aenys asked as he and Maegor drew closer to Bran. “He would consider putting it all off if you asked him.”

“You think he would listen to me?” Maegor said with a shake of his head. “You are the one he pays attention to, brother.”

Aenys frowned at that. “You know I hate it when you call me that.”

And in a shocking reversal Maegor smiled as his brother glowered. “But that is what you are.”

Aenys huffed. “Please… try to talk with him.”

“He won’t change his mind,” Maegor informed him. “You are the one he loves best… the reminder of your mother.”

“Yes, a reminder,” Aenys said bitterly. “He doesn’t see me as my own person, Gor. Just as something he can cling to in order to remind himself of her. Why I do not know… she abandoned us-“

“Shhhh!” Maegor said sternly, his smile falling as he looked about. “The trees have ears.”

“What are they talking about?” Bran asked softly.

“Rhaenys didn’t die as it is claimed by the maesters,” the Three Eyed Raven informed Bran bluntly. “Rather she chose to finally follow her heart, wedding a Dornish man and becoming the Vulture King in order to protect her husband’s beloved lands. Aegon hid the knowledge away… Rhaenys outlived her first husband, her sister, and her son by a good decade.”

That made Bran’s eyes widened.

But before he could consider that Aenys was speaking again. “This wedding though… Alyssa Velaryon…”

‘Aenys’ Queen,’ Bran thought. ‘Mother of Jaehaerys the I Targaryen, the Old King, the greatest monarch Westeros ever had. She also married into the Baratheon family, tying them once again to the Targaryens.’ He had been shocked when Maester Luwin had informed him that King Robert was technically a quarter Targaryen through his Grandmother… and even more than that considering that it was thought that Orys Baratheon was Aegon’s bastard brother.

“It is a good match,” Maegor commented. “She is smart but not so much that she will think herself better than you. And easy enough to please. And it brings her family into the fold.”

“I don’t care,” Aenys complained as they stopped in front of Bran.

“You must marry, brother.”

“Stop calling me that!” Aenys snapped, much to Bran’s surprise.

Though… not as much… as Maegor reaching out to take Aenys’ face and bringing it to his own for a loving kiss.

The boy stood there, utterly floored, as the Sons of the Dragon embraced before him, Aenys doing nothing to break from the kiss. Indeed he reached up, wrapping his arms around Maegor and parting his lips. Bran could only stare, wide-eyed, as the two connected in a way he had never seen a man and a woman do so before, let alone two men! It was… it was…

Well, Bran didn’t know HOW to feel about it.

When they finally pulled apart Aenys pressed his forehead to his brother’s shoulder. “I should have been your sister. Had I been all would have been right. Father would have married me to you and would could have ruled together.”

“We will still rule together,” Maegor informed him, with a far more gentle tone than Bran would have ever imagined the cruel ruler to use. “You will need to keep Stokeworth as your Hand for a little while but the man is old and it will be easy enough for you to dismiss him after a year or so. Then you will name me your Hand-“

Aenys though shook his head. “You should be king, not me. You are far better suited for it than I… if only I had been born something other than… this…” he gestured at his form, face twisting in disgust.

Maegor though huffed, shaking his head. “You were born as you were and there is no changing that. Besides, there are so many parts of you that I enjoy.” He ran his hands along his sides.

“Maybe… but you don’t have to marry that woman,” Aenys complained, voice making it clear how disgusted he was with that.

“Oh, its not that bad,” Maegor assured him. “You must be more open, brother.” He kissed him again though only Bran saw that Aenys wasn’t pleased by that comment at all, refusing to close his eyes as Maegor kissed him. In fact had he been asked to identify which was the weak king and which the cruel he would have swapped their titles, based only on their actions in that moment.

The Three Eyed Raven sighed, shaking his head as Maegor and Aenys continued to speak. “What the world would have been like had Aenys gotten his wish. His dislike of being king, being forced to produce so many heirs by his councilors, and his own hatred of his body drove him into great depressions. He could not handle it when Maegor sought out a second bride… oh, Aenys claimed it was because his brother needed to honor his marriage and he was doing it in the name of the Faith, especially after the mistakes he made with marrying his son to his daughter… but that wasn’t the truth. He thought Maegor’s new bride was stealing him away and Aenys couldn’t handle that. The two fought and feuded until the ultimatum… and they fell apart. But while Maegor was able to move past him Aenys could not. He wrote to his brother constantly, begging him to return. To take the throne. To rescue him from his duty and his family.”

Bran just stood there, rooted to the ground, utterly shocked by it all.

“So… Maegor returning…”

The Three Eyed Raven nodded. “Aenys never loved his son. And Aegon the Crownless… he knew his father dishonored Alyssa by seeking out Maegor. It is what drove the boy to challenge his uncle, despite knowing he had little hope of defeating him. And Maegor believed that he was honoring his brother’s wishes. He even stated that he wished for a son and a daughter, the latter that he would name after Aenys.”

Before Bran could say another word he heard Maegor and Aenys speaking up louder.

“What of the armor?” Aenys asked. “How goes the work on it?”

“Slow but that is needed,” Maegor admitted. “It is… irksome… that they must waste so much time in the crafting of it but I suppose that is rather the point. Or at least that’s what those glorified tin smiths claim when I press them.” That sounded to Bran far more like the Maegor he knew. “But when they are completed all will be as it should.”

“And you made sure that my armor is as I desire,” Aenys pressed. “That it looks as I want, and not those designs they drew up?”

“Of course,” Maegor assured him. “Now come, let us return before Father asks for us…”

Bran turned to the Three Eyed Raven as the brothers disappeared. “Why did you show me this?” he asked. He knew that the man must have had some reason for getting him to observe the scene. It wasn’t a need for gossip or to shock, as he had come to see that the Three Eyed Raven was beyond such things now. This was a lesson.

“History tells you how these two were,” The Three Eyed Raven informed him. “Aenys the weak king who was so obsessed with what others thought about him he allowed others to run ramshot over him. The good man who lacked the conviction and drive to do what needed to be done, far too concerned with being loved than being honored. And Maegor, the vile king who turned all his allies into enemies, who drifted from one rage fueled disaster to the next, to the point that it is claimed that his reign lasted 6 years and 66 days so he might have the cursed number 6 in threes, which is asking the Seven to bring about doom. Which is foolishness because Maegor ruled for 6 years, 3 months, and 2 days. The maester just embellished the number.

“But you now see the truth. Aenys could be stubborn. Angry. Maegor could love. And two men that were forever linked at hated rivals despite it only being three years that they were parted and for the rest of their time together they cared for each other… far deeper than any imagined. This is how history is, Brandon. It is written by the winners. And it always changes. Robert Baratheon is proof of that. He made his and Lyanna Stark’s lives together some grand love… when he met her only a few times at Harrenhall and spent more time drunk or with Eddard than he did with his ‘beloved’. You must understand that the truth does exist… but the people don’t want to hear it. Because it is not a good story.”

And with that the Three Eyed Raven waved his hand and suddenly Bran found himself rocketing skyward and then jerked to the side. He opened his mouth to cry out only to find himself once more on the floor of the cave, the Three Eyed Raven staring at him intently. It was as if they had never left at all, even though Bran knew they had. He found himself wishing he could have thanked the pendant for showing him what it had. It felt… wrong… to abandon it so quickly. He wondered if it was sad and lonely, being locked away in some deep dark place, only used when called upon.

The Three Eyed Raven raised his hand, drawing his attention once more.

“Now then… let us continue.”

Chapter Text

Benjen

It was almost cute the way Ygritte hung over the side of the ship, staring at the fast moving water. It reminded him of his nieces and nephews and how, when they’d been babes unable to ride their own horses, they would still lean over the sides of the wagon despite Cat’s complaints and feel the air on their face and squeal that they wanted to go faster. And just like with them he moved to stand near her, ready just in case her excitement caused her to fall overboard.

‘Not that it would matter,’ Benjen thought to himself as, with a splash, Steve suddenly burst up from the depths of the Narrow Sea, easily keeping up with the ship as he swam hard. Ygritte let out a cheer and the sailors that were manning the riggings all swallowed and glanced at one another before pretending that it was normal for a blue-skinned man to be able to keep put with a ship with full sails.

“That’s my man right there, that’s my man!” Ygritte exclaimed, clapping her hands together and turning away from the railing to smile smugly at Benjen. “Bet you couldn’t do that!”

“I could not.”

“Heh,” she laughed before sticking out her hand.

“We didn’t actually make that bet.”

“I said I bet and you confirmed you couldn’t do it. Thus bet made.”

“That’s not how that works,” Benjen commented.

“Cheatin’ crow trying to sneak out of his bet!” Ygritte accused before calling over his shoulder, “The crow’s tryin’ ta get out of our bet!”

Tormund instantly leapt to his feet. “You tryin’ to-oooh.” He swayed a little before sitting down with a thump, his sister smacking him across the back of his head.

“You ain’t doin’ anything lest I tell ya,” Rahne warned, voice thick with scorn so that Benjen had to carefully listen to each word she said in order to understand her. “And you!” She jabbed a finger at Ygritte. “Ya pullin’ that bettin’ shit again? How many time do I have ta explain how that fuckin’ works!”

“Language!” Steve called out as he suddenly leapt onto the deck, landing with a thud. He was completely naked and left already a large puddle of salt water at his feet as Ygritte quickly turned and handed him a rough spun towel that he began to run over his arms and legs.

“You’re standin’ there lettin’ your floppy parts show off for everyone and you honestly are scoldin’ me about language?” Rahne complained.

Steve merely shrugged. “You and Ygritte are always complaining that I shouldn’t treat you like southern flowers. And I never quite understood why so many of you in this day and age are concerned with nudity. When I was growing up it was common to see smallfolks to lords without clothing.”

“It’s a sexual thing,” Rahne commented.

Steve shrugged before working to get more of the salt water off his body before it frozen; he and Ygritte now had a chillier body temperature and that, combined with the winds, could cause the droplets to freeze if he wasn’t careful. “Only if you wish it to be.”

Ygritte licked her lips like she was a hound spotting a choice piece of ham.

Benjen turned as the man lifted up one leg to pat himself dry, Ygritte taking a step forward to obviously try and ‘help him’ which forced Benjen to grab her arm and drag her away. While she had been flirting with Steve when they’d first met him her transformation into an Other had caused her desires for the man to go into overdrive. Steve and her had come to some understanding that they could engage in such carnal pleasures, much to her delight and honestly Benjen’s relief as he wouldn’t have to deal with the two dancing about each other awkwardly.

The problem arose that with both of them being far more than human their fucking could become dangerous. The first night on the ship Benjen had thought they’d been hit by a storm only to learn later that it had been the two of them. As such Steve, seeing the concerned looks of the ship’s crew, had sworn off sex until they were back on dry land. Something Ygritte wasn’t happy with. Keeping her away from Steve was a full time job for the Ranger.

‘Of course if she really wanted to there would be no way for me to stop her,’ Benjen thought to himself as he led a protesting Ygritte over to Rahne who merely rolled her eyes before taking over distracting her while Steve, thankfully, began to pull on his britches. ‘Sometimes I think she forgets just how strong she now is… that or she remembers and enjoys the game.’ He leaned more towards the latter as he thought of it. Ygritte had a playful side to her; not like how much of Westeros was used to women being playful, where it was giggles and spinning about. No… her playfulness was sharp teasing and mind games.

As if sensing his thoughts Dolorous Edd walked up to Benjen and muttered, “She’s playing all of you. Smarter than most realize. Most likely also plotting our deaths but at least they will be creative.”

Benjen chuckled at that. “There is that.”

Eddison Tollet had been selected to come with Benjen to round out the party that was hunting Steve’s friend Bucky. A survivor of the Great Ranging and the treason that had seen many that had gone with Lord Mormont slaughtered, Edd had managed to get back to Castle Black only to find out that he’d been thought dead and his position as Lord Mormont’s steward given to his friend Grenn. Edd had taken it well, joking he’d go back and let the mutineers kill him, but the Night’s Watch hadn’t been quite sure what to do with him. Finally it had been decided for Benjen to take him on the journey to Essos. Jeor couldn’t go, as he was needed to keep the peace at the Wall, and getting someone like Thorne to go would have been a disaster with the three Free Folk who were traveling with them. Edd had been seen chatting with Tormund without looking disgusted and thus been selected. Much to the man’s amusement as he commented that it would be nice to die too hot than too cold as he’d been expecting.

“You’ve noticed that she can speak like the rest of us ‘kneelers’, right?” Edd continued on. “Full words without cutting off letters like a butcher hacking off bits of meat or the King’s Justice removing hands and cocks. She is putting on that rough accent… it sometimes grows heavier when she realizes she’s been speaking too plain.”

That made Benjen truly look over at the Black Brother. “That so?”

“It happens mostly when Steve is around. He makes her drop her guard and she’ll begin talking like any woman South of the Wall. Maybe not with the breathy tones of some lass from the Reach or the Crowdlands but it is there.” He reached up and stroked his chin. “Reminds me of some of the Mountain Clans I dealt with. They had women that would do that.”

“You dealt with the Mountain Clans?” Benjen asked, surprised.

“What of it?” Edd said. “They are people, just like you and me. Get their throats slit by jealous lovers no different than you or I.”

Used to Edd’s darker sense of humor Benjen ignored the comment the younger man had made. “My brother grew up in the Vale. He told me all sorts of stories about the Mountain Clans.”

“Ah. Yes. Those.” Edd merely shrugged. “I wager they are little different than the tales told about the Free Folk. What was the one I heard… about how Spear Wives loved to lure men into caves, hack off their cocks, and then use the skin to make grips for their spears?” He turned to Ygritte and Rahne. “Either of you cut off a man’s cock to use as a grip for a weapon?”

“Of course not!” Rahne shouted.

“Cocks make terrible leather,” Ygritte commented. “Everyone fuckin’ knows that. You want the belly… that is soft and supple.”

“I once met someone that swore by the soles of a man’s foot,” Rahne said. “Of course it all depended on how black they were… too much at it was useless.”

“I used a giant’s breasts once,” Tormund said only for that to cause his sister to begin yelling at him that he’d never done such a thing and he needed to stop lying.

“Think they are taking the piss out of us?” Benjen muttered.

“Could be,” Edd stated. “Right now I think there is only one cock Ygritte wants and skinning it is her last thought.” He glanced over at Steve who was nearly dressed, the sodden towel he’d used to dry himself off now running through his golden locks. “But the Mountain Clans… they aren’t that bad at all. All the high born lords hate them but that’s because they are a reminder that the lands don’t truly belong to them. They are the usurpers… not that you should tell any of the lords that. Not if you want to live.” He paused. “Though, considering what we are racing towards a quick death by a lord’s sword might be better than Steve’s brainwashed friend.”

“Hmmmpf,” Benjen huffed.

“But the Mountain Clans… they are just like us. The Lords of the Vale love to talk about how horrid they are. Violent raiders that will come and rape and pillage and kill any village they can find. Can’t go to sleep at night without knowing that they are stalking just beyond the trees. My mum fell for those stories. Would tell me every night, “Good night Edd, good work, sleep well, the Mountain Clans will most likely kill you in the morning”.”

“And suddenly so much more about you makes sense.”

“Oh, I’m far more optimistic than my family,” Edd said with a rueful smile. “But the thing is those lords… the only time they deal with the Mountain Clans is when they are out riding with all their shiny baubles flashing about. Plenty of good little Andals who want to rob them too.” He scratched at his ear. “Might know a few lads who would dress up as Clansmen and going, er, shopping, if you follow.”

“I do,” Benjen said slowly, not at all put off by confession. As the vows said once one was a man of the Night’s Watch any crime they had committed was forgotten.

“But the Mountain Clans… they are like you and me. Just do things differently, that’s all. There were a few that my family traded with… I’m of House Tollet but on the lower end. Father’s father’s father’s father and all that rot. Not like the Lannisters where even if you live in a house made of shit you still cling to that name like a gilded cloth. Knew that I was no different than the rest who lived in my village so didn’t walk around with a stick rammed firmly up my ass. The Mountain Clans would come down to barter with us… it was a good system. They would have furs that kept us warm and we’d give them grains and fruits. There was one woman, must have been very pretty when she was young. If she had been highborn men would have competed for her hand. Anyway, she would talk to me just like we are now but Simon, he was the arrogant ass of the village, walked by suddenly she would began talking as rough as could be. “How are you today?” became, “’ow ar’ ya’s taday?”. You know? And as soon as he was gone she’d get this smug little smile on her face.” Edd nodded towards Ygritte. “She’s the same way. Rahne too. Not quite sure on Tormund… he’s a harder nut to figure out. Might be hiding his true self, might not. All I know is that you shouldn’t underestimate any of them.”

“Believe me, I get it,” Benjen said. “And you’re right… the Free Folk are smarter than most give them credit for. There are people below the Neck who believe that they are little more than grunting animals that figured out how to walk on two legs. Not understanding just how cunning you have to be to survive the Lands of Always Winter.”

“Not that any of us are going to survive it when Thanos comes,” Edd commented.

“Always a pleasure,” Benjen said with a light scoff, Edd smirking slightly before ambling off. Benjen leaned against the railing, watching as the waters passed him by, and after a moment felt someone come and join him. “How were the waters?”

“Refreshing,” Steve stated with a smile. “It reminded me of my childhood. Me and the other boys would go down to the docks and swim amongst the boats, diving under them to see how many we could pass before we had to come up for air. I was never able to get past one or two but Bucky? He was-“

Steve paused.

“Well, I suppose that doesn’t matter now,” he said with a far more flinty voice.

“Tell me about him,” Benjen said.

“Bucky… he’s powerful now. Whatever the Red Skull did to him it made him on par with me. But unlike me he has no problem going all out. I have to be careful if I’m fighting around normal people… not against them, just around them. A punch can send shockwaves out if I’m not careful, sending people flying through the air. If I stomp my foot too hard on this boat I could sink us. Bucky… Bucky can do all that and he wouldn’t care that he was. We’ll have to be careful when we are fighting him. Make sure that we keep people away. Otherwise he’ll use them.”

“Right,” Benjen stated. “But I wasn’t talking about that.”

“Oh?”

“Tell me about Bucky. Not the Winter Soldier. Buck. I want to know about Captain Westeros’ friend.”

Steve let out a groan at that. “The guys would never let it go if they heard people calling me that! Say I was some Essosi Monkey trained to dance while someone beat a drum.” Benjen smiled at that but made no room to speak, allowing Steve the time he needed. “Bucky was my first friend. My best friend. We knew each other since we were babes, playing on the floor while our mothers prepared whatever had been caught in the harbor. His home was as much mine as my own home, with a bed roll that was mine tied up next to his. He was always faster than me… stronger too. But he didn’t mind that he had to wait for me to catch up. Many times he wouldn’t even wait, choosing to go back for me. Always laughed about it when I complained. ‘Just means I get to do it twice!’.” Steve smiled at that, clearing thinking of at least one time in particular that had happened. “We got into trouble like any pair of scamps but it was worth the punishments in order to be at his side.”

His smile fell and he began to pick at the rail with his fingernail.

“When the Casterlys took my mother my father sent my brother to the countryside for his protection. He knew that what he was going to attempt… if he were caught the Casterlys would wipe our family from the face of the earth. I went with Bucky and his father took us sailing. We traveled the coast for nearly a month and Bucky did all he could to get me to forget what had happened. I only learned later, when we were at the Wall, that it was for as much Bucky’s benefit as my own; my father caught him the night after with a sword in his hand and drunk on rage, rallying the people to storm the castle. They would have been slaughtered… it was maybe 20 boys and a few drunken sailors who heeded him. But Bucky didn’t care. He told me as much. He would have been happy to die if it had saved my mother. She was as much his mother as she was mine.”

“I’m sorry,” Benjen said. “I had no part in it… I dare say no one in House Stark did… but I want to say it nonetheless.”

“And its appreciated,” Steve said softly before continuing his tale. “When we returned and found that your ancestor Edwick Stark had declared my father King after King Caster Casterly I was naturally startled. I was suddenly a prince.”

“I keep forgetting that,” Benjen admitted. “Or I guess it never really occurred to me that you were Prince Steve Rogers.”

Steve waved his hand dismissively. “And I appreciate it. When I arrived Bucky made a grand show in front of everyone of throwing me down in the mud and wrestling me. We were covered head to toe and everyone was staring at us in shock. And when I was pinned he looked at my father and asked if he had anything to say. He simply commented I needed to work on my form.”

“That was smart of Bucky,” Benjen stated. “Your people had just come from being controlled by a vile and cruel man… I imagine King Caster’s sons were protected at all costs.”

“They were. Two of them always complained that it was a crime that they had to breathe the same air as the rest of us, wishing that they could have some sort of bubble around their heads so that the foul air of the common people wouldn’t touch the insides of their noses.”

Benjen nodded. “I’ve met people like that. Heard of them too.” He stilled his tongue before he mentioned just who he was thinking of but the way Steve’s face twitched made clear he’d guessed.

His next words confirmed it.

“The Lannisters.”

“Not… all of them,” Benjen said, knowing what had happened to Steve’s family, the line traced back to his brother, was a sore spot with him. “Jaime Lannister is a vain and arrogant man… but he is still a knight and a damn good one. There are the sons of lords who earn their spurs thanks to their father’s money. Ser Jaime earns his through skill.” It felt odd to speak kindly of the man, after all he had done, but Benjen was never one to only focus on the good or the bad of a person. He would be frank and true and, well, stark, about them. “I never heard of him raping a girl or taking advantage of the poor. He will be a smug bastard, yes, but some would argue that he’s earned that right. He’s the best sword in all of Westeros.”

“Some of the men mentioned that,” Steve admitted. “I do not like the rumors of him and his sister…”

“The queen… aye, I can’t defend her. Cersei Lannister is a vain creature too but there is a coldness in her. Ser Jaime, he is a bird with perfectly cared for feathers. It can still hunt but it doesn’t mind showing off splashes of color. His sister though… when I went to Harrenhal once-“ Steve didn’t ask about Harrenhal though Benjen made a note that he should tell him about it, as well as other important places in Westeros, “-I saw a Dornish Knight who kept a great snake upon his shoulders as a pet. It was very smooth in its movements… careful with how it twisted this way and that. But there was a coldness in its eyes… like it knew that at any moment, if it wanted to, it could sink its fangs into the Knight’s throat and kill him and there was nothing he could do about it.”

“And then there is Lord Tywin,” Steve said and for a moment… just a moment… there was a hint of the creature he truly was. “That foul rot that brought down the entire family.”

“You won’t hear me singing his praises,” Benjen agreed. “That man never met a lick of honor he couldn’t turn his head away from… or try and twist to his own benefit. He saw power as merely power and did all he could to obtain it. And we see now what that has wrought in his daughter and her children.”

“Joffrey,” Steve growled low in his voice. “I was wrong about Tywin being King Castor returned. He is the monster reborn. My brother and my father are raging in the afterlife that their line could fall so low as to create such a creature as that.” Ice formed on the rail he was leaning on, forcing Benjen to shift. “If it weren’t for the threat of the Court I would be sailing for King’s Landing to snuff the lad out myself.”

Benjen could feel the grief pouring off of Steve and couldn’t help but speak up. “It isn’t all bad,” he stated. “There is the I…. Tyrion.” He caught himself in time, knowing that due to Steve’s father and his own short stature that the Lord Commander of the Knights of the Dawn wouldn’t take too kindly to someone using the epitaph ‘The Imp’. “He is a lecherous little man, no one will ever deny that. But he is also witty and clever. I found him good company.”

“I suppose there is that,” Steve admitted.

“And the Lannisters that aren’t directly of Tyywin’s family aren’t terrible. I have heard good things about Kevan Lannister and his sons.” He shrugged. “There is hope for them, I suppose.”

“I suppose,” Steve said, looking down and finally realizing he’d iced over the rail. He smiled sheepishly and waved his hand, causing the ice to crack and break. “What can we expect in Essos?”

“You would know better than I,” Benjen admitted. “I have never left Westeros.”

“Neither have I and my knowledge is thousands of years out of date.”

Benjen grimaced; he kept forgetting that Steve had been asleep since the War of the Dawn. “Well… I suppose we will learn together then.”

“Yes,” Steve commented quietly. “I suppose we shall.”

~MC~MC~MC~

Daenerys

Upon returning to Meereen Dany had made for her chambers where her handmaidens were waiting and allowed them to help her bathe. Which was needed for once; normally when she flew she burned away any dirt and grime that travel might bring, leaving her skin pinkish like she’d emerged from a warm bath. But walking on foot with Bruce had left her dusty and her handmaidens had been horrified by how filthy her bare feet had become thanks to her only having a robe. It was only because of the earliness of the hour that she and Bruce weren’t spotted as they had entered the city proper and the Unsullied that had welcomed her had given her a cloak to drape around her body to hide how little she was wearing. That hadn’t pleased the handmaidens though. They had descended on her like a flock of birds spotting scattered corn, ushering her back into her chambers to be scrubbed.

By the time she could enter the small dining chambers where she and her Small Council would break their fast she had been made a bit better though by no means the standard of most queens. But that is what Daenerys wanted; she had no need for flowing gowns and painted faces. Aegon had not needed to wear fine clothes to lead. He had led through this strength and Daenerys did the same. Thus she entered the room in leathers, a small sword on her hip and a basic crown of dull metal upon her head.

“Greetings,” she said as Ser Jorah, Ser Barristan, Bruce, and Grey Worm all rose and bowed. Logan, Wade, and Domino remained seated, the former two barely looking up from their food while Domino merely smirked at her and gestured at a seat beside her. Dany shook her head at her antics but took a seat nonetheless. “Eggs,” she stated to the servant that walked up to her. “And a bit of ham. Two passion fruits cut as well. Is your grandson any better?”

“He is, Khaalesi,” the woman said with a bow. “We hope he will be able to return to his duties soon.”

“Take your time,” Dany told her. She wanted to tell her that the boy was a child and shouldn’t be working at all but it had been Ser Barristan who had stressed to her that for many people they couldn’t afford the luxury of having their children simply stay at home. The families need the coin that came from every person. She didn’t like it and wishes she could do something about it but understood that it would take years to fix the system and even longer to train the people out of such habits. Perhaps an entire lifetime. So instead she merely said, “it will do him no good if he returns too soon and undoes all his progress ,” before turning to her Small Council. “What should we discuss today?”

“There is another piece of food to add to the list,” Logan grunted.

Daenerys shot Wade a look. “What now?”

“Nothing and I think I should be allowed to eat sausage links, bananas, and breadsticks once more.”

She ignored him and turned to Ser Jorah. “Grapes.”

“Grapes?” she asked, confused.

“He took two and dangled them about his head, saying they were like testicles.”

Wade chimed in. “I SAID they were like balls and then showed everyone how to properly clean them with your tongue.”

Dany took a long breath. Eight seconds in. Eight held. Eight out.

“Grapes are added to the list,” she muttered finally, Wade not even bothering to complain or pout. “What else?”

“We continue to received messengers,” Domino told her, pulling out a few messages and pushing them towards her, though she kept one for herself. Dany glanced at them as the servant returned with her food, setting it down before her. “Most are from the smaller cities and towns, who never fell under the domain of the Slave Cities. Most offer fealty to you but there are a few that refuse to recognize you as Queen of Dragon’s Bay. They await word from ‘The true Masters of Astapor, Yunkai, and Meereen’ on how to deal with ‘the Usurper’.”

“They will be waiting a long time for Astapor and Yunkai,” Logan grunted and Daenerys nodded her head in agreement at that; she had left both cities in complete ruin, stripped of all their wealth, and either absorbed their citizens into her Khalasar or killed them if they refused to bend the knee. She had refused to leave the cities and the Masters of them behind so they might plot her downfall and it seemed that had been a wise decision.

“Usurper,” Daenerys muttered. “Long have I hated that word. It haunted me from the moment I could truly understand what it meant. The Usurper’s dogs and his spies and his assassins always hounding me, always chasing me and my brother. It is not pleasant to have that title applied to me.” She paused, looking out for the messages. “Do you suppose they chose that word on purpose?”

“I doubt it, your grace,” Ser Barristan stated. “From what I have learned many of those villages are small… remote. The Seven Kingdoms are to them what the Seven Heavens or the Seven Hells are to us. They are such a foreign thing that they can not understand them. Nor would they want to.”

“How many though called me, ‘The Usurper’?” Dany asked.

“Four of them,” Domino stated.

“Out of?”

“Six that refused you,” Domino stated. “We received yesterday and this morning 19 messages supporting you.”

“So not as good as we could have wanted but they aren’t rebelling like they probably wished,” Bruce said with a bob of his head.

Logan nodded, reaching over and grabbing a tankard of frothy black beer. “Yeah, and to get them in line we just send a few to show them why the old ways aren’t the best ways.”

Dany’s mind however circled back to the term ‘Usurper’. ‘Four out of the six chose that word. Perhaps it is a coincidence. They simply chose that word because that is what they see me as.’ She cut into her eggs, taking a bite as she chewed on more than the bits of yellow and white. ‘I must be careful… paranoia is a dangerous thing. It is wise to be cautious but not when it drives you to madness.’

That had doomed her father.

Ser Barristan had, at her command, shared far more about her father and his legacy that she had ever been told before. Viserys had always been… cautious… when it came to discussing their father. She saw that now. He would speak of him as a good king who was betrayed by those that were supposed to be his friend but when it came to his deeds he was always vague. And there wasn’t mention of him as a father. No anecdotes about him playing with Viserys or teaching him something. He was just… the king. A good king. And then Viserys would move on. She understood why now, with the information Ser Barristan had shared with her concerning her father. The man had become lost in his paranoia and his delusions, seeing threats all over. He trusted no one, not even his own family, thinking that they were coming to rip him off the Iron Throne. Until his delusions caused the very thing to happen.

So Daenerys understood that she couldn’t let paranoia rule her.

And yet…

‘Usurper,’ she thought to herself as her Small Council discussed the best ways to deal with the small towns and villages that refused to acknowledge her rule. A show of force. Cutting them off from trade routes. Calling in debts. But Dany focused on the message. ‘Did they know what it meant when they chose it? Or am I looking too heavily into it? It is silly… it is just a word… yet words have power, all the same. And I can’t help but feel that this word was chosen because they knew it would rattle me. Make me compare myself to Baratheon.’

She sighed.

“I do not want to attack the towns if I don’t have too,” she said when there was a lull in the conversation. “But something must be done. And I don’t believe if I tried to call in their debts they would actually pay. But the trade routes do offer a way. The Dothroki have long known that a starving enemy can not mount their horse. We will do the same to them. Send word to every villages and town that has sworn fealty to me that they are to not do trade with any that refuse. Those that have not decided will be given a month more and then they will find themselves locked out.” She turned to Bruce. “Can you determine what we can do in order to make up for lost trade? I imagine some that are in rebellion provide goods that the loyal towns need and I will not harm them.”

“Of course,” Bruce said with a dip of his head.

“Any other messages, Domino?”

The dark skinned woman nodded. “We have received messages from the Free Cities. Many wish to know what you will do with Cain Marko.”

Daenerys grimaced at that. “He remains a thorn in our side, does he not?”

“One that is rapidly becoming a sword,” Ser Jorah stated. “I have talked with the healers… keeping him drugged so he does not escape his bindings is becoming more and more difficult. They have already been forced to move away from Milk of the Poppy and on to other, stronger medicines, in order to keep him asleep.”

She hadn’t liked it when the healers had told her that they would need to give what was in all others a lethal dose of Milk of the Poppy to the Juggernaut. She had warned that she didn’t want to kill him but they had stated that with his size and what they referred to as his ‘mutant ability’ had made it so that what should have been fatal instead merely kept him down… and now they were doing triple that dosage.

“I still don’t understand why we don’t kill the bastard,” Logan grunted. “Lop off his head and be done with it.” To punctuate his point Logan squeezed his fist, allowing his claws to pop out.

Wade spoke up. “Drama. Would make things really boring if we took the easy route all the time. Chaos knows that if we did that things would be utterly boring people will stop paying attention. Already having too easy of a time with Dany being competent.” He glanced at her. “Though if you begin hearing bells going off in your head telling you to burn cities to the ground maybe ignore those? I personally feel that is in character for you but I guess people that want you to be a princess from a fairy tale would get upset.”

“…yes Wade,” Daenerys said after a moment, not sure what else she could say to that strange comment. So instead she turned to Logan and stated, “Cain Marko is the brother of the current Sealord of Braavos.”

Ser Jorah nodded. “Yes. Charlus’ mother was the lover of Ormund Baratheon before his marriage to Rhaelle Targaryen. She eventually moved to Braavos where she became the second wife of the Kortis Marko.” He looked towards Dany and stated, “But your grace, there is little love-loss between Marko and the Sealord. The Juggernaut was exiled from Braavos due to his attempt on his brother’s life.”

“That might be,” Daenerys stated, “but the fact remains that they share a mother. That means something to people… I should know.” She looked down at her meal. “I am the last Targaryen. Should I meet another I would want them to live. Even if they were my enemy.” She looked up at him once more. “I will not decide his fate only to anger the Sealord for robbing him of his family. He has agreed to come here, has he not? He will decide.”

“Perhaps he will not,” a new voice called out and Dany’s head snapped up as a figure in green strode into the room.

“Vkitor!” Daenerys exclaimed, a smile on her face as she rose.

“Your grace,” he said with a dip of his head.

But Daenerys waved him off. “We both rule, Viktor… it will get tiresome if we both refer to each other as ‘your grace’. Do you wish to sit? Have you eaten?”

“I will sit though I have eaten,” the masked man said, moving to sit directly across from her.

He was wearing his usual garb that Daenerys was all too familiar with. Armor that covered him from his boots to his finger tips, a dull gray that did not shine in the light but rather allowed him to blend in with shadows. A long cloak of forest green with a hood. A tunic of the same color with a brown belt, a sword hanging from his side. And of course his mask, which covered his entire face save for his eyes and the opening for his mouth; both of which allowed just a glimpse at the scarring that forced him to wear the mask at all times.

Daenerys quickly began to wave her hand about, excited to see her mentor and friend once more. Viktor had found her when she had little and helped her understand the game far better than she would have if she had tried to do it alone. She knew he was a cunning and dangerous man but she was eager to have his council once again. “May I present my Small Council. You already know Ser Jorah and Logan. This is Grey Worm, leader of the Unsullied.” The lean warrior merely dipped his head.

“You protector of the Khaalesi?”

“I am with my brothers,” Grey Worm stated. “She saved us.”

Viktor glanced at her and though he didn’t say a word she could see the approval in his eyes. Yet another one of his lessons he had pressed upon her: give a man coin and they are loyal until the coin runs out. Save their lives and they are loyal forever.

“My aide and interpreter Domino.”

“Pleasure,” Domino said with a smirk.

“Ser Barristan Selmy, Lord Commander of my Queen’s Guard, and his friend and my advisor Bruce of Tarth.” She didn’t mention that Bruce was ‘The Hulk’. If Viktor hadn’t figured that out already then she would delight in seeing his surprise.

“Selmy,” Viktor said. “I know of your family well. Lyonel Selmy was a good man.”

“My father,” Ser Barristan stated. “Thank you. It is rare to meet those that remember him.”

“The curse of time, I suppose,” Viktor stated. “You finally found your honor again? Grew tired of bowing to that fat king?”

“Viktor!” Daenerys snapped.

But Ser Barristan nodded. “I did. Though it took his son to make me see he was a disgrace. I have served under several kings… I am hoping under a queen I will find the honor I thought once existed in the world.”

“Hmmm,” Viktor said, nodding his head. “Perhaps. Perhaps. Though it will require you to complete what you thought you had finished.” Rather than explaining that odd comment he looked at Dany and gestured at her final companion.

She grimaced, praying that said companion would behave himself. “And finally Wade Wilson, leader of the Second Sons.”

“And several other mercenary groups but whose counting,” Wade said with a grin. “So I have to know is your dick also metal-“

Logan, who was seating next to Wade for just that reason, reached over and smacked him hard enough to cause Wade’s skull to crack against the table. He fell bonelessly to the ground and Daenerys didn’t even bother to look down, instead continuing to eat.

“He is like Logan,” she finally said.

“…ah,” was all Viktor could say to that,

Daneyers, rather pleased she had managed to leave him speechless, now focused on her Small Council. “I am pleased to introduce Viktor Vondam, the…” She paused. “Did you ever settle on your title?”

“No. I am merely… Doom.” He said the word with such power and force, despite not raising his voice, that Daenerys felt as if a earthquake had seized the great pyramid of Meereen.

“Doom, Lord of Latveria.”

“I haven’t heard of Latveria,” Bruce admitted.

“It was once called Qarth,” Viktor stated. “But originally it was Latveria and I have returned it to its true form.”

“Things are well there?” Dany asked.

“Very well,” Viktor stated, a pleasant tone filling his words. “There have been some that have… not been pleased with the changed I have made. But they are far outnumbered by those that have seen that my rule is far better. I have shattered the old ways that had become chains. The past is a wonderful thing but not when it stifles the future. Qarth… the greatest city that ever was… gives way to Latveria… the greatest kingdom there is.”

“You won’t mind terribly though that I will competed for that title, will you?” Daenerys said with a smirk.

That made Viktor chuckle. “No… I look forward to it. It is so pleasing when two rules can war without shedding blood. Let our battlefield be commerce, infrastructure, and social elevation!”

Daenerys felt a fire burning in her that had nothing to do with her mutilation. “Then let the battle be joined.”

“That’s all well and good, bub,” Logan said, cutting into the conversation, “but I doubt you left your pretty manse just to come here and talk over breakfast with us. So what brought you here?”

“Logan… always to the point,” Viktor said. “I suppose you are right though. We should discuss why I am here.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, fingertips pressed together as he looked at her carefully. “It concerns Cain Marko.”

“He’s contained,” Daenerys stated.

“For now, but that is not the concern. The question comes of what will be done with him.”

“I have contacted the Sealord of Braavos,” Daenerys stated. “He is Marko’s family… he will come and collect him.”

“Which is the last thing you want,” Viktor stated. “You can’t be faulted for not knowing but you have reached out to one of the last people you want to be near you.”

“What do you mean?” Ser Barristan asked. “The Sealord is known as a good man. Kind, fair, just. He offers sanctuary to the oppress. Has pushed Braavos even further into providing shelter and safe harbor for slaves.”

Ser Jorah frowned. “Unless that is cover for something else.”

Viktor though shook his head. “It is less the Sealord himself and rather those he surrounds himself with.” And at that he looked right at Ser Barristan. “Maelys was not the last.”

At once Ser Barristan went ramrod straight. “Yes… I know. But he was the last of the paternal line. The maternal line is not a threat…”

“Is it not?” Viktor asked. “You serve a queen now… she will sit the Iron Throne if you have your way.”

“Her grace is different,” Ser Barristan said stubbornly.

“Perhaps,” Viktor said, not pressing the issue, “but that wasn’t what I meant. Maelys was not the last of the paternal line.”

“What do you mean?” Ser Jorah asked. “Maelys was, according to all reports, sterile. He bedded thousands of women and never produced an heir.”

“It is not Maelys I speak of,” Viktor stated. “It is Daemon.”

“I’m sorry,” Domino said, raising her hand, “but would someone explain to those of us who didn’t spend every waking moment studying Targaryen histories just who the fuck Maelys and Daemon and other names that have AE in them are?”

Everyone looked at each other before, due to age and time spent in Westeros, it was silently agreed to allow Ser Barristan to tell the tale.

“After the Dance of the Dragons there came several Targaryen kings of middling quality. Aegon the III, the Dragonbane who ruled well but is not remembered fondly due to his cold nature.”

Bruce spoke up. “Watching your mother die to a dragon and believing you failed to save your brother does that to a person.”

“Next there was his son, Daeron the Young Dragon. He thought himself the Conqueror Reborn and died trying to wage war against… well… everyone I suppose. Then was Baelor the Blessed, who was either the greatest king Westeros had or the most mad…”

“Mad,” Bruce said darkly, his eyes flashing green and a growl that sounded far too much like the Hulk entering his words. Daenerys had heard the tales of his cousin Brienne and the mad Septon that had condemned her to die a slow painful death and understood why Baelor and all his religious furor would annoy the man.

“And then his uncle, Viserys, the Crowned Hand, who died only a year into his reign and thus was prevented from becoming a great king. That… led to Aegon IV. Aegon the Unworthy.”

“And,” Wade slurred from the floor, coming around, “considering all the horrible things those that came before him did, it should be clear he was a real piece of shit to be the only one to get THAT title.”

Ser Barristan nodded and for once no one argued with Wade. “Aegon IV was ruled by his desires. By the end there was no food he did not consume, no garment he did not claim as his own, and no woman he did not force to please him. There are far too many dark deeds to speak of with Aegon IV so I will only focus on the last: upon his death-“

“Rotting while still alive on a couch covered in his own shit!” Wade called out and Daenerys winced at that reminded of her less than pleasing family history. “Don’t forget that! They say he had maggots growing in his arms and legs because he was so fat!”

“…quite,” Daenerys muttered.

Viktor though merely stared her down. “Wade… you will tell Daenerys all you know of Aegon IV later on. Every vulgar tale.” His tone was cold. “You do not become strong by hiding from the failings of your ancestors. You understand them and learn from them.”

“…very well,” Dany said, hating how he made her feel like a child while also hating that she knew he was right.

Ser Barristan continued on. “Aegon legitimized all of his bastards, allowing them to become House Blackfyre. And for five generations they haunted the Targaryens, waging war after war to claim the throne.” He looked hard at Viktor. “And their line is dead.”

“It lives,” Viktor replied back. “Daemon Blackfyre had a son, hidden from all. He knew that there were plenty who desired his death and thus had the child secreted away. He lives now… Erik Blackfyre, known also as Magneto. He has married your cousin, Ravan Targaryen, and is lifelong friends with the Sealord.”

“There… there is another Targaryen?” Dany whispered.

“The daughter of Duncan the Small and Jenny of Oldstones, born the same day as your brother Rhaegar,” Viktor stated. “But do not go to her expecting a warm reunion. She is allied with the Blackfyres and works to claim Westeros. And you have invited their old friend the Sealord to Meereen to take possession of Cain Marko.” He leaned forward. “Tell me Daenerys… having fought the man once can you imagine what would happen if Marko was swayed to ally himself with the Blackfyres?”

“He wouldn’t,” Daenerys said at once. “Marko hates his brother.”

“The Sealord is said to be able to read the thoughts of men. To alter them from thousands of miles away. He could turn Marko into his puppet. Or worse.” Viktor paused. “I am not the only one who is concerned.”

“What do you mean?”

“Many in Essos have heard that you hold the Juggernaut. While he betrayed Meereen plenty believe that they would do different and be able to turn him to their cause. The Disputed Lands would finally belong to someone. Volantis could become Valyria born again. Pentos could wage war on Braavos and bring their enemies at last crashing down. Wakanda, the Dothraki Nation, and many others all worry about Marko… and desire him as well.” Viktor gestured at himself. “I am merely the first to arrive.”

“You want him then?” Logan growled.

Viktor scoffed. “Daenerys says that he is untamable and I know you not to be a liar, my dear. No… I would see him dead right now… but that offers its own threats.”

“The Sealord,” Dany said, thinking on her promise.

“And others,” Ser Jorah stated. “We would be seen as working with their enemies, preventing them from gaining their prize… and they would declare war to regain their honor.”

“You walk upon a thin board,” Viktor told her. “And on all sides are shattered glass that will tear you apart should you fall. We must tread carefully. It is a puzzle that we must solve.”

“We?” Daenerys pressed.

Viktor smirked behind his mask. “It is know that you are an ally of mine… your acts will find me judged. And war is not good for what I have planned. So yes… in this case… we.”

“What do you suggest then?” Daenerys asked.

The lord of Latveria leaned back in his chair.

“Bring your enemies together where you can see them… and let them slaughter each other.”

Chapter Text

Kraven

“What do you think?” Osborn asked, looking up at Kraven. He was trying to appear casual and calm, as if the two of them were old friends. But even if that had been something that Kraven desired the coldness in Osborn’s eyes would have ensured that she never trusted him. It was something she figured that he had tried desperately to fix, as it was such an obvious tells if one knew to look for them, but he’d so far failed. It was like asking a bird to remove its feathers or a fish to walk rather than swim. An impossible thing for the man as those cold, calculating, unfeeling eyes were such a part of him that removing them was to yank out a Sept’s cornerstone.

“They are good rowers,” she said, knowing that wasn’t what he was asking about. “Far more polite than the ones on the ship.”

“To be fair,” Osborn said with a slight smirk, “that might have been because of all the threats you made to them.”

“I saw how they were looking at me,” Kraven stated, folding her arms over her chest. “Men are desperate creatures at the best of times and being alone at sea does not make for many opportunities for a man to deal with their baser instincts. I merely reminded them that I would never consider their requests.”

Osborn laughed at that; a cold sharp sound like a blade left on a block of ice. “I did rather like how you threatened to take their hands so that they couldn’t even fuck themselves.”

The boat they were in wobbled slightly, Kraven shooting a dark look at Osborn for scaring the men. “If we go in I will ensure that you never break through to the surface again.”

“Come now, no need to be rude!” Osborn declared. “We are going to be working closely with each other, after all.” He looked up at her, smile far too toothy. It reminded Kraven of when she’d realized that it would have been Rhaenys’ 10th name day and even her need for vengeance hadn’t been enough for her to continue on. She’d been in the Summer Isles at that point and there had been rumors of a man eating fish that could scent blood for miles away. She’d slashed her palm before throwing herself into the sea, savoring as the salt had burned the wound and urged the monster to come and claim her. For its many teeth to cut into her as the knives have pierced her child’s flesh while she had fled like a coward.

‘And I was a coward again,’ she thought as she looked down at the scars on her left forearm. The beast, a white thing with black eyes and a great girth, had come at her from above and torn into her arm but the pain had caused Kraven to become enraged and she had beaten the great fish, pounding its side with her fist even as its rough skin had torn at her knuckles, until she had rammed her hand into its gills. That had caused it to try and break off, dragging Kraven deep under the water, but she had taken its eyes and then dragged them both to shore.

She couldn’t even die right.

“What are you thinking of?” Osborn asked.

“Just that you reminded me of someone I knew.”

“Oh? A friend?”

“I was close to them,” she state.

“Well, I hope that we can become that close.”

“I believe we just might,” Kraven said simply before noticing that the rowers were moving towards the shore but a good few miles from their destination; she could barely see it on the horizon. “What is going on?” Osborn opened his mouth to reply but Kraven focused on the man that was at the back of the boat, the clear commander of the four rowers. She had long learned that it wasn’t the men who threw around coin that had the answers to the world. Soft hands had soft answers, as her brother had once told her. ‘A shame he had forgotten that lesson,’ she thought to herself, pushing all things dealing with Doran from her mind, waiting for the sailor to answer.

He was a grizzled thing with a beard thatched with gray, his large droopy mustache just barely managing to hide the chipped teeth that made it look like he had crooked fangs crammed into his mouth. His face was a reddish-tan and marked with scars and burns that could only come from a hard life. Had he been wearing a rougher shirt he could have been confused with the men in his boat who handled the oars. He’d never barked at them, for it had been clear that the four respected him and knew that when he gave a command it was to be obeyed.

So it was surprising when the man stated, “They won’t go any further.”

Osborn frowned at that. “We need to reach the Tower. I told you we needed to reach it.”

“You told us, yes milord,” the sailor stated gruffly. “They don’t care. They won’t sail any further.” The boat came to a rest on the shore and at once the two oarsmen leapt out of the boat and began to toss out their bags. Kraven moved to grab her own gear, not wanting anyone touching her spear, swords, or daggers, but Osborn had risen up, the boat rocking slightly on the stony store.

“Then tell them to get going!” Osborn demanded. “We have to get to the Tower and can’t be delayed!”

“They will not listen,” the sailor stated. “They don’t care.”

“Is this about coin?” Osborn grumbled. “I thought the men of the Vale were more honorable than this but here, take it. Gold… not even a coin but gold.” He took out a few golden nuggets, shaking them in his hand.

But the sailor shook his head and took out the small bag of bronze stars that Osborn had handed them when they’d commissioned the fire at Bildon’s Way. “Have the money back. They don’t want it.”

“What is going on?” Kraven hissed as she walked over to Osborn. “What is wrong with this Tower that you have spooked men not to take decent coin.”

“I have done nothing!” Osborn snapped, his good humor having disappeared.

“They act like the coins carry a curse,” Kraven pointed out.

“…then I guess they are!” Osborn roared before suddenly pulling a dagger from his belt and driving it into the old sailor’s eye, sending him to the ground in spasms. He ripped the blade free and pointed it at the four oarsmen, gesturing at the boat. “Now get in!”

The oarsmen looked at each other before taking off in a dead run.

“…kill them!” Osborn declared.

Kraven merely strapped a sword to her side before she picked up her bags, one draped over her shoulder, the other held easily in her hand. She’d be able to drop both and draw her blade in seconds if she needed too. “Come, it’s still early so we can easily make it there before the sun begins to drop.”

“Chase those dogs down!” Osborn roared, moving to get in front of her. “They disobeyed us-“

“They disobeyed you. And they only did that because you are a fool. I don’t hunt men who don’t deserve it. Those men have done nothing but make a choice.” With that she moved to continue on but Osborn stepped in front of her. “You saw me kill the Lizard, Osborn. You know just how deadly I can be. Do you REALLY want to push me?” She looked down at him, a single eyebrow arched up in challenge.

After several moments Osborn finally moved aside.

“I was only trying to help you,” he stated. “I have far less to carry, after all.”

“I’ll manage,” she said. “I’ve carried far heavier things than this.”

The walk along the shore wasn’t easy but Kraven had suffered through far worse. She had been weaker then too. A traitorous body that screamed with every step. Limbs that felt heavy despite how thin they truly were. Lungs that refused to fill with air and a heart that beat too hard. Now though she could easily handle ten times the weight that she carried. Yes, the shore was rocky and uneven and seeded with plenty of holes that threatened to take her feet. Osborn tripped within the first twenty minutes and Kraven half wanted him to twist his ankle so she could leave him to die in the surf. The other half didn’t as she had a feeling he’d scream at her to carry him and she’d be forced to if she wished to not be turned away at the Tower. The vain man grumbled about how his clothing got damp but did his best to try and return to his charming ways.

It was an utter failure and only served to annoy Kraven all the more.

‘This is a poor stretch of land to defend,’ she thought to herself as they continued along the shoreline, a small tower barely 5 stories tall with a little village that looked rundown even for the area at its front. ‘There is nothing to naturally protect them and while they can see any army coming there wouldn’t be much to do to stop them. And a landing party could easily attack from the sea.’ There was a reason why castles upon shorelines, which didn’t have natural cliffs to build on such as Storm’s End, had great walls to protect them. ‘Then again who would care to attack this place?’

“The Tower has no name,” Osborn said suddenly, clearly having decided that he didn’t like the silence and wanted to fill it up as quickly as he could. “Its founder was never able to settle on a name… and the ones he chose were abandoned quickly.”

“Why is that?” Kraven asked; despite all she had done to transform herself into a warrior the sickly woman who had only the comfort of history books remained buried deep within her. Elia might be dead (something she had sought to have and gained while Kraven had sought and failed) but her ghost remained.

Osborn smirked. “Because he was Braavosi and all his names made sense to only someone from that Free City. The peasants of Westeros couldn’t wrap their minds around the titles he gave his tower, for they referenced myths and legends that none of them had ever heard. He tried so very hard to appear Westerosi but then he would do foolish things like that and well… more than one villager whispered that Lord Arryn had sold off land to foreign devils.”

‘They said the same thing about me,’ Kraven thought bitterly. ‘How dare the Dragons mingle their blood with the filthy Dornish… never mind that we never bent the knee and only allowed them to be our kings because they begged and bribed us.’ Out loud she stated, “And the Founder still hasn’t found a name?”

“Well him no, because he’s long dead. Barely even bones at this point.” Osborn shrugged as they took a small bend and saw at last the path that would make for smoother walking. It was well worn and had nearly as many holes as the rocky shoreline but it was at least smoother and didn’t threatened to send Osborn toppling with each step he took. “His son attempted to come up with a name himself but he felt every idea he had was too lowly or too grand for such a spot. That is the problem with being the smallest lord among small lords, after all. You are desperate to prove yourself, to show that you deserve respect. But you also know that if you push too hard you will be mocked. The Freys made that mistake time and time again. The Peakes too and we know how it ended for them when they angered Aegon the Dragonbane.” He paused. “Oh, I am terribly sorry. I shouldn’t have brought them up.”

“Why not?” Kraven asked as the made for the village proper. “Dead Targaryens are my favorite subject.” She smirked at that before turning back towards the village. “So no name?”

“No name,” Osborn confirmed. “And that lord’s son never bothered to name it… honestly he never spent a day at his seat. His father was alive when he was called to King’s Landing by Jon Arryn and with him now dead he will never claim it.”

“And he had no children?”

“No,” Osborn stated. “For a man that made much gold on whores Petyr Baelish failed to even father a single bastard. But I guess he was too busy helping fund Robert’s fun making his own bastards.”

Kraven paused. “You had not told me your employer was the Usurper’s coin miser.”

“Does it matter?” Norman asked. “He is dead, as is Robert. Joffrey too. The ones that remain you will have the rights to kill. Does it matter who we avenge if it gives you the blood you desire?”

“I would not have any assume I am in league with their filth. The Lions will die just as much as the dragons you have promised me.” In a lower voice she growled, “Dragons that have yet to show themselves.”

“As I stated you will get them. The messages left to me by Lord Baelish made clear who I should recruit for these tasks and why.”

“What are you getting out of this?” Kraven asked as they entered the village proper. It was a quiet place filled with dark huts made of straw and roughly made mudbricks, bits of fishing gear strewn about on every wall and near every door.

“Coin,” Osborn admitted.

“You are already wealthy.”

“And a rich man stays wealth by gathering more.” Osborn’s smile fell. “Its too quiet.”

Kraven looked around and cursed herself for not noticing. “There should be some people here, even if most are fishing.” She looked about, hand itching to go for her sword or to unsling her spear. “Where are the wives repairing nets or the old men seeing to the salting of trout and salmon?”

“I don’t know,” Osborn stated, his good cheer gone and replaced with the steeliness of a warrior; if only he had presented himself to Kraven like that most of the time she might have been able to tolerate him. “Perhaps word reached them of Baelish’ death and they’ve fled before the new lord could be chosen.”

“You know they have not.”

“I checked in Gulltown,” Osborn informed her. “No… the king doesn’t seem to be in much of a hurry.”

“So they were either driven out… or have decided to help themselves.” She nodded towards the tower of House Baelish.

“If they did then they die,” Osborn snarled low. “The instructions left by Baelish were clear that the tower was to be used as our base of operations.”

“Then we best go see if his wishes have been respected.”

It didn’t take them long to get through the village and finally reach the door to the tower. There were no guards, no barking dogs, not even a small wall or a fence to try and keep one from reaching the front step. It was no different that walking along a hall from one bedroom to the next. There were no signs of greenery along that rocky spot of land; no flowers and trees to warm it and make it feel more inviting. One couldn’t even claim that it was the kind of tower where a maiden fair would be locked away, waiting for her prince to come. The best hope for rescue any young lass would have would be the brown little crabs that looked more like rats than anything else. The Narrow Sea held no beauty either; the Fingers were too far North to be inviting for swims and too far South to freeze over to allow children to play games upon them as the sun danced along the ice. It was a dreary place that seemed far more like a punishment than a prize in Kraven’s view.

“Home sweet home,” Osborn stated as he took out a worn key and inserted it into the lock… only to frown and push the door open.

Silence was the only thing that greeted them.

“Well…” Osborn stated as they entered, looking at the cold candles that sat about the dark main floor of the tower, “no one has been here for a while. That is a good thing.”

“No, its not,” Kraven said, dropping her bag and pulling out a pair of hunting knives. They were too long to properly skin and field dress an animal but that’s why she selected them; they were built for this kind of work. “Smallfolk don’t leave things lying about. And bandits and robbers watch homes all the time. If you ever believe that you are safe and there is no threat that could come from someone longing to break down your door and claim what is yours as their own… then its mostly certainly too late for you.” She entered further into the tower. “This place should show signs of people coming in and out. Taking objects.” She reached out and ran her finger along a table where several candles had been placed, the digit coming back coated in dust. “But no one has moved anything in here for a while.”

Osborn looked about, rubbing his chest. “That… is odd.” He moved deeper into the tower, Kraven holding the door so they weren’t suddenly cast into darkness if it closed. The man took out a piece of flint and a knife, igniting a candle and using it to light several others around the room. Then, and only then, did Kraven shut the door, which swung back with such force that its boom echoed through the depths of the tower, rising up like smoke and bouncing about the walls.

Something clattered upstairs in response.

At once Kraven tensed, looking at Osborn who merely nodded and moved towards his bag. He impressed her by not producing a sword but a knife himself, along with a small shield that featured the leering smile of a green creature with pointed ears and manic eyes. Both were best suited for fighting in enclosed quarters and along stairways; Kraven wondered just how much of Osborn’s comments and actions were real and how much were acts he created to lull all those around him into a false sense of security. His posture, how he balanced himself… Osborn knew how to fight. And not the classical training of a rich pampered lordling who only knew their way around blunted blades.

‘Candles can be used to set a man’s clothing on fire and wax can be used to blind,’ she thought as she followed his gaze, guessing what must be running through his mind. ‘The table is solid, sturdy. It can take several good strikes. But that chair is weak… shatter it and you could have a weapon if you lost your blade.’

Osborn wasn’t merely a fighter.

He was a killer.

‘Good,’ Kraven thought to herself, ‘one less thing I need to worry about.’ Nodding towards the stairs Osborn returned the gesture and the two of them began to make their way up the tower, one floor at a time. The stairs were off set at each floor, meaning one couldn’t travel directly from the bottom floor to the top in one go. They had to climb up and then move along a hall, passed the closed doors or other rooms, to reach the next flight. ‘Positives and negatives in that. Easier to hide and attack an invader. But if one needs to smoke out someone they can become trapped far easier.’

If she didn’t believe that Osborn would protest destroying the tower, since he held that they needed it, she would have tried burning the thing down to draw out whoever was above. But that was overkill and something she wasn’t interested in doing.

Osborn leaned in close and to prove again he was more cunning than he let on he pressed his lips against a cloth to muffle his voice. “Were we just hearing things?”

“No,” Kraven stated, making her voice as soft as she could so it wouldn’t echo. “There is someone up there. An animal would have tried to flee when they heard us… they wouldn’t remain this still.”

What she didn’t tell him was that she was only half right when it came to animals. Prey would flee. Prey knew that to stay still was to die. Prey that waited for hungry jaws to get closer and hoped they would be passed down did not often live to attempt such a trick a second time.

‘A predator though,’ Kraven thought to herself darkly, ‘they will wait. Remain utterly still. Many think that the hunt is all rushing about and constant movement. But lions and wolves and other great beasts… they are the most cautious and careful of creatures. They understand that one false step means failure and in the wild failure usually means death. No… they are willing to wait.’

She glanced up as they began to make their way along the hallway towards the next set of stairs.

‘And we are dealing with a predator.’

Kraven checked the first couple rooms but seeing they were little more than servants’ quarters that appeared to not have been used in at least a year or two she moved past them and soon abandoned even checking the doors at all, moving past all the ones on the third story completely and then the forth. The fifth story she knew should hold the lord’s solar, as most towers had the lord stationed near the top of the tower with only a small attic-like structure above them, if even that.

That was also, she knew, where their mysterious intruder was.

The stairs creaked as she placed her foot upon the first one and she shared a look at Osborn, who shrugged and gestured at her, rather pleased that it had been her that revealed they were climbing up rather than him. With a huff Kraven spun her knives once before rushing up the stairs, slamming her shoulder against the door and shattering it.

Inside was the solar.

It was perhaps the only impressive part of the entire tower, taking up the entire floor, with only two side doors that probably held a privy and the lord’s sleeping chamber. There was no attic room that she could see and that allowed the solar to have a higher roof and thus appear larger than it truly was. Solidly built furniture that must have taken several large men to get up all the stairs filled it and on the walls were all manners of weapons and the captured flags long faded that drew Kraven’s eye for just a moment before she moved on in her examination. Rugs from Myr and leather bond books of Braavosi design were found scattered about, as were other trinkets that were fair too wealthy to belong in such a place and thus clearly had been obtained as spoils of war rather than bought. A set of foreign armor that she couldn’t place, possibly from Volantis, stood in one corner near the shuttered window. Maps were hung that showed off different sections of the Riverlands, with the Fingers having the most detailed of drawings.

Osborn nodded to a table and Kraven walked over, confirming that yes, there were candles and they had recently been lit.

“We know you are here,” Kraven said in a firm voice, holding her knives at the ready. “Come out.”

She moved towards one of the doors, ready to encounter a madman; that was feeling like the most likely outcome. Some deranged fool had gotten into the tower and had been squatting in the solar and when he’d heard them he’d scurried to the final rooms to tuck himself away in. The truly savage and wild, who had lost their sanity completely, could be like spiders at times. People thought that the manic were always gibbering wrecks but Kraven knew better; no… they could be silent. Still. Curling in on themselves and entertained by their madness before they burst out of whatever hole they had burrowed themselves in.

‘Aerys never scared me when he was on his throne screeching and screaming and making threats,’ she thought to herself. ‘It was when I was moving through the halls and he’d suddenly burst out from a room, roaring that I was trying to take the throne from him. That is when I felt fear.’ It was why Rhaegar had commanded her uncle Lewyn to be her sworn sword, as was the right of the future Queen of Westeros; one of the only things Rhaegar had done that did not make her curse him. ‘But even that turned into a poisoned chalice when he used me against him.’

She narrowed her eyes. She was getting distracted.

Kraven moved towards the first door, Osborn moving with silent steps to the side so he wouldn’t be visible, and on unspoken count of three she threw open the door to find… nothing. Just an empty privy. One that hadn’t been used in ages which actually caused it to be one of the better privies she had ever walked into. Knowing that that left only the final room Kraven turned.

And found the armor now right in front of her.

“Hello,” a voice echoed from it.

Kraven did not screech and start in terror. Instead she lashed out, slamming her foot into the breastplate and sending the armored figure crashing through the window and out of the tower completely.

“Fucking ass,” she snarled in annoyance. “Come, we’ll need to see what… we… can…”

The Armor rose up and through the window, floating there for a moment before landing once more.

“Normally I would be livid about that,” the figure within stated, “but I suppose I do deserve that for sneaking up on you. Dreadfully sorry, Princess.” He gave a bow, rolling his hand before him as he did so to add a quick flourish.

Kraven narrowed her eyes. Yes, it was surprising that the figure could fly… but it wasn’t the oddest thing that she’d seen ever since she’d been smuggled across the Narrow Sea. There were wonders and terrors in those lands that Westeros had no hope of competing with. “Do not mock me.”

The armor turned towards Osborn. “I would have thought it was the flying that would have been the first thing she commented on.”

“I would have thought all in Westeros would know of the Iron Man,” Kraven stated. “Even in Essos tales are told of the knight that can unleash the wrath of the sun from his hands and who can float in the sky like a bubble.”

“Yes, and I suppose you were paying attention to them quite well. He did kill the Mountain, did he not? Some would be pleased that the man was dead but from what I’ve heard you weren’t pleased at all. The opposite, in fact.”

‘He was mine,’ Kraven thought darkly. ‘Gregor Clegane was MINE!’ All she had done had been for him, ever since she had allowed herself to be dragged from the Red Keep in the middle of the night, whispers that Tywin Lannister was marching on King’s Landing ghosting along her ears and empty promises that her children would be brought to her within a day. He had raped the woman that posed as her, using the blood of Aegon to lubricate his cock. He had BRAGGED about it, at least until Lord Tywin Lannister had silenced him, knowing that it would bring about the monsters that would bring all of them crashing down.

Monsters like her.

Everything had been about slaying him. And whoever had killed her daughter. The spells and potions to strengthen her body, to make her muscles swell as her bones popped and grew. The training to teach her how to kill with every weapon known to man. The hunts against the deadliest of beasts. All so that when she found him she could not merely kill him but do so with such ease that he would feel as Aegon had. Helpless. Frightened. And then, when that was done, she would be able to curl up in a hole and finally die.

And the Iron Man had stolen that from her.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m very pleased. Not skittish in the slightest, able to get by without gaping at me in shock. Far better than the villagers when I first arrived back here.” The armored man shrugged and moved towards the large desk at the back of the solar. “You’ve done well, Osborn… very well. And you!” He whipped around and took in Kraven. “When Osborn told me he was seeking out Princess Elia Martell I thought him mad! First because you, well, died.” For some reason that made him chuckle. “Foolish of me to be worried about THAT. But also because you were known for being sickly, especially after the birth of your son. And yet…” He looked up at her and she could hear the smile in his words, “…there is nothing sickly about you. Tell me… how did you do it? You are nearly twice as tall as you were before. And certainly several times wider. I would have taken you for the green giantess that Stark has now in his employ if, well, you were green.”

Kraven didn’t say a word, though she was pleased to learn that the emerald woman she’d heard whispers about was apparently real. She longed for a challenge and she had a feeling the one who had become known as The Incredible She-Hulk, named so after the great gladiator The Incredible Hulk that some claimed she was related to, could give her just that. The She-Hulk might be the only being left on Planetos who could grant her a swift death.

“Ah well,” the armored figure stated, “your secrets, I suppose. I understand that. Secrets have power… you are wise to hide yours.” He looked to Osborn. “I’m pleased, Norman. Very pleased. Even if things have changed I am pleased.”

Osborn frowned before he started. “Lord Petyr Baelish?”

“In the flesh.” Again he chuckled and Kraven didn’t know why.

“But… the reports I received that activated our plan,” Osborn stated. “You died to Sandor Clegane.”

“First off it is MY plan, not ours. Don’t begin claiming things that don’t belong to you. As for my death…”

The helm of the armor folded away revealing a translucent head. It was faintly blue but still held the shape and size of a human head. She could see the hairs on the top of his skull and the glimmer in his eyes. There was no damage, no destruction as she had learned had occurred to the Master of Coin. His head had been lopped off, dipped in tar, and left on a spike upon the gate of the Red Keep to warn all what happened to those that slayed kings.

‘Considering Lord Tywin had allowed the last one to keep his white cloak…’

“Well, as you can see… death isn’t as permanent as we think,” Petyr Baelish stated with a smile.

Kraven raised an eyebrow at that little reveal.

“You aren’t startled?” Baelish asked. “People normally are startled. Cersei went white as a sheet when she first saw me and the villagers… well, I had to show them that death could be permanent when they panicked. A pity as I had several ideas for them but we won’t be staying here too long for that to matter. Still… I expected you to at least gasp. No questions either?”

“Just two,” Kraven stated flatly. “First, can anyone come back? And second if they do can they be killed again?”

“No to the first,” Baelish said without revealing just HOW he had come to his ghostly state. “And to the second I hope you aren’t thinking of terminating our partnership. Because I will warn you now that I have died once and I have no taste to sample that a second time.”

“I was more hoping of dragging my fool of a husband from the Seven Hells and killing him myself.”

Baelish snickered at that.

“Well, not sure I can give you that one but if I can I would be more than happy to provide it. Might actually be worth experimenting with… after all, I have all of time now to do as I wish. Still, we have other matters to attend to.” With that he moved to sit down at his desk and after a shared look Kraven and Osborn joined him. “The original plan was for you to assemble a group that would seed terror and destruction through all of Westeros. I always knew that the high lords would try and have me killed… they don’t like to share power and never accepted me as one of their own. That is the fault in this… system… that the Seven Kingdoms has created. We state that if a peasant works hard their son might become a servant to a lord. Their grandson a knight. And their great grandson landed. A few more generations and your family is lordly. Except-“ he held up his finger, “-they will never forget who you are. Never mind that the Lannisters came from a single trickster, the Baratheons from a bastard, the Tyrells stewards. All should understand but they don’t care. Because now they are on top and they don’t want to share. So yes… they were going to kill me.

“That was something I was never going to let go. If I had to end up in the afterlife I wanted to be ready to laugh as the rest of them came crashing down along side me. That is where you came in, Osborn. You would gather together the group we selected and you would have overseen them slaughtering all my enemies. Ned Stark’s head lopped off his shoulders. The Lannisters left utterly penniless and the Iron Bank whipping the flesh from Cersei’s tits as punishment. The Tyrells forced from Highgarden and watching as another took their place. Again and again and again. I wanted chaos to be my legacy.”

“But things have changed,” Osborn said slowly.

“Oh, very much so!” Baelish chirped happily. “Now that I get to be here I can make the plans far less messy. Though, and I will admit this, they are going to be a bit more bold.”

“What do you have in mind?” Osborn asked, leaning forward.

“Westeros is broken,” Baelish stated. “It has been for a very long time. It is a cup that keeps getting chipped and hastily repaired. And no one says a word about the cracks and the leaks because it is ‘tradition’ to have it as it is. I want to shatter it and rebuild it to how it should be. None of this foolish Seven Kingdoms rubbish… One Kingdom. One Crown. One King. No more Lords Paramount and Wardens. There will be the people and there will be the king. The game of thrones will be won at last and never played again.”

That made Osborn laugh. “You don’t go small, do you?”

“Not at all,” Baelish replied. “But to do this we must be willing to be bold. If you look at history it takes boldness and grandness to make true change. The Blackfyres failed to understand that, as did the Dornish.” He smiled at Kraven but she didn’t react; she was well aware of the weakness that was her family. Doran kissing the robes of the men that had slain her children, Oberyn not using his brain to properly avenge her, her nieces all too blunt and wild and self-centered to be of much use. The cunning that they praised Dorne for seemed to have drained away with each passing generation. “I wish to build something that will last. I will be the Stringless King, immortal and ever lasting. And I want my kingdom to be just that.”

“Pretty words,” Kraven said. “But it will not be such boasts that get me to assist you.”

Baelish raised an eyebrow. “You are here.”

“Osborn promised me the death of my enemies.”

“You will have them,” Baelish said. “Your enemies are mine.”

“Do not pretend that I am some naïve child or a thoughtless beast,” Kraven warned. “I might have been a frail child once and now am the Mountain’s equal but I am no fool, Lord Baelish. I learned in halls of Sunspear how one must make friends out of enemies; that a knife must be used to cut them a piece of beef rather than stab them in the heart.” She tapped the table with her finger. “You desire your kingdom and for that people must be left alive. And to control them you will need others… you can claim you want to destroy the great houses but that will leave you to deal with every headache that comes. No… you will need someone to rule in your place to deal with the trivial matters and who would you put in charge if you slaughtered every great house? Another one? The Redwynes instead of the Tyrells? Or perhaps the Fossoways, red or green? You are merely replacing one with another and doing so will create much work for you.”

Baelish leaned back in his chair. “Do you truly wish them all dead? Even the children-“

“No!” she snarled.

“Then I truly don’t see the issue, Pr… Kraven,” Baelish stated. “In order to achieve what I wish I will need to remove the heads of the beasts and the flowers. Then their children will fall in line. Mace Tyrell and his children will die, for example, but so long as we find a Tyrell in the crib they can be raised to govern… and love me. Same with the Starks and the Lannisters and the rest. You can have your revenge. As much as you wish.”

“I have been promised that many times,” she warned. “Osborn saw what I did to the last that lied to me.”

Baelish looked to the man in question and after a moment Osborn smiled. “An arena owner in Volantis promised our companion a dragon to slay. They gave her a Lizard Man.”

“Ah,” the specter stated, a smirk forming on his lips once more. “Of course. A promise was made. Expected that it wouldn’t be kept but so poorly?”

“Mock me again and we will find out if I can kill a ghost a second time,” she snapped.

Baelish though merely leaned forward. “I’m honestly tempted to let you try… I would be curious if you could actually manage it.” He held her gaze for several long moments before leaning back and laughing. “Ah, but there is no need for that because unlike that fool that tried to rob you I am going to give you exactly what you want. Starks dead. Lannisters dead. Baratheons dead. Tullys dead. I’d offer you the Arryns but let’s be honest there aren’t that many left and there is no sport in killing a broken woman and her sickly son that still suckles at her teats. I will deal with her. You will get the Starks.”

“I want dragons, not wolves,” Kraven said, standing up. “And there is one in Meereen. I was working to prepare myself to slay her dragons and now you two have made my journey longer.” With that she turned and walked away.

“Rhaegar’s son by Lyanna lives.”

Kraven paused.

“Lyanna died giving birth to a child. The child that Rhaegar named true born.”

She set her jaw, remembering her husband’s promise.

“Aegon is the Conqueror come again,” he whispered to her as he looked down at the cradle that held their baby boy. “He had two wives… an elder and a younger. Rhaenys will be his brilliant advisor, the one that is beloved by the people who helps bring music and song once more to Westeros. Who will inspire those with creative minds to rise up once more and push us to greater heights.” He smiled as he stroked Aegon’s cheek. “But he needs a Visenya. A warrior who will fight his battles. Any child by her can not come first… we can not have another Maegor… but he will need her all the same. I will not risk you, wife. I will not endanger you after you nearly died giving us our son. It was cruel of me to force you to do this and I won’t again. The Northern Girl though…”

Elia nodded. She had been pleased by her. She was fierce and brave when she had disguised herself as the Knight of the Laughing Tree and dealt with those squires. She would breed a fine daughter for her husband, she knew that. It was why she had agreed to allow Rhaegar to name her the Queen of Love and Beauty and why she had told her brothers and her Uncle Lewyn to stay their hands when their fierce Dornish blood had screamed for vengeance.

Still…

“It must be done in secret. Let your cousin Robert believe the girl fled on her own… she is wild, people will believe that she disappeared to Essos. Perhaps we can set her up there. Only when he is married with children and the kingdom has forgotten about her will we bring her daughter to us and you might legitimize her.”

“It will be done with the utmost care,” he swore.

‘The bastard wouldn’t know subtly if it punches him in the face!’ She mentally raged. She remembered how he had turned the idea of having a secret meeting with a few lords so they might plot to get him named Hand of the King into the Great Tourney of Harrenhall that was supposed to end with a great Council where all the heirs of lords would open sealed letters from their fathers ordering them to declare for Rhaegar, to name him king. The same had been true with Lyanna. The plan was supposed to be that she would disappear during a hunting trip, leaving a note that she couldn’t marry Robert, and then Rhaegar would arrange for her to flee to Essos. He would meet with her and, with Elia watching, they would produce a daughter that would be brought up with the best teachers from Dorne and King’s Landing.

Instead the fool had ‘kidnapped’ her, married her, and taken her to fucking Dorne just to truly spit in her face and show how STUPID he was.

‘I wonder if his balls still ached when he fought Robert,’ Kraven thought as she remembered how she’d driven her knee into his groin with enough force that the Kingsguard had thought she’d killed him. She turned back to Baelish and stated, “His son lives?”

“One I imagine he considered bypassing your child for. After all, it is known that the Conqueror had two wives but he loved the second more…”

“Who is it?” she hissed, wondering who this child was and what she would do to them when she found them. He was a dragon, yes, but he was also a Stark which should meant she’d flay the flesh from his bones… but if he were a victim like her she might instead find an ally. Someone willing to work with her to kill Daenerys before the two traded blows and ended each other.

“That you will learn when our task is complete,” Baelish said. When Kraven turned to glower at him he merely smirked. “Come now… if I told you then you’d run off to kill him. He is in Westeros so it’s a shorter trip.” She hated that he was right. “But you will be given much to do to slate your lust for revenge. I am sending you North, to look into some things for me, to perhaps add another to our number. A king needs his Small Council.”

“Oh?” Osborn asked, perking up at that.

“Yes, of course!” Baelish said. “I will be the King of Westeros. And… ah, he returns now.”

She heard a whooshing sound, like a sword being swung, and from the window behind Baelish came a man dressed in dark clothing with a pair of gleaming metal wings attached to his back and a helm that looked vaguely like the head of a bird of prey. Upon his breast was a pin depicting a talon holding a sword.

“You will like this… he is the next in line of a folk hero from your homelands,” Baelish stated. “I give you my Hand, Ser Adrian the Vulture King.”

The figure removed his helm, revealing a worn face that spoke of a life well lived. He dipped his head to Baelish who nodded and waved for him to take a seat.

“The prisoners are secure,” he stated. “And the guards I have hired will watch them. They know not to listen to a word they say… it would be their death to do so.”

“Splendid,” Baelish said happily. “And you arrived in time. Could you retrieve the gifts?” Ser Adrian nodded and walked over to a small trunk, opening it and producing two bundles that he brought over to them.

Baelish selected the smaller of the two. “I name you, Norman Osborn, the Goblin King, my Master of Whispers. And as for your gift…” he produced a glass orb, tinted orange in color. “Ser Adrian’s friend Phineas came up with this… a refined version of Wildfire. This is but one.”

“He calls it a Pumpkin Bomb,” Ser Adrian said with a huff.

Osborn looked over the glass orb, smile stretching over his mouth. “Yes… I think I can make use of these.” He looked at Ser Adrian. “I’d like to talk about those wings as well.”

“All in good time,” Baelish said, cutting him off. “And you, Princess Elia Martel, Kraven the Hunter, King of the Hunt, I name you my Master of Laws. To bring justice to all.”

He unwrapped the larger bundle… and produced a gleaming white sword.

“The blade of Lewyn Martell, retrieved from the Battle of the Trident and obtained by me for a pretty penny.”

Kraven reached out and took the hilt of the sword. She KNEW it was her uncle’s… it was no fake. It was like seeing him alive once more, seeing that sword that he had carried in protection of her.

“…your grace,” she said, dipping her head.

Chapter Text

Gwen

‘So here’s the thing. Everyone thinks that King’s Landing belongs to the King of Westeros.

‘But its doesn’t.

‘The King of Westeros has his seat of power in King’s Landing but he doesn’t own King’s Landing. Not really. He can try and claim he does but that’s no different than any child declaring they own it. Don’t get me wrong, plenty of kings have tried to make their mark of King’s Landing. Not denying that. But building a Sept or a Dragon Pit or a Red Keep doesn’t mean that the city is YOUR’S. Most of the Kings of Westeros barely spent any time in King’s Landing. The real King’s Landing. The slums of Flea Bottom where behind every door there is a desperate person trying to determine just how far they are willing to go. The Street of Silk where they figured that out already. The Street of Steel where you can hardly take a step without hearing the clang of metal upon metal or the Street of Flour where a thousand different aromas do battle. They don’t know of any of those, not really. So how can they claim that King’s Landing belongs to them?

‘Now you might say, “Okay, so the Small Council then”. Except they don’t either. They know tiny bits of it but that’s like saying you own a horse because you know all about the saddle its wearing. And that’s if they even bother to care.

‘Winterfell has the Starks. Highgarden the Tyrells. Casterly Rock the Lannisters. And King’s Landing?

‘It has me.’

Gwen let go of her webline, feeling the sensation of her body slowly realizing that it was no longer able to go forward and up and the only option was down. Her organs shifting in her body, the blood rushing through her veins as the wind cut across her masked face; all of this she felt as she plummeted down, waiting til the last moment before firing off another webline and jerking back so hard that for anyone else their shoulders would have popped out of their sockets. But Gwen wasn’t anyone else.

‘King’s Landing belongs to ME. It’s my city. I was born here, brought into the world with the aid of a traveling former student of the Citadel. I grew up running around the streets, knowing which ones to never go down… and still going down them because I wanted to prove myself. My mother died here of the Summer Flu, my father died protecting it. And now me and my friends? We protect it and its people. All those that are forgotten. I am Gwen Stacey, the Spider-Woman and-‘

“Are you monologuing?”

Gwen let out a yelp, flailing her arms wildly as she lost her grip of her webline, falling about ten feet before she managed to teleport to a wall and cling to it.

“Miles! What the hell?”

“Just wondering if you were monologuing in your head,” he asked as he landed beside her.

“If I was what exactly?”

“Monologuing. You know, like in a mummur’s play? Where a character steps off to the side and addresses the audience with their thoughts and feelings and such.” She could tell from the way his mask shifted that Miles was smirking. “Petyr does it ALL THE TIME. Out loud too.” He tilted his head. “Does he do that while you two are fucking?”

“Miles!” Gwen hissed.

“So there I was,” Miles said in an overly dramatic voice, “using all my willpower not to blast my seed all over Gwen’s thighs for the fifth time this month. I had to-“

She swung her hand out to smack him but Miles easily managed to leap away, chortling as he did so.

“Come on, you can’t blame me for being curious!”

“Oh, watch me blame you!” Gwen said, standing on the wall and walking towards him.

“Right, right, sorry. We got off the topic at hand: were you monologuing? Because I have been swinging next to you for the last five minutes and you didn’t even notice. I know Petyr gets distracted by his thoughts-“

“I wasn’t monologuing,” Gwen lied.

Miles tapped his chin. “Now why don’t I believe you?”

“Because you are an idiot,” she snapped. “What are you doing here, anyway? I thought you were going to patrol by the Mud Gate.”

“I thought you might like some company. Maybe we work together?”

Gwen shot him a level stare. “Okay, so you know that I could easily take down five Jons in a fight-“

“You know he doesn’t like it when we use him as a benchmark of strength,” Miles pointed out.

Gwen smirked. Jon Stark had NOT been happy at all the first time he heard one of the Spiders reference him in terms of how powerful an opponent they’d fought was. She honestly didn’t see why… they were very complimentary to him. The average thief or rapist in King’s Landing was Half a Jon. And he had just stared at her in annoyance when she’d pointed out that using Natashas made no sense as then the fractions would be too messed up.

“I can easily take down five Jons in a fight. And you know I’m not Petyr and wouldn’t go rushing into an enclosed space where there might be more than ten people.” She walked up the wall to the roof and swung over it, settling down and waiting. After only a few moments Miles leapt up and joined her. “So… what’s going on? Really?”

“…my dad took a surprise late patrol.”

“Ah.” Gwen wrapped an arm around Miles and gave him a squeeze. “He won’t care.”

“He will SO care!” Miles exclaimed. “Listen, you don’t get it… your dad-“ Gwen tensed, “-was amazing! He was so open to letting you try new things and super supportive of you. If he were here I just know we could have gone to him about all this. Okay, so he probably would have wanted you to be smart about it and not go out on your own but he still would have found ways to help you use your powers to help others.”

Gwen didn’t relax but that had now nothing to do with herself. Her dad had always been a touchy subject with her after his death; everyone skated around mentioning him. With her becoming a fixture in the Red Keep thanks to Lord Tyrion promoting him to Lord Commander of the City Watch she had run into many of the residents of the Red Keep and all of them hadn’t known quite what to say to her after his death. The Queen had been awkward though Gwen knew part of that was because she couldn’t decide how to feel about her. Gwen didn’t attend sewing circles but rather liked to train in the yard but she also wore dresses and was polite and sweet at dinners. Sometimes the queen would look at her and Gwen would get the sense she was… jealous. The Small Council was useless in offering their condolences as Varys and Littlefinger had both offered her competing proposals to spy for them; even Natasha cluing her in that Varys was one of the good ones hadn’t made Gwen feel any better. Lord Tyrell had huffed and puffed through his words and his mother had suggested she work through her grief by finding an outlet.

‘If only she knew,’ Gwen thought to herself, feeling the blood of the rapist she’d taken down still sticking to her knuckles.

Honestly it had been refreshing when Lord Tyrion had come to her and said her father was a fool for saving him as he was clearly worth more than him. It had gotten a laugh out of Gwen and her thanks. And Lord Tywin had promised to see things done right by her.

But her father would always be a touchy subject.

But that wasn’t why she remained tense.

“You don’t think your dad would… hurt you, do you Miles?”

“…maybe?” he said softly and she drew him in closer, letting him rest his head on her shoulder. “You guys don’t see how passionate he gets about the rule of law. When you run into him he’s just my goofy dad who is coming up with all these new ways to improve the Gold Cloaks. The parchment books and graphite. Getting new restraints they can carry with them. The slow push into Flea Bottom. But he knows… he knows who he is, Gwen. Who we are.” He waved his hand along his body. “Everyone in Westeros looks at us and just sees exotic creatures that they can gawk at. They think Lord Tywin made him Lord Commander just because he wanted to have something different.”

Not someone. Something.

Gwen didn’t know if she wanted to cry and snap some necks.

“When its just me and him and my mom… he talks about how he needs to keep control of everything. Dominate the city. Make sure that nothing happens he doesn’t know about. And… and he’s talking about the Spiders.” He swallowed. “He’s brought it up a couple of times… that we are making him look bad. Catching criminals and being all flashy about it. If he knew it was me…”

“He’d be proud,” Gwen assured him. “I promise you that, Miles. He would be proud.”

“Yeah,” he said, not believing her in the slightest.

“And you don’t have to worry about him doing anything to us,” she told him. “He wouldn’t dare go against the Hand of the King and Jon has our back.” He had told them that he knew he couldn’t stop them from patrolling but he had requirements. They could only go out for a few hours, had to let him know their patrol routes so that he or Natasha could find them if they went missing, and come to them if they were injured. In exchange Jon would make sure the Small Council didn’t spend much time thinking about them.

“But I don’t want Jon to have to protect us,” Miles said in a small voice. “I don’t want us to need to be protected.”

“Oh Miles…” she said gently. “I promise you… your dad loves you. Just like my dad loves me.” Loves. Not loved. She was sure of that. Because if they could swing on webs and fight men with wings then the Seven Heavens WERE real and her father was up there watching her and cheering her on. “Just like May loves all of us. Just like Natasha tolerates all of us.”

“Tolerates?” Miles asked.

“Oh, there is no way she loves us for all the crap we pull,” Gwen said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Frankly I’m surprised she hasn’t tried to hunt us for sport at this point. Would be the only way she’d find actual enjoyment in any of us.”

“That is… scarily dark,” Miles said slowly.

“Truth is the truth.” She let him go and stretched. “Okay, so I’ll take the Mud Gate then. And I’ll do my best to avoid your dad.” Gwen paused, smirking under her mask. “Now… let’s say someone decided to, I don’t know, prank him…”

“No.”

“Come on, it wouldn’t be that terrible.”

“No.”

“Some webbing that makes him trip!” she suggested. “Maybe a cowpie involved…”

“Gwen, what did we just talk about?”

“Natasha hunting us for sport?”

Miles groaned. “This is what Jon means when he says the three of us have one brain and have to share!”

“I still take offense to that,” Gwen replied, stretching as she prepared to swing off. “Everyone knows that Petyr-“

“Keep in mind whatever joke you are about to make? It involves the man you are fucking. So that says just as much about you as it does him.”

Gwen paused before lifting up her mask just enough to stick her tongue out at him.

Miles chuckled and moved to get up as well only for the both of them to freeze when they saw something go soaring up in the air, roughly 3 miles away. It hung in the air for a moment before there was a pop (not that they could actually hear it) and something flashed for just a second, like a candle suddenly appearing in a window.

The two shared a look and then another went up.

“That’s near the Street of Steel,” Miles whispered.

“Petyr’s patrolling there,” Gwen whispered and then she was leaping off the building, firing off a webline. The buildings raced past her, a blur of sharp stone and harsh edges, but Gwen didn’t feel an ounce of fear that she might strike any of them. No… King’s Landing was her city and she knew every bit of it. Her lithe body twisted to avoid an arch and then she was on a roof, running so fast her feet barely touched the stone surface before she was leaping again, this time using two weblines to slingshot herself forward.

She knew that her and Miles were going faster than anything else could in King’s Landing. When they’d first gotten their powers Petyr had demanded they test their bodies, to determine just what they could do. Gwen could easily lift with a single hand an empty covered wagon. She could leap 3 stories from a standing position. She had the same speed as a horse, managing to stay with one at a full gallop. And a horse had to worry about corners and twists and turns. Gwen could soar through the air, easily swinging over anything and coming down right back on track.

Still, it took nearly 10 minutes to make it the three miles from where her and Miles had been chatting and where they had seen the glittering light. And the entire time she had feared what foe she might find Petyr trying to take on by himself. Because there was no doubt in her head that her lover would refuse to run if faced with someone that might be a threat to others. It was why she loved him. It was why she hated him.

And she REALLY hated him because she saw him standing on a roof, waving his arms wildly to get her attention.

“You bastard, I-“

“Shhh!” Petyr hissed, pressing a finger to his masked lip. “Come here… he’s still inside.” He moved towards the edge of a roof and after a moment Gwen joined him, Miles landing a moment later. “So you saw the beacon, right? Or whatever I’m going to call it, I’m still working on the name. I was inspired by that thing the Vulture and his men used to signal each other. A bunch of different powders that I wrap in my webbing… when they get shaken up too much they burst into flames. Very quick because I don’t want to alert the people I am watching but I figured it would help us signal each other.”

Miles tilted his head. “You didn’t tell us about this because…”

“Still working on it,” Petyr said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I want to try and change the colors, so I can signal each of you. Or maybe make a system where a color means a different thing? Red is rapist and blue is theft or-“

Gwen cut him off, knowing that if he were allowed to keep rambling he’d go on for hours. “What is going on?”

Petyr pointed down to a rather large building that sat across from them. “That’s Tobho Mott’s shop.”

“…who?” Gwen asked.

“To… Tobho Mott.”

“Again, I ask who?”

“Is my mask muffling my words?” he looked towards Miles. “I think it might be muffling my words. Tobho Mott.”

“You can say that till King Tommen is an old man it doesn’t change the fact I have no idea who the fuck that is!”

Petyr stared at her for several moments. “…really?”

“I’m leaving,” Gwen stated, moving to stand up only for Petyr to grab her by the wrist and yank her back down.

“Listen… Tobho Mott is the best blacksmith in King’s Landing. Everyone knows it. Ned Stark, John Arryn, Stannis Baratheon… they all visited his shop. Tywin Lannister went to see him about forging King Joffrey’s wedding gift. Not the castle blacksmith. Tobho Mott.”

“Okay…” Gwen said slowly.

“No no, you aren’t getting it,” Petyr complained. “Tobho Mott is one of the few people in Westeros who knows the secret of reforging Valyrian Steel and is the only one east of Harrenhall who has the knowledge. There are people who come from Essos to see him because they know he can do the work. And he’s the best at it too. Apparently when you reforge Valyrian it can alter the appearance, make it lesser than its original form. And there is always the worry that a blacksmith will purposely make a sword thinner or smaller than it needs to be just so they can keep the extra bits of metal. There is a lot of money in Valyrian and even a bit the size of a silver stag could net you enough to buy a small keep. Especially if you find the right people to buy it.”

“Right.” Gwen was waiting for Petyr to get to the point, knowing that sometimes it took her lover some time to go from one point to the next. “Valyrian Steel. Very important. Very rare.”

“Which is why it’s a big deal that he currently has enough to make two swords in there,” Petyr said, still looking down at the door.

“How do you know that?” Miles asked. “You didn’t go in there, did you?”

“Of course not,” Petyr said and it was just quick enough that Gwen knew it wasn’t a lie. When Petyr tried to tell a fib, at least when he was being actually Petyr and not ‘Spider-Man’, he tended to stammer over his words, taking too long to get to the point and then rambling far too quick. But his denial in that moment had been quick. Instantaneous. Either he was learning or he was telling the truth.

‘Not sure which is better,’ she thought.

“I know because I looked over the manifests.”

“Manifests?” Miles asked. “What Manifests?”

“Oh!” Petyr said with a grin. “That’s the cool thing. See, when Lord Veleryon took over as Master of Ships he ordered that all ships arriving in and out of King’s Landing provide detailed records of what is arriving in them along with all passengers. Apparently it was an idea that Lord Stannis had been trying to get through but King Robert wasn’t really interested but Jon liked it because it helped them keep track of everything coming in and out of the city through the ports. Says he wants to eventually adopt it for certain gates that handle wagons and deliveries. He’s worried about plagues and diseases and if we are able to follow movements then he can stop them before they spread. Which I personally think is great and I know Lord Varys is salivating at the thought-“

“Hold up,” Miles said. “HOW did you get the manifests?”

“And why?” Gwen echoed.

“Uh, so we’d know what is coming in and out of the city.” He shrugged. “I mean sure, the Vulture King is done and headed towards the Wall but it wasn’t just him who was part of the gang that was attacking the Tyrell wagons. Some of the others might still be out there and we need to know what they have so we can prepare for another attack. And it’s a good thing I did because I know that Tobho Mott-“

“Petyr,” Gwen said, reaching out and grabbing his cheeks, forcing him to look at her. “HOW did you get the manifests?”

“I ‘ought ‘iles asked ‘at,” Petyr said, her squishing his face making his words muffled.

“And it was a good question to ask.”

“Because its my turn to hold onto our brain,” Miles said with a chuckle only to yelp when Gwen reached over and twisted his right nipple through his costume. “GAH! Why do girls like having that done.”

“We don’t!” Gwen snarled before glaring at Petyr. “Now then… sweetie. Baby. Love of my life. How did you get the manifests?”

“…I might have… helped Varys steal them?”

“Varys.”

“Yeah?”

“Creepy kid toucher Varys.”

“He didn’t touch me.”

“NOT THE POINT!” Gwen roared only for Petyr to shush her. “Oh shut up!” she snarled but in a lower tone. “What did Natasha tell us?”

Petyr frowned at that. “…is this about making sure we’re careful when we have sex? Because I’ve been tracking things and you have another week before we have to resort to oral-“

“Not. That.” Gwen said through clenched teeth.

“…you mean butt stuff?” Petyr said, disgusted. “Because I know you are curious but ew.”

“I meant about Varys!”

“Doing butt stuff with Varys?”

Miles shrugged. “That does sound like something he’d be into.”

“Natasha told you NEVER to work with Varys,” Gwen growled.

“Oh, right.” Petyr chuckled. “Its fine. Its more like he’s working for me than me him. I’m the one who suggested we grab the manifests after he came to visit me and we got talking about ships and Namor and…” Petyr trailed off. “Oh. He tricked me didn’t he?”

“Yes, yes he did,” Gwen said softly.

Petyr shook his head rapidly. “Whatever, none of that matters. The point is that three days ago a representative of one of Lys’ ruling council came with roughly 8 Valyrian Steel Daggers of various sizes. The representative, Ono Omo, which is just… a terrible name… his parents should be ashamed… has requested two swords made to honor the birth of his lord’s twin sons. Tobho Mott has the daggers, no idea just what is going on with them at the moment as I obviously can’t get in the building in order to see where they are in the forging but the point is that I saw some guy sneaking into the shop. Someone who I bet knows about the daggers and want them for themselves.”

“You are sure it isn’t one of the apprentices?” Gwen asked.

“Considering that he had to take a few moments to pick the lock? I’m sure. Plus real shifty, you’d know in a second that he was a thief just looking at him. Now,” he rubbed his hands together, “I am thinking we set up a trap. I already webbed up the door so they couldn’t escape back out through that. We sneak in-“

There was a rumble and the three of them looked down just in time to see the wall next to the door collapse, allowing a figure to casually slip out of the shop, stepping over the rubble like he was taking a stroll on a beach. There was a large sack flung across his back which he adjusted slightly before looking about, almost seeming disappointed that there was no one there to see what he had done.

“Or not,” Petyr said.

“Admittedly if Gwen hadn’t pestered you we might have had TIME to go with a plan,” Miles said before leaping backwards off the building.

“Fuck you Kid Arachnid!”

“I’m Spider-Man!” Miles called out even as Gwen and Petyr dove after him.

“Not tonight you aren’t!” Petyr shouted as they swung down, landing in front of the thief. He was a stocky man… tall but from a distance one wouldn’t realize it thanks to his larger build. He was wearing a long dark coat that seemed to be about a size too big for him over some rather basic looking clothes, with honestly the only thing of real value that he had being the rather nice set of thick soled boots. Dark brown gloves covered his hands though one could be forgiven for not noticing those seeing as he had a pair of tinted lenses over his eyes, held tight to his skin by a series of straps that cut into the flesh.

“Ah… the Spiders. Hello there.” He gave them a slight bow. “Out rather late as well, I see.”

‘I know that man,’ Gwen thought to herself, trying to place him. ‘But where? He’s so familiar…’

“Well, you know,” Petyr said with a shrug, “people to see, thieves to stop. You understand, of course.”

“Of course, of course,” the man said, shifting his bag a bit. “Well… I won’t keep you.” He walked right past them and Gwen was so flustered by how utterly casual the thief was that she didn’t even think of trying to stop him. Luckily Petyr had his head on straight because he fired off a webline, cutting off the thief’s path. “Please tell me we aren’t going to do this.”

“Sorry,” Petyr said as he walked towards the man, “it’s kind of our thing, you know? Stopping criminals and all that. And I’m willing to bet that you don’t have toys for the needy in that bag of yours.”

The thief chuckled, not bothering to turn around. “No… nothing like that. I suppose it would be a far better thing to carry around but I don’t have those.”

“I’m guessing you have something of the more pointy kind,” Petyr continued.

The man reached up and tapped his nose. “You are very astute.”

“I try,” Petyr jested. “So… this the part where you tell me that the daggers actually belong to you and give some rambling speech about how we should let you go on your way.”

“No,” the thief replied. “I’m taking them because I want them.”

“That’s… admittedly refreshing,” Petyr said, tilting his head. “But I can’t let you take them so I’m going to stop you.”

“Tell me,” the thief stated, not sounding concerned in the slightest, “have you ever heard of the term ‘Docktore’?”

“Can’t say that I have,” Petyr said slowly. Gwen didn’t blame him as she was wondering where the hell this was all going herself. Usually thieves screamed curses at them, threw punches, or tried to bribe them. Engaging in polite small talk was a new one for the trio.

“It is a term from Essos. It is for a learned man who knows how to heal. I gained the title myself, in my travels, before I settled in the Westerlands.”

Petyr was silent for a moment. “…well that’s very lovely for you but I think its time we took back that sack.” He reached for the bag.

And took it from the man’s shoulders.

“Huh,” Petyr said, looking inside. “All there. Uh… this is new for me so as long as you head out I guess you are… free to go?”

“He broke the wall,” Miles pointed out.

“To be fair I did web it up so that’s kind of on me.” Petyr turned away from the strange thief and walked towards them.

And that’s when the back of the thief’s coat ripped open and a long gray tentacle burst out, wrapping around his middle and jerking him in the air. It was so quick that none of their spider senses had time to truly flare in warning. Gwen’s eyes went wide as Petyr was shaken rather violently before being thrown at them, Gwen leaping and catching him while the tentacle snagged the bag and brought it back over to the thief.

He turned towards them, a polite smile still on his lips as a second tentacle emerged. Then a third. And a forth. The bottom two pressed down on the ground, the heavily muscular appendages able to easily lift him into the air so he towered over them, the first dropping the bag back down to his waiting arms before joining its brother in hovering menacingly above the thief.

“I am Docktore Octopus… but since that’s a mouthful you can call me Doc Ock.”

“Catchy,” Miles said before launching himself at the thief, fist cocked back as he flew through the air. But the tentacles exploded into action, bashing Miles aside while another grabbing some of the broken stone from Tobho Mott’s shop wall and threw it at Gwen, forcing her to dodge. “Ow,” Miles moaned as he shook his head from where he’d landed. “Okay, which one of you angered an old wood witch so we had to deal with Half-Man Half Octopus!?!”

Petyr, getting up from the ground, shook his head. “I know I didn’t.” He fired off a webline that struck Doc Ock but the man merely smirked before sending one of his tentacles right at Petyr, causing him to yelp and dive out of the way before he was struck by the overly muscular appendage. “I would remember if I mocked a wood witch!”

“Also is he really half?” Gwen called out as she teleported to a higher spot, trying to web up the man’s head. But he spotted her at once and slammed a tentacle against the building she was on, Gwen just barely managing to avoid the strike. Which was good because when she looked at the stone he’d hit there was enough broken bits and cracks to let her know that it wouldn’t be a fun time if she let herself get hit by such an attack. “I mean, it’s just the tentacles, right? The rest of him looks human.”

“We can’t see his eyes,” Miles said, rolling underneath Ock and firing some weblines, finally managing to connect with his legs. “Those could be octopussies!”

“I think there’s a whore on the Silk Street named that,” Petyr said.

“Oh really?” Gwen growled as she launched herself off the wall, spiraling through the air and landing on one of the tentacles. It was like walking on a massive fish; slick and slimy and constantly wriggling about, making it hard for her to keep her balance. She saw suckers on the end that she didn’t want to let them anywhere near her. As such she began to fire out as much webbing as she could, trying to wrap the thing up in it and, hopefully, weight it down to slow down its strikes.

“I’ve heard! I’ve heard!” Petyr pleaded even as he moved to join Miles under Ock. But rather than attack the man’s legs, which was Miles’ focus as he tried to yank him down to the ground, Petyr focused on trying to pin down the tentacles that were on the stone.

Ock looked down at them and sighed. “You children…” he said before suddenly lashing out, flailing his extra limbs with no real rhyme or reason that Gwen could determine. Granted, part of that was because she was clinging to the tentacle she was on for dear life, praying that it wouldn’t smash her into a wall as thrashed about madly. The world swirled around Gwen as she struggled to maintain her hold. She could hear Miles and Petyr shouting but she couldn’t tell if they were trying to help her, struggling to avoid injury, or were in pain. Honestly it might have been all of those things.

There was a hard lurch that came suddenly and Gwen found herself soaring through the air, limbs reaching out for nothing until she hit the ground hard enough to leaving her gasping. She weakly rolled onto her side and saw Petyr lying near her, his ankle twisted in such a way that she knew they’d have to reset it, while Miles had ended up wrapped in his own webbing and stuck to a wall.

“Well, that was interesting,” Doc Ock stated. “I would stick around but I have a busy day ahead of me. And I imagine you… youths… need to head home for bed.” He gave them a cheery mock salute before he climbed up a wall, the last thing any of them saw of him being one of his tentacles wiggling as if he were waving goodbye.

Gwen grit her teeth and dragged herself towards Petyr. “Come on… come on Petyr. We have to get Miles and then get out of here.”

“Yeah… yeah…” he got onto his hands and knees and Gwen fired some webbing around his twisted ankle, causing him to cry out in pain before dropping his head to press against the street. “Give me… a moment…” He panted before allowing Gwen to help him up, wrapping an arm around her and leaning on her. It made every inch of her scream in agony, as it felt like her entire body was just one massive bruise, but Gwen bit her lip and forced herself not to even whimper. If she did Petyr would demand she let him go.

“Okay, I’m going to say it,” Miles said as they reached him and began to tear at the webbing that was wrapped around him. Luckily it wasn’t a cocoon or the like, just a lot of sticky thick ropes that had lashed him to the wall, but it did require Gwen and Petyr pulling with all their might to rip them free of the stone. “What the fuck was that?”

“Trouble,” Gwen muttered. “That… was trouble.”

Chapter Text

Sandor

He was used to walking into whore houses. People might not have thought it, what with his sour demeanor and general hatred of… everything… but he did have needs. But he was also not someone that was going to have women flock to him and beg him to take their virtues. There were no buxom serving girls in the Red Keep who whispered hints of carnal pleasure to him. Gave him longing looks as he sat eating a meal, purposely bending so he could see their rumps or get a better peak at their cleavage. No… none of that for Sandor. He knew that with his horribly scarred face women were horrified and disgusted. Didn’t matter that the lads with the pretty faces didn’t know how to actually use their peckers, or that the rough but handsome warriors tended to have a thousand diseases. Sandor knew how to make women squeal in pleasure and for all his self loathing he had always kept himself clean and healthy; wasn’t any harder than dealing with his face. None of that mattered to them.

So it was to the whores he went to.

And even they, despite the coin he paid them, still looked at him with revulsion when they didn’t think he noticed their stares. How they would quickly close their eyes when he laid on top of them, desperate to focus on his body and not upon his face. Even the few he made repeat visits to never could must up the courage to stare at him.

But as he entered the truly massive Blue Oyster, which wasn’t so much a whore house as a whore castle due to its great size, he found himself in the strange situation of having the whores flock to him like birds descending on a pile of sweet corn.

“Lord Clegane,” a dusky skinned woman said as she approached, offering him a goblet filled with wine. “Welcome. How might we serve you?”

“Or service you?” another whore asked, drifting past him.

“We do so love to serve,” a third stated from where she sat, opening her legs wide to show off that she was wearing nothing under her dress.

“In so many ways,” another called out from the stairs.

“On our knees.”

“On our backs.”

“And in so many different positions.”

Sandor was beginning to feel rather flustered.

“Oh leave him alone my pets,” Sansa said from the second balcony, leaning down over the rail so he could see her better. She was wearing an open robe and nothing else, her pale breasts resting on the wooden barrier as she smiled at him. “They are interested in you, my knight. I’ve talked you up so very much… spoken of how kind you are. How strong. How skilled with a… sword.” The way she lingered on that final word made it more than clear what she meant by that. Flashing a sharp smile she added, “Oh, and they see you for what you truly are.”

It took a moment for Sandor to figure out what she meant and when he did he reached up and touched his face, conforming that the glamour she had placed on it was removed. The scars he was forced to wear had once more become nothing but a memory, leaving only smooth skin. Ever since she’d healed him he hadn’t actually felt the pain in his face that had been a constant companion since his childhood so it didn’t bother him to have the scars remain there through whatever magic she had returned with but not having them there for all else to see was a nice relief.

Still…

“Oh don’t look at me like that!” Sansa protested with a flirty smile. “They can be trusted. I saved each and every one of them… they worship me as their mother, their teacher, and their goddess. Sometimes all three.” She turned and motioned for him to follow. “Come along, we have much to discuss. Amelya, Tomora, you will join us.”

Sandor watched as the whores began to drift away, returning to caring for the Blue Oyster. It was unusually empty, with no patrons sitting down below, making chit chat with the whores and playing silly games. There were men who liked that sort of thing, who came to whorehouses not merely to bury their cocks into soft bodies but who wanted an ‘experience’. It was a waste of money in Sandor’s opinion but people tended to be stupid. No one was doing that when he’d arrived but he supposed that with everything going on in the city at the moment there would be times where no men were interested in the pleasures of the flesh.

‘Fuck, maybe they all just need some time to recover,’ he thought to himself as he mounted the stairs, glancing once more time down below at the whores that mingled about like sharks hoping for someone to throw bait into the waters. Only the two that Sansa had called for, Amelya and Tomora, followed him. Both were utterly pale, with nearly white skin, which made their brown and black locks stand out all the more. Their eyes and lips had been done up in dark blue paints, to add a bit of otherworldliness to them, but their dresses were the standard garb of ladies of their profession in King’s Landing… if a bit more expensive. Fine thin silken things that didn’t hide their bodies but rather teased them, letting all know just what they could fully experience if they just had the right amount of coin.

They moved up the first flight of stairs and then the second and Sandor heard grunts and cries that told him that there were clients there. Or perhaps the tales that young stupid lads told themselves of how whores would fuck each other for free when there was no man around were true.

‘Every woman the moment she is alone will fuck another lady but no man would ever fuck another man even if he were desperate.’ Sandor snorted mentally at the stupidity of that; for many men it didn’t matter what a person looked like if they were desperate. He’d heard tale more than once, though it always came with worrying glances, of his brother getting impatient that he hadn’t been brought a woman and thus grabbing a squire or the like and fucking them til they died of the pain of him rearranging their organs.

Finally he was shown to the Lord’s Suite, where the richest of men would be able to spend a week having every one of their desires catered to while their gold dwindled away. It was a truly massive room, taking up nearly a third of the floor, with a large bed that could fit 10 nubile bodies quite easily, a long banquet table, multiple seats for those that wished to fuck in new and interesting ways, and even a sunken in area filled with pillows. There was a large tub off to one side and a large balcony with high wall so that one could get blown by a whore in the sun without anyone seeing the lasses. And all about were the busts and trinkets and little baubles that the rich loved to surround themselves with in order to make themselves feel more special.

Sitting at a table on a chair that was more of a throne was Sansa, one leg crossed over the other as she nibbled on some fruit, stabbing grapes with her finger nails and bringing them to her dark lips. She gestured at a chair near her own and he sat down, rolling his neck to work out the kinks. At once the two whores that Sansa had demanded come with them were behind him, removing his cloak and bits of armor with nimble fingers.

“You look… better than when I last saw you,” he stated at last, being careful with his words. People might have found it funny to see him cautious and worried about such a slip of a thing but he had seen Sansa tear several grown men apart with her bare hands. She was a monster in the form of a young woman and he would never forget that.

“I’ll admit the… sudden death… of Lord Tywin caused some issues for me,” she said.

That was putting it lightly. The morning that the news had broken Sandor had found Sansa ranting and raving, destroying their shared quarters before she’d begun snapping at the servants to pack her things and prepare for her departure. She had understood that with him dead her only true champion in the Red Keep was long gone. The Queen and her meek little boy wouldn’t allow her to remain once they  learned that Lord Tywin had been keeping her in the privacy of his rooms. It was well known what the man had done to his father’s mistress the moment he had become the Lord of the Rock and Sansa had no desire to repeat that. She had left in a flurry while everyone else had gone to hear Tommen’s proclamations, telling Sandor he was to remain until she called for him.

And remain he had until that day, when a soft-stepping servant had brought him a small note stating where he was to go and he shouldn’t be tardy.

“But I have settled quite well,” she said with a smirk, pouring them each a glass of wine. She passed one to Sandor and he wasn’t surprised at all that it was so cold that it had begun to steam; that was her favorite after all, and he knew that she liked to keep the chilled drink available at all times.

“You have taken over a whorehouse,” he stated, looking about. While plenty would have made a joke about her becoming a whore Sandor knew to do that would be to court death. Sansa did not take such insults lightly, after all.

“I suppose there are many that would see that as a step down from where I was only a month ago,” she commented. She trailed her finger along the table, following the wood grain pattern. “I disagree. Here at least those I mingle with are honest about being whores.” Sandor raised an eyebrow at that and she chuckled softly. “Come now, you must have thought the same yourself many times. The gathered men and women of the Red Keep… they are all whores. The servants sell their bodies but rather than sex it is hard work for far too little pay. The higher born… the sell their honesty, their interiority, their self worth to whoever will purchase it for a bit of power.”

“True,” Sandor said with a simple nod.

“And besides… I haven’t taken over a whorehouse.” She sipped her wine. “I’ve taken all of them.”

“All of them?” he asked confused.

“Well, not all in Westeros,” she replied, her tone full of mirth. “But all of the ones in King’s Landing.”

Sandor just stared at her in shock and Sansa giggled, pressing her hand to her lips.

“Oh my knight,” she said, reaching over and patting his hand, “it is so wonderful to be able to surprise you!” She took a moment to calm herself before continuing. “It seems Littlefinger was far more cunning than any gave him credit for. It was known that he owned quite a few whorehouses in Westeros but his hold was far greater than we could have imagined. Using different false names and third parties he had managed to gain control of every brothel in King’s Landing. The few that stood against him found themselves ground into dust thanks to accidents, Gold Cloak raids, and disasters. A pox here. A fire there. If he could not claim it then he would see it destroyed. And thus he gained control of it all.”

She paused.

“And then he killed Joffrey and all those lovely buildings and the ladies that called them home found themselves in desperate need of a patron. And seeing as no one knew of those deals…”

Sandor knew exactly why no one knew the truth of the brothels’ ownership and it was the minx that was sitting across from him.

“So you are the high whore of King’s Landing,” he said before he could stop himself.

But Sansa merely smiled. “But of course! Everyone has their spies. Varys and his little birds. Cersei and her dear servants. The Queen of Thorns and her pretty little flowers. And I have my whores. Baelish knew their worth; a man is never at his weakest than when he’s caught in the warm embrace of a woman. When he finds her breasts pressed against his face or her quim wrapped around his cock… well, his tongue becomes loose and secrets are revealed.” The two whores that had been lingering around him suddenly moved to begin rubbing his chest and his arms, Sandor stiffening in more than one way at their actions. “There is no secret now that I will not eventually learn of. Men are weak creatures and I will get them to spill all their secrets along with their seed. And the right bastard born at the right moment? It is something Baelish never considered but now I see as being able to earn me quite the profit.” Sansa gestured at the room they were sitting in. “Varys is the spider? I now sit in the center of the greatest web in all of Westeros.

“But I did not call you here to brag, my knight. No… you are more important than that. So please tell me of the Red Keep and what things are whispered there now that I am gone.”

Sandor worked his jaw for a moment before he waved off the whores, the two pale beauties moving away from him. “The royal babe has named the Bastard as his Hand and regent.”

“Yes, I am aware,” Sansa said breezily. “Already the wealthy are wondering if they can turn that to their advantage. There are a few that loathe him already and want him dead but far more desire him to become their ally. They wonder what gifts they can give him or distractions they might send his way. The Tyrells are thinking of asking him to come to High Garden… oh, they will claim it is for Tommen, of course. Winter is coming-“ and for some odd reason her smile grew sharp for just a moment, “-and soon it will be impossible to travel. The seas will grow fierce with winter storms and the Kignsroad will be buried so deeply that even you would be lost amongst the powder. They are thinking that it would be nice to bring the court to the new Queen’s home, to show off the might of the Reach. It will be to honor the King… but he is but a boy and will be distracted with childish things.

“The Hand though? That is a different matter. They will take him on grand hunts to slay massive beasts. Allow him to tour the wineries. Perhaps take him to Oldtown so he might visit the Citadel or travel the harbor in their great ships.”

“Heh,” Sandor huffed, “they might as well take him to the Starry Sept and fully alienate the bastard.” Sansa looked at him and he scoffed. “You know your bastard brother; he isn’t one to be taken in by such things.” Honestly Sandor didn’t mind the new Hand at all. He was steady to the point and didn’t believe in the pompous games of the rest of the highborn.

“And how do you know this?” Sansa asked.

“Because he summoned me to meet with him,” Sandor commented.

“And what do you think of our new Hand?”

Sandor shot her a level stare. “He’s not worth bothering with unless there is no other choice.”

“And what makes you believe that to be the case?” She leaned in and whispered playfully, “Is he a threat?”

“His wife is,” Sandor said candidly. “That woman… a killer knows a killer. And she is a killer. She tries to hide it but she is.”

What he didn’t mention was that Natasha Stark reminded him very much of Sansa.

“I suppose that is true,” she said as she rose. “There are those already plotting Jon Stark’s death. I think they will fail. He is too protected.” She looked over her shoulder at him as she padded about the room, her dainty little feet making not a sound. “Is he still asking about me?”

“He is.” The bastard had been quiet about it, making sure to only whisper in the right ears, but word still got around that he was seeking out information concerning his sister. That he wasn’t as sure as everyone else that she truly was dead. That he knew that the Lannisters had claimed she was alive and that he wanted to meet the woman that Joffrey had brought with him to the Small council and proclaimed Sansa Stark. Sandor had done his usual thing of growling at the bastard and telling him to piss off when he had come walking by but Jon Stark hadn’t been fazed by him at all.

“I grew up around my father’s ladywife who said goodbye to me by telling me I should have been throwing from a tall tower and had my spine shattered.”

That had been the bastard’s response and Sandor had to admit that Catelyn Fucking Stark’s warm embraces would make a man harder to faze.

“Well, he won’t find me now,” she stated, pausing at the large bed. “After all… could he really claim that I was his dear sister?”

Sandor didn’t bother to answer; they both knew the response. Sansa had radically changed since she’d awoken after her death and not just how she had aged from child to woman. She had grown even taller since he’d first encountered her, shooting up to nearly 6 feet tall though shy of that by an inch. He knew that the Queen had been rather annoyed that Sansa was taller than her now… and that she had developed far fuller breasts and a rounded ass that made her a threat to the title of most beautiful woman in Westeros. But there were other changes too. Sansa had been a pale thing already but after her death it was as if the sun was afraid to touch her skin. Her flesh had become as white as milk, which made the blue makeup she used on her lips and eyes and cheeks stand out all the more. Her hair had become a weak blond when she had ended up with spending time with Lord Tywin and in the month that he’d last seen her it had only continued to lighten, now almost white in color. But not an old maid… but an… other worldly sort of color.

“I don’t look like Sansa Stark anymore, do I my knight?” She beckoned him to rise and Sandor did so, moving towards her. “Nothing like that foolish little girl.” He took one step and then another towards her and as he did his paces grew shorter as he watched her slowly stretch. When she dropped her arms she had grown another few inches, now well past 6 foot 2. “In fact… one might think I am someone completely different.” She dropped her robe, revealing her naked body fully to him, before oozing onto the bed. She raised a single pale foot, the deep blue of her nails gleaming in the light of the sun as she began to stroke his crotch. Sandor shook his head, swearing that once more she was growing, leg stretching out to bridge the gap. Every breath made her breasts swell and her curves grow, hair lengthening.

Or… had she always been like that? People didn’t just suddenly grow. Yes… that was it. She had always been like that.

He shook his head, feeling dizzy and strange, like he’d been dunked in a barrel of ale and told to drink his way out.

“My snowflakes… the sun annoys me.”

Amelya and Tomora flittered past him, moving to the balcony doors and shutting them, leaving the room in shadows. But they weren’t done, choosing to also pull heavy currents over the doors and then the windows, leaving them in darkness lit only by a few candles. Candles the two began to snuff out.

“Come Sandor,” she said as she rose up again, standing nose to nose with him, nails easily shredding his clothing. “Your queen hungers.”

He found himself falling on top of her, not bothered at all by how very cold her quim was or how the only light in the room came from her piercing blue eyes.

~MC~MC~MC~

Robb

Outside a fall storm was raging hard, lashing at the sides of the large barn. The winds made the timbers shake and the pounding of the rain upon the wood planks that made up the structure made Robb remember the charge he had led against the Kingslayer and his forces during the Battle of the Whispering Woods. But the barn had been made well, crafted by hands that understood what winter could bring. Double walled with straw stuffed into it to keep the cold out and sealed sludge that was transported in from the Neck; if ever there were a people that knew how to deal with dampness it was House Reed and their friendship with Ned’s father had meant that any barn built during his reign as Warden of the North was protected just as they boats were.

They weren’t that far from Winterfell, perhaps at most an hour or two’s ride by horseback. For Robb and Venom it had only taken them 30 minutes to arrive here, swinging from trees and running far faster than any horse. It had allowed them plenty of time to crouch in the high rafters, blending in with the shadows. The last of the water had fallen from their black flesh and they were now merely tense and ready.

‘You are sure we are at the right place?’ Venom asked.

‘Of course I am. You were with me when we heard that farmer mention it.’

‘But nothing has happened yet!’ Venom complained. ‘We could have killed plenty of thieves and rapists by now!’

Robb mentally scoffed. ‘You were the one complaining about the cold rain. We get to relax and be dry.’ Venom didn’t respond, pouting that their prey was taking so long.

Robb had heard about the scheme purely by accident. He had been sent by his father to supervise one of the grain delivers, giving a silver stag to the farmers in addition to their normal pay to thank them for their hard work. The coins had come from Lannister purses; Robb didn’t know if it was silver he personally had taken from Jaime Lannister but he always liked to assume it was. His father had been quick to strip the dead and the captured of their gear and make arrangements for it to be sold to Essos if it couldn’t be put to use by the North. There were many merchants in Pentos that were walking about with Lion Cloaks, Robb had to imagine, bragging about how they had been taken from this foolish Westerosi lord or that. As the North no longer saw themselves as part of Westeros they didn’t care in the slightest about the insults. Words were wind, after all.

One of the farmers had mentioned that he was surprised that one of the castle guards wasn’t there, as they had had several long chats recently and he’d thought the man would want to hear more. He’d said that the lad was interested in becoming a farmer, wanting a quiet life of solitude, and he’d been ready to tell him more about how to prepare the fields. The only thing he’d been able to discuss was where the grains were kept, mentioning the very barn Robb was now in. It was one of the main Great Barns that Winterfell kept to feed the people; currently it was empty but when Winter came it would be filled to bursting with guards stationed there to protect it.

Robb hadn’t bought the old man’s story for a second. He didn’t think the farmer was lying… but young men didn’t suddenly decide to go off and live all by themselves toiling away farming. Not in the North. There was something else going on and he’d confirmed that when he’d discovered one guard, Morbin, had claimed to have come down with food poisoning… but wasn’t in his room. In fact no one had seen him. That had caused Robb’s hackles to rise and Venom had agreed that the man was up to something so it had been decided to head to the barn and see just what he might be doing.

If only Venom would stop getting all anxious-

A side door suddenly opened and Robb narrowed his eyes as a figure came in with a lantern. He had no need for light thanks to Venom giving him the ability to see in near perfect darkness so the light was like the sun breaking through the clouds. He couldn’t help but stare. But rather than Morbin it was a young woman, drenched despite the cloak she was wearing. She shivered as she looked about, hanging her lantern on a hook before moving to shut and barricade the door behind her.

She was a slip of a thing and not overly beautiful though Robb was willing to give her the fact that she wasn’t able to make herself up like highborn girls were. She had to make do with just brushing her hair, which admittedly was her most striking feature. It was golden in color, reminding him a bit of the Lannisters, but there were some Northerners who had more Westerland features thanks to a brief migration of them after the Dance of the Dragons when a Summer Flu had sprung up in the Westerlands and it had been believed that the cooler climates of the North would help keep the disease at bay. She wore a simple purple dress, good in quality but focused on keeping one warm and not flattering their looks. Even with it being drenched and clinging to her body it didn’t show off her curves like many probably desired.

‘She is from Winterfell,’ Venom informed him.

‘You’re sure?’

‘I recognize her scent. She is one of the chamber maids.’

Robb’s eyes narrowed at that. ‘They aren’t supposed to leave Winterfell without an escort. Its too dangerous.’

‘You were right… this is going to be interesting!’ Venom declared as they watched the chamber maid move to light a few more lamps before hurrying over to a cellar door. She looked about one more time before she pulled it open, the hatch letting out a screech that made Robb wince and Venom hiss in pain. But it was done in a second and they were able to focus once more on the woman as she reached down… only for a pale white hand to suddenly dart out of the shadow-filled cellar and grasp her arm.

Robb nearly lunged but caught himself when he saw that the girl wasn’t screaming in fright. No, she merely pulled and from the cellar came… well, it had the form of a man but could never be confused with one. Pale white skin was stretched over a thin form, like leather pulled too tauntly. Ebony hair threaded with blue strands. A twisted nose that arced upward with too large of nostrils. Thin lips that barely covered his razor sharp teeth.

He had encountered many strange things. Become something otherworldly himself. And yet even with all that he had no problem labeling the being before him as a monster.

“Martine,” the creature said in a gasping voice, as if he had to force each word past him teeth. “Were you followed?”

“No my love,” she said quickly. “I saw to my duties and hurried here. The storm actually helped… none would dare follow me in this weather.”

“After tonight you will never have to worry about such things again.”

“Followers? Duties? Or storms?”

The creature chuckled at that. “I can not stop the latter but the other two? Oh yes. No longer will you need to look over your shoulder again. I must merely finish the preparations.”

“Tell me of it again, Morbin. Tell me of what you have done!” Martine pleaded as he bent down and retrieved a satchel from the cellar. When he rose she wrapped herself around his body, rubbing her head against his chest.

‘That is Morbin?’

‘Or what he has become. We have had many strange people wandering about Winterfell but I think we would remember something like THAT!’ The derision could be heard clearly in Venom’s thoughts.

Morbin shook his head, flashing a dark smile as he moved to a table. Martine leapt onto it, sitting there swinging her legs while the soldier set to work removing several different objects from his bag. A bottle with a cork stopper. A clay plate and pastel. A small burlap bag. “It was when I had marched with Robb Stark to face the Lannisters. I was wounded in battle and dragged myself to a small unkempt graveyard. There I found a tomb, far too grand for such a place, and seeking shelter to try and see to my wounds I discovered a secret passageway that had once been locked but had been opened due to age eating away at the door. Within I found ashes and vile things but also the journal. It spoke of the secret society that had lived in Westeros since the time of the First Men. Creatures made by worshipers of the Others who sought to replace their lost masters.” He paused. “The vampires.”

Martine cooed at that while Robb set his jaw.

‘What are vampires?’ Venom asked as Morbin continued to wax on poetically about how his wound had bled in a chamber that had been meant for blood.

‘Abominations,’ Robb mentally hissed. ‘Legend states that when the Others were defeated at the Battle of the Dawn some of their human allies, the traitors of the living, used dark magic to try and turn themselves into the Others themselves. They failed though… where the Others hated life and desired only the death of all things the vampires need the living. They feed on blood, draining it from their victims in order to continue on. They also had the ability to turn other humans into vampires like themselves, everything they were twisted so that they became just like their killers. Old Nan told us stories of villages during month long snowstorms that found themselves under siege by just a few vampires, where the smallfolk were used as little more than cattle’

He narrowed their eyes.

‘He dies.’

“They were the last of their kind,” Morbin said mournfully. “Wiped out by the ‘Daywalker’ to the last man. The tomb I found had been their final stronghold but they were dying, tainted by poisoned blood. But the journal spoke of how they might rise up again!”

‘Yes!’ Venom cheered. ‘I wonder what he’ll taste like…’

‘I hope bad,’ Robb said. ‘Because he will be the last of his kind we ever taste!’

Martine cooed at that. “And it worked, my love… it worked. You are a vampire.” She threw back her head, running her fingers through her hair. “And soon… so shall I.”

“Yes my love,” Morbin told her. “With what you have managed to steal away from Winterfell I can complete the ritual tonight. You will be transformed just as I was. You will become an immortal, the queen to my king, and we will begin at last to carve out our kingdom in the North. No more slaving away for the foolish Starks. They will be made to serve us.”

“I want to kill Lady Stark myself,” Martine said, snapping her head back down and staring at her lover with intense eyes. “I want her to die slowly, in agony. Twisting and twitching as I drain her to nearly the last drop before I allow her to heal all over again!” She leapt off the table and began to dance about madly. “We’ll need to kill Prince Robb… he is powerful.”

“Perhaps,” Morbin told her. “Or… perhaps we can make them serve. This journal speaks of blood slaves, lesser vampires that obey the whims of their masters. With the right potions in his food we could make him our pet.” He scowled suddenly. “The rest die. The green skinned creatures, the blue one as well. The raccoon and the tree will burn. Perhaps we will keep that direwolf as an attack dog… if starved long enough her mind will break and she will forget her humanity…”

Robb grabbed onto the beam, claws digging into the wood as he prepared to leap down and kill the vampire. He just needed him to shift a bit more, so he could strike him full on and not give him a chance to fight back.

“We were meant to rule, my love. The two of us.” Morbin tipped her chin up to stare into his eyes. “With our new power the order of world will change. No longer will it be the Stark’s time. It will be the Vampire’s Time. My time. Morbin Ti-“

And that’s when Roslin tackled him and bite his head off.

“HE WAS OURS!” Venom roared as Robb leapt from his perch, landing in front of Martine who was screaming and sobbing as she watched Roslin in her Symbiote form cough and hack as she spat out dust.

“You weren’t missing much, love!” she complained as she spit more grit from her mouth. “He turned into ashes the moment his head was gone. I need something to wash this down!” With that she walked over to the door and yanked it open, sticking her head outside to catch rainwater in her mouth.

“You… you killed him!” Martine screamed, turning and glaring at Roslin. She pulled a dagger from the folds of her dress and let out a deranged battle cry as she rushed towards the female pair, weapon raised above her head.

Robb casually fired off a tendril, wrapping it around her waist and yanking her back.

“How long were you here?” he asked as Roslin finally came back in, running her hands along her head to remove the water droplets that had gathered on her smooth black skin. The rain made her glisten all the more and he did his best to focus on the here and now even as both he and Venom felt their loins stir at the sight of their lovers.

Roslin shrugged. “For a while.”

“You followed us?”

“If anything you followed us,” she stated. “We saw this little one stealing from Maester Luwin’s stores and decided to find out just what she was up to. We snuck in when she did and waited.”

“Please… please let me go!” Martine whimpered. “It… it was him! Morbin! I didn’t mean to do anything!” Robb released her and at once the chamber maid was on her knees, hands clasped in front of her as she pleaded. “He forced me to do it! He did!” She looked back at Robb with big wet eyes. “I… I was so scared that he would hurt me but… I never wanted to become like him! Never! You… you two saved me! You did! I’ll never forget that!” She began to crawl towards Robb on her hands and knees, head nearly pressed to the ground. “Thank you… thank you. I’ll do anything…”

Roslin let out a sigh as she walked over, running a finger along the woman’s cheek. “Oh, you poor little thing. You… really think we’re that stupid, do you?”

And with that Roslin lashed out, her hand slicing the woman right down the middle, sending out a gusher of blood.

“Pathetic,” Roslin snarled before grabbing half of the twitching corpse and opening her mouth wide to take a large bite.

Robb merely stared at her before doing the same.

He knew that his family would have been horrified by it all. Seen it as ghastly and wrong. To murder someone coldly and then consume their flesh. But for Robb and Roslin… they functioned differently now. Saw the world differently. They were the lethal protectors of the North and would do all they could to protect it from the filth.

Swallowing the last bit of the deranged woman Robb ran his tongue over his mouth, gathering the last droplets of blood before turning towards his bride. Roslin though was already in motion, rushing him and tackling him to the ground.

Later they would destroy the journal and remove the last of the evidence.

Later.

For now though?

The barn shook and trembled as they roared out, battling the storm in intensity.

Chapter Text

Jon

‘Why am I doing any of this?’ Jon thought as he left his chambers and made his way down the hall, nodding to the Iron Pointe guards who stood a bit straighter when he passed. ‘Don’t do that,’ he thought to himself bitterly, wishing he could actually say those words aloud. ‘Don’t stand there like I am a member of the Royal Family.’

It was everything he had ever feared. Lady Stark had hissed so many times that he was a threat to Robb, that he would try and claim his birthright. And while he wasn’t the Lord of Winterfell he had still managed to rise above Robb. He was Hand of the King and until Robb was the King of the North Jon would have more power than his brother could hope to possess.

And he hated every moment of it.

“There is no use complaining about what is done,” his father had told him many times. “It is done. It can’t be undone. All you can do is move forward.”

So Jon made sure that the pin that designated his rank was firmly attached to his vest as he walked down the stairs, watching as servants moved with crates and boxes all about him. The small section of the Red Keep that had been given to him and his household when he’d arrived was a flurry of activity, with people coming in and out. Which was so odd because every day it got a bit emptier.

“How goes it?” Jon asked Happy as he approached the head of his Household Guard.

“Well enough,” Happy grunted.

“You can say it,” Jon commented.

“Say what?”

“You’re thrilled we’re making the move.”

“Hmmm,” Happy murmured to himself. “I won’t claim to be displeased. The Tower of the Hand will be far easier to defend.”

Jon decided not to mention that Varys had warned them that there were far more secret pathways and hiding spots in the Tower of the Hand than people realized. More than their section of the Red Keep. Maegor the Cruel had not trusted his hands and thus demanded a way to be able to spy on them, creating secret paths that even now were still being discovered, since their ways were known only to him after he’d had every builder killed. While Natasha and Varys were working on making sure that they monitored those passageways (not getting rid of them as that would only alert their enemies that they were onto them and force them to get more cunning) he thought it best to leave Happy in the dark. The man might have his heart explode otherwise.

So instead Jon merely stated, “Well, I’m glad someone will be happy.” He moved towards the door, passing by more servants as he made his way into the first courtyard that led to the main section of the Red Keep where the first of MANY meetings were awaiting him.

“Lord Jon,” Commander Jiffsun called out, moving to match his pace with Jon’s when he spotted him.

“Anything to report?”

“A few drunken fights but otherwise last night was quiet,” the man replied. “With your leave I would like to do a few rounds today, make sure my men are doing what they are supposed too…”

“Go on,” Jon said. “We have no Small Council meeting scheduled today… just me dealing with-“ He stopped himself.

Jiffsun though smiled, sensing his unease. “You will grow less bothered by this.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Jon muttered to himself as he made his way towards the Throne Room, leaving Jiffsun to head off. He would have to sit in judgment for a few hours, hearing the petitions of the people, before he would be allowed to eat his midday meal and then move on to some of the more private, but in no way less tedious, meetings. Everyone it seemed wanted to talk to him now. It was such a strange thing after having grown up in Winterfell as the boy that was seen but never noticed.

He had only just made it inside when he nearly collided with Margaery, who had been coming around a corner rather quickly.

“Oh! Lord Jon!” She proclaimed, pressing her hands to her mouth in surprise. Behind her several of her ladies in waiting trailed after; Jon was reminded of how once Bran, when he’d been just a babe, had went to feed some ducks by the Heartstree of Winterfell and ended up with them chasing after him begging for more treats. She was followed by Ser Oras Fossoway, one of the newest members of the King’s Guard that Jon who had selected to keep the Tyrells happy. With only four men named to the group Jon was still working with Natasha to determine who should be added. “I didn’t see you!”

‘Or you were waiting for me to come around the corner for this accidental meetings,’ Jon though, remembering Adrian’s warning that the Tyrells were NOT to be trusted. While it might have been the delusional rantings of bitter man Natasha had felt that there was something off about the family and urged Jon to be careful around them. After all they had managed to rise rather quickly in Westeros through knowing just when to ally themselves with people… and when to stab them in the back.

Of course he didn’t dare say such thoughts aloud. Didn’t allow her to think he suspected a thing. His father’s time as Hand of the King proved that even the man that spoke with the voice of the Crown could be cut down easily enough. Cersei wanted him dead, even with her having recently retreated to her rooms, claiming to need time to grieve over the death of her father, and she still had powerful friends. While Jon had Nat, Varys, and Oberyn (and if the man were still there he believed he may have had Namor’s backing) the Tyrells were a powerful ally to have. Even if he couldn’t trust them.

So instead he smiled and bowed slightly. “No worries, your grace. I was consumed with thought.”

“Of course you were,” she said with her own smile. “You have been busy as of late. We haven’t had you dine with us all in some time.”

“Only two weeks,” he corrected, “and it is needed. So many deaths… while the War has come to a standstill we still must show we are strong.”

“Yes, positions to fill, tasks to complete… are you headed towards the throne room?”

‘As if you didn’t know,’ Jon thought to himself, well aware that at least one of his guards was giving info to the Tyrells… mostly because Natasha was in turn forcing him to only leak what she WANTED him to reveal. “I am. With all that has happened there has been quite the backlog of people seeking out the crown, wanting to speak to the King.”

“And of course we can’t have Tommen doing that just yet,” Margaery stated, spinning around and threading her arm through his. “Would you escort you queen? I want to attend. I feel it my duty.”

“Of course,” Jon said, despite that being the very last thing he wanted to do.

“How are you handling the recent changes?” she asked as the continued on, clearly not willing to let the silence be exactly that.

“As well as any man can, I suppose. I remind myself that I am not the only one to find their lives radically altered. A few years ago I was merely the bastard of Winterfell, Lord Stark’s shame.”

“Sometimes I think our Dornish friends have it correct,” Margaery stated. “They treat bastards so much better. If I placed two babes beside one another and told you to pick I doubt you could select the correct one.”

Jon merely smiled. ‘The correct one?’ he thought to himself. ‘You reveal yourself far too easily.’ But he didn’t call her out on that, as he couldn’t help but wonder if she was trying to see if he actually noticed her mistake. ‘I hate these games. Prove myself too smart and I’m a threat. Prove myself too dumb and I’m a threat. Prove myself just right… and I still could be a threat. Damn the South and their constant shifting and twisting.’

“Still, you must not think of yourself in those terms anymore,” she continued. “I know that it must be hard… I imagine Lady Stark was not an easy woman to please-“

“Would you be pleased if Tommen brought home a bastard?” Jon asked.

“You blame your father?”

“Wouldn’t you?” he pressed. “A man can love their father and still see them as more than a white statue upon a hill.”

“I suppose you are right. All have their faults.” She laughed. “Just ask my grandmother! She is all the willing to lay to bare all our mistakes, mine included. Still, even with all of the errors we have made we find ourselves right where we need to be.”

It didn’t miss Jon’s notice that Margaery gripped his arm just a bit harder. He wondered if she were dreaming of him and Tommen swapped, that he be the king rather than the boy. It must have been hard for her, knowing that it would be at least 7 years before he could bed her. Perhaps more. In that time much could happen, just as she had stated. Her position wasn’t as stable as she might have liked.

It… almost made him pity her.

Almost.

“Presented Queen Margaery Tyrell and Lord Jon Stark, Hand of the King and Regent of his Grace King Tommen Baratheon!” the crier called out and at once all in the throne room turned to see him.

The crowd was far larger than it had been when Lord Tywin had sat in judgment. Then it had been a healthy amount of people but now everyone in the Red Keep and many who dwelled in the more wealth parts of King’s Landing were gathered in a crush of bodies. They hungered for a show. They didn’t know how Jon would be as Hand and they wanted to observe him. He knew many were hoping he’d be a failure they could mock.

Jon forced himself to look straight ahead, repeating over and over in his head that it was perfectly fine for him to be escorting Margaery as he was… even as he felt the heated stares and knew by nightfall the whispers would begin that he was bedding her. Margaery must have known the same and he wondered why she would take that risk. She couldn’t believe it would only harm him… women were always judged far more harshly for such things than men. She wasn’t naïve. So why?

He put those thoughts out of his head as she finally let go and moved to stand off to the side, leaving him to move to the Iron Throne. He stared at the thing in disgust, wishing he could melt it right back down into the swords it had once been.

“It is okay to be cautious,” Maester Pycelle told him as he trottled up to him. “Take it slow and I am sure you won’t cut yourself.”

Jon huffed. “The Mad King ordered my grandfather be burned from that seat. Surely you remember, Grand Maester… you were there.”

The old man stilled at that and Jon ascended, finally taking a seat.

‘Aegon said that he made the Iron Throne because he wanted the most uncomfortable seat in the Seven Kingdoms. That a King should never be comfortable.’ Jon mentally scoffed at that. ‘No… the ass just wanted to remind everyone of the swords that he had claimed.’ He carefully settled himself, doing his best to sit down so he didn’t slash his arms up on the damn thing. There were all sorts of little barbs and spikes upon the Iron Throne from the many different swords that had been used to make it and according to Varys it seemed like every week a new one would appear. It was supposed to be blasphemous to demand it cared for as if was the chair of Aegon the Conqueror, greatest of the Targaryen king. But every king had at least once asked for someone to come in and file away this little sharp spot or that. The problem with the Iron Throne though was that it was made up of all matter of swords, forged in a multitude of ways, and then forced together through the hands of a… well, quite frankly shit blacksmith. Aegon was many things but an artist he wasn’t. As such the swords never had truly graphed together and thus the weight of the throne would cause pieces to break off, creating new dangers.

The Iron Throne had originally been 40 feet tall from base to headrest but it had begun to shrink down even during the time of Aegon as swords fell off of it. The Targaryens had always been quick to cover that up, claiming that people were just ‘misremembering’. It was feared that the smallfolk would think the tearing apart of the throne would been seen as the tearing apart of the kingdoms.

‘Which is a load of shit because if that were true the moment Joffrey sat on this thing it would have split in half.’

“As His Grace continues to prepare for the time when he will take the throne,” and for Jon that couldn’t come soon enough, “I will rule in his stead.”

What followed was an hour of petty grievances, boot licking, and political games. This baker wanted to force his competitor to open an hour later… because the petitioner liked to sleep in and hated that he was already an hour behind when he finally started work. A group of fishermen wanted the court to use their catch for a feast and just needed Jon to agree. A landed knight demanded that he be named the new Lord of the Riverlands because he could trace his family tree back to the Mudds… but only through a book that he hadn’t brought with him and that couldn’t leave his home. A huntsmen who came to report illegal logging in the Kingswood but let slip information that he shouldn’t have known and thus revealed that HE was the man doing the logging and was trying to collect coin for tracking himself.

There were some where he was able to help them and he savored those rare moments like a starving man being given a scrap of meat. Farmers who asked assistance in dealing with those they owed money to… willing to pay but not at the sudden increase in interest that was being asked. A poor family who had lost their son and wondered if they might be given leave to travel to the Neck, where they had originally lived, in order to bury him properly. A dockmaster from Dorne who wished to discuss opening a new wharf and hadn’t be able to have an audience with Prince Doran and was rather pleased when Jon promised to arrange a meeting with Oberyn.

But there were also the insane and the maddening. Claims by one rather jittery lad that beings from the stars that could turn into wagons and boats were fighting a secret war and he needed access to the castle vaults. He had been sent away by the guards, Jon demanded he not be harmed but not allowed back near the Red Keep. Then there had been the man dressed in the garb of Yi Ti even though he was clearly from the Stormlands, claiming that the reason no one had ever gotten to the Lands Beyond The Sunset Sea was a great fire breathing lizard dwelled in the waters consuming all that came near him… which was fine because beyond the Sunset was an island of skulls where a great ape as tall as the Wall roamed. On and on it went.

“…spice was lost and a bear found it!” a man who looked like he’d done far too much spice himself screamed. “The bear did spice!!! And now its running around killing people and trying to find more of it! That’s the biggest threat to all of Westeros!”

“Yes, the spice bear,” Jon said dryly, subtly motioning for the guards to take the man and let him calm down in one of the cells (not a Black Cell… he wasn’t cruel). He glanced over at Pycelle who for once seemed just as disturbed as he was over that last petitioner.

“Presenting the honorable Master Tohbo Mott,” the crier called out and a man of Essosi descent stepped forward. Jon narrowed his eyes as he heard several people within the throne room began to murmur to themselves, clearly annoyed that the ‘foreign demon’ was being allowed to approach.

Jon raised his hand. “Before I was summoned to serve King Joffrey ,the Lord of Iron Pointe, Antony Stark, had discussed teaching me the secret of reforging Valaryan Steel.” With that he rose and unsheathed Shadowfang, allowing everyone to stare at it. “He forged this himself, the weapon of House Stark of Iron Pointe of the Westerlands.” He returned the blade to its scabbard before continuing. “There are only five men in all the world who are acknowledged to know the method and only three have stepped foot in Westeros: Ulyssess Klaue, Antony Stark-“ he gestured at blacksmith before him, “and Master Tobho Mott. If there is anyone here who knows the secret step forth now. Otherwise… I will not allow a man of his skill to be hounded by whispers.”

The crowd instantly grew quiet, recognizing not only Jon’s power in this matter but Tobho Mott’s grand skill.

“Thank you, Lord Jon,” Master Mott stated with a bow. “Your guardian’s work is known to me… I wish I could state that I came here to examine Shadowfang or to show you some of my own work. But I have come seeking aid from the crown.” Jon motioned for him to continue. “Last night my shop was attacked. The guards I placed within to watch over my wares were killed and damage was done to it. Taken from me were several Valyrian Steel Daggers, which I had been commissioned to turn into a new blade.”

Jon frowned at that. “A hefty loss.”

“Naturally the owner of the daggers is demanding repayment. I can not provide him with the sword he commissioned or the daggers he once had… and the cost of such things-“

“I do not see,” Pycelle chimed in, “why this is a matter of the court. You stated yourself that you hired guards to protect your shop… it isn’t our fault that you were cheap in who you hired.”

“Cheap… cheap?” Mott snapped, eyes flashing with rage. “You would know cheap well, Grand Maester… only the cheapest whores for you!”

“Why I-“

“ENOUGH!” Jon roared, descending the Iron Throne, hand on Shadowfang. “This is the throne room of the Seven Kingdoms, not some barn where drunken lads go to punch one another after one too many ales! I will have ORDER!”

Mott quickly dipped his head and Grand Maester Pycelle seemed to shrink in on himself at Jon’s words.

“Now then, Master Mott, I feel for you and what has happened. But the Grand Maester does bring up a point… you hired the men you did. It is your duty to protect your own shop. What business is this for the crown?”

The blacksmith, seeing that Jon wasn’t dismissing him but rather wanted him to explain, squared his shoulders. “It is the business of the crown when it is ruffians that their own Gold Cloaks are unable to capture.” He moved to take a step forward only to think better of it. “I arrived hours later to find the damage… and the evidence of the perpetrators.” Mott looked Jon right in the eye. “It was the Spiders.”

The crowd murmured at that and Jon let out a mental groan. ‘Petyr… Gwen… Miles… what the fuck did you three do last night?’

“I was right!” a rather tall man cried out suddenly. He had short cut hair that must have been rather impressive when he had been young but now was peppered with silver strands. Plastered across his upper lip was a mustache that looked more like mud smeared on a child’s cheek than facial hair. He wore simple but rich clothing but it was his voice, loud and powerful, that drew everyone’s attention. “The Spiders are a menace and the Crown refuses to deal with them.”

Jon narrowed his eyes. “And who are you to speak out of turn before the Iron Throne and the Hand of the King?”

But the man wasn’t cowed. “Lord Jonah Jamison!” he called out and Jon racked his brain to figure out just who the hell that was. So many lords were nowadays coming in and out of the Red Keep that it was near impossible for Jon to remember them all. And he certainly hadn’t heard of a Lord Jamison. “And don’t the people deserve to know the truth about the Spiders? What are you hiding about those criminals?” Others around the man began to nod and murmur to themselves.

“The Crown hides nothing.”

“So you just don’t know! The Crown doesn’t know what is going on! The Spiders are a threat to us all! Capturing innocent people and framing them for their crimes! How many innocent people are in the Black Cells because of you?”

Margaery chose that moment to speak up. “As many as there are men with hearing still who stand next to you.” That got a chuckle out of the crowd and Jon decided that for all her underhandedness he could at least be thankful for her speaking up.

Jamison though wasn’t slowing down at all even with the laughter. “The Spiders only showed up when the Tyrells did. How do we know they didn’t bring them with them in order to stage these attacks and make themselves look better? Those thieves-“

“I think you’ve said enough,” Ser Loras said, Jon blinking at how the man had suddenly just… appeared… next to Jamison. He grabbed the loud mouth Lord by the arm and began to drag him away. “Let’s go have a nice walk. Maybe, if you are good, I won’t give you a tour of those Black Cells you are so concerned with.”

Jamison ripped his arm out of Ser Loras’ grasp but allowed himself to be guided away all the same.

With that settled Jon turned once more to Master Mott, knowing that he did need to come to a decision concerning both the theft and the Spiders’ involvement. He knew he couldn’t deny it… that would raise too many questions. But he also couldn’t quite give in, for if he did then he’d have everyone claiming Spider Sightings in order to try and get more coin from the Iron Throne.

He considered his words carefully before speaking. “When your buyer returns you will send him to the Red Keep. I will discuss with him a delay in payment while the Gold Cloaks seek out what was stolen from you. Should they be unable to recover it and your claims that it was the Spiders prove to be true then the crown will pay for the loses.” It would be a hefty sum and ruin Jon’s hopes that they might work to repay the Iron Bank but he couldn’t allow the people to believe he turned a blind eye towards crime. ‘And if need be I can consult Tony… perhaps he can find more Valyrian Steel that we might barter with… or something else this buyer desires.’

Mott bowed at that, accepting Jon’s ruling and hurrying out.

“That is all for today,” Jon declared, turning and moving towards the door. Several people still waiting to present their cases to him called out but Jon shook his head; they had been late to arrive and he would be holding court once more the next day and he would have them be first, assuming they showed up.

“Was that wise, Lord Jon?” Pycelle asked, hurrying to catch up to him. “That blacksmith may have been lying… it wouldn’t be the first time one of their kind has claimed to have something they never actually did.”

“Perhaps,” Jon stated, “but that is why I plan to have Jiffsun personally examine the shop… and investigate this so-called buyer. If Master Mott is revealed to be a liar then there will only be 4 men who know the secret of reworking Valyrian Steel left in the world.”

Pycelle nodded at that. “Yes… yes…”

While he didn’t trust the old man at all he did have some wisdom and Jon had learned from both Tony and Natasha that one shouldn’t turn away a source of information just because of trust. Even if they lied to you… their lies could tell you more than their truths some days. “Who was that man back there… Lord Jamison.”

“Hmm?” Pycelle said. “Lord Jamison?”

“Grand Maester,” Jon said coolly, “you know that Lord Tywin was… fond of me in his own way. We talked many times.” He let that comment hang in the air and forced himself not to smile when he saw the moment the old man cottoned onto the knowledge that Jon knew the doddering old man act was just that: an act.

“Of course, I remember now,” Pycelle stated as they continued on. “Lord Jamison is from the Stormlands… a minor lord and not a very popular one with his neighbors. He sided with Prince Joffrey when Stannis and Renly rebelled and thus lost his lands though I suppose with both of them gone they are his once more.” The old man muttered to himself for a moment before continuing. “Though I doubt he will have much help in that, should he attempt to regain them.”

“I imagine it hard for people to accept you fought against them,” Jon said, careful to choose his words carefully; he was after all the son of the King of the North.

“Oh, it has nothing to do with that,” Pycelle commented. “He was quite hated before the War.”

“Why is that?” Jon asked.

The Grand Maester mulled the question over, finally stating, “Lord Jamison is someone who likes to gather information.”

‘Something common in this city,’ he thought though it wasn’t as bitter as it once might have been. Natasha had shown him that while he wasn’t good at developing his own spies there was a worth to them.

“Yes, information. The kind that other lords wouldn’t like to be revealed. Which lord has a secret bastard. Which lady has been sneaking down to visit the kennel master. Sons that claim to have done great deeds but instead are layabouts and daughters who aren’t as witty and charming as their parents would have you believe. But rather than use this information to blackmail them he… reveals it.”

“Reveals it?”

“Openly and loudly,” Pycelle stated. “It started with… hmmm… now when was it…” Jon let the old man think, his senses telling him that for once Pycelle was not pretending to be a fool and rather was actually trying to remember something. “Ah yes… Ser Fumles. A minor knight in the Stormlands. Or at least that is what he claimed. But Lord Jamison discovered that the man had never been knighted at all, that it had been his brother who had won his spurs.”

“He took his brother’s accomplishment.”

“No no,” Pycelle said quickly. “Rather that Ser Fumles’ brother, Ser Furk, donned Fumles’ armor at the tournament where he was earned his knighthood. Did it for ‘brotherly love’ and all that. A few maids may have thought it rather beautiful but the Stormlands were in quite a fit over that. Lord Jamison wasn’t coy in revealing it either… rather he held a great feast and revealed it to all the guests. His grace tried to take their titles away, of course, but when a knighthood is bestowed it can’t be removed. It was just scorn and ridicule they faced. Ser Fumles and Ser Furk are better known as Ser Fumbles and Ser Fucks.

“The Stormlanders thought it amusing… until he began to look at the actions of others. His neighbors refused to allow him onto their lands, lest he go about questioning their servants or the like. He would show up to feasts and be refused entry. People would still come to his balls though. Some out of a morbid fascination with what he might reveal next… others to challenge him should he begin speaking about them. Of course Lord Jaimson is rather cunning… there is sellsword he keeps in his employ, a Dornishman named Gargan the Scorpion, who will fight his battles.”

Jon made a mental note to ask Natasha to look up Gargan. “I would think that the only reason one would need to fear Lord Jamison would be if they had done something wrong.”

“Oh, yes yes… that WOULD be the case…” Pycelle shook his head as they stopped at a doorway, Jon opening it for the old man. “Thank you,” he said as he began to head up the stairs, a bit more spritely than one might have expected from the old man. “Now, that would be the case if Lord Jamison only told the truth.”

“He lies?” Jon asked.

“What is a lie?” The Grand Maester stated. “A falsehood, of course. Something that isn’t true. But while some opinions can be seen as false many more are the truth to the one speaking it. There are some that say your ancestor, King Torhen Stark, was a coward. That he should have fought against Aegon and that it is better to die on your feet than live on your knees. Others though state that he was the best king that Aegon faced for unlike the others he thought of his people rather than himself. And of those people the split occurs again. Was Torhen given proper respect, in that Aegon only asked for a handful of swords from the Northsmen and none that they actually cared for? Or should he have been given a seat on Aegon’s Council for being the only man to wisely meet with him and discuss peace? What is the truth?

“The same is true for Lord Jamison. He is quick to declare men cheats and frauds and traitors… but it is always from his point of view. His vision of things. That is what makes him such a danger though… because he is a man who can drive others to think as he does.” They finally left the steps and Jon could hear the cawing of ravens. “He has begun doing the same thing in King’s Landing. Holding his feasts, revealing his truths. The Spiders are a common complaint of his though few believe them to be real.” Pycelle shook his head. “Spiders that are the size of humans… hmmpf!” He let out a snort. “Still… he is a danger, Lord Jon. It is said that he pays poor people to shout out what he learns to the masses. His ‘Buglers’ he calls them.”

Before the Grand Maester could say more on that however a page boy suddenly came running around a corner, huffing and puffing rather hard.

“What is the matter?” the Grand Maester said, seeing the boy panting.

“Someone has come to speak to the Hand,” the boy said, gasping for air.

Jon sighed. “Court has ended, they will need to wait for tomorrow.”

“But milord,” the boy exclaimed, “he says it is of the greatest importance!”

“Everyone says that.” He gave a tired little sigh, patting the boy on the shoulder. “I’ll send a guard to get them out.”

“You can’t send the High Septon away!”

That caused Jon to pause. “The High Septon… is here?” The boy bobbed his head. “Why?”

“I believe to meet with you,” Pycelle commented.

“Yes Grand Maester,” he said with an eyeroll, “I assumed as much.”

“You can not send him away-“

“Yes, Grand Maester,” Jon ground out. “Where is he now?”

“I asked him remain in the Silver Room,” the page said and Jon nodded at that. It was a good room to keep the man in, as it wouldn’t be seen as disrespectful but it also wouldn’t allow him much free range within the Red Keep. He had been worried they’d shown him to the Tower of the Hand, which wouldn’t do at all. “Good… I don’t want him spying on us.”

“He is the Leader of the Faith,” Pycelle commented, talking down to him in a way that even Maester Luwin never had at his youngest.

“Not mine,” Jon retorted, already moving towards the Silver Room.

It took him a good ten minutes to arrive and he nodded to the guards before stepping inside the Silver Room. Within he found not some Septon dressed in fine robes and draped with jewels but rather a man in a simple-spun cloth robe, feet bare and hands heavily calloused, working to clean a window with a napkin and a cup of water.

“Greetings,” Jon stated as the old man turned. “My apologizes for keeping you waiting. I was only now informed of your arrival. I am Jon Stark, Hand of the King.”

“I am aware of who you are, Jon Stark,” the old man stated with a soft smile. His hair was thin, so that it was easy to see his leathery scalp, and the skin around his mouth and nose was loose with age, causing his smile to be all the more deeper. “And I am aware that you didn’t know of my arrival. I kept busy, all the same.” He gestured at the window.

“Thank you,” Jon said.

That caused the High Septon to consider him for a long moment. “You have no interacted with those of the Faith much, have you Jon Stark?”

“I have not,” Jon admitted. “They are not found in the North… the Septa brought by my father’s ladywife was the first I met.”

“She wasn’t kind to you, was she?” the High Septon asked. “A pity. There are those of the Faith that believe the actions of others stain a man. That your father’s sins against his wife tainted you.” He shook his head. “Foolishness. You are not your father so why should his sins be placed upon you? We all are sinners enough without having to deal with the crimes of others.” He turned back to the window. “And I imagine your time at Iron Pointe did not afford you much chance to interact with us. Antony Stark is of the North.”

“He is but he doesn’t believe in much, even the Old Gods.” Jon was careful with how he worded that, wanting to see how the High Septon would react to the mention of the North’s faith.

“Yes, Lord Antony’s… ways… are quite known.”

“His blasphemy, you mean,” Jon said with a shake of his head, moving over to the window the High Septon was working on.

“You see it as wrong.”

“I see no reason to insult anyone for believing in something, so long as that belief doesn’t cause harm.”

The High Septon nodded at that. “I suppose that it is quite wrong of me to say, considering the position I find myself in, but I have often found myself looking to your Northern believes with a bit of envy.”

“Envy?” Jon asked, noticing a spot that the High Septon hadn’t been able to reach. He held out his hand and after a moment the High Septon passed him the cloth, staring at him in bemusement as Jon set about cleaning the upper part of the window. Oh, he knew exactly what the man had been going for… he was rather sure he had purposely left bits of the window dirty just so he could clean it in front of Jon. But he could play the game just as well as the man and aimed to do so. “Are Septons allowed to feel envy?”

“They are. In fact they are allowed to feel many emotions. The feeling itself isn’t the sin… it is how we treat and react to them.”

“Maester Luwin was fond of saying that every emotion had a good and a bad side. Anger could lead to violence but also a drive for justice. Despair was crippling but it also proved that one had once loved and could still do so again. I suppose envy can motivate you to try and gain that which you don’t have.”

“Yes, quite,” the High Septon stated. “The Faith has become too focused on wealth and standing, much like the rest of Westeros. We have our gilded halls and our grand statues… but a crown of gold never fed a man. Never warmed a babe from a winter chill. Never healed a sick woman. You Northerners… you do not need such things to worship your gods. You have the rocks and the stones and the trees. You go out in the crisp morning air and say your prayers and then seek to lead good lives. Same as the Faithful… but you have more coin in your pocket to help others.”

“You know much of our faith,” Jon said, surprised.

The High Septon smiled at that, holding up the cup of water so Jon could dab the rag in it. “Yes yes… the Faith sees you as godless heathens and you see us as pampered fools. But your faith teaches the same as our own… why can the Seven not be your Old Gods with a different name?”

‘Because the Seven never cared for a bastard like me,’ he thought, remembering the harsh words the Septa had dripped into Lady Stark and Sansa’s ears concerning him. Out loud though Jon said, “I imagine you had more you wished to speak to me about, other than a pleasant discussion about faith.”

“It has been pleasant, has it not?” the High Septon said as Jon finished the window. “But yes, you are right… I have come to discuss more with you.” He ambled over to the table and sat down, Jon joining him. “I have been elected High Septon. There are those that mock me with the title of High Sparrow but they might call me whatever they wish… so long as I am able to do my duty and serve the people of Westeros and guide them to better lives. Mockery I can accept. Sin I can not. And the Faith has become full of it.

“Change is coming to the Faith. I have begun meeting with representatives from all across Westeros and Essos as well in order to sell off our gold and jewels. The coin will be better served feeding and clothing the poor of King’s Landing. The Sept of Baelor will be opening their doors to those that need shelter… so long as they abide by our rules.”

“And those are?” Jon asked.

“Oh, nothing dangerous or damaging. Crime will not be accepted. One who has sinned will be forgiven but should they fall again they must… atone.” The way he said the word made it clear it wouldn’t be chants and prayers that the sinners would need to perform. “There will be no need to steal for we will give to all. The whores will find other ways to spend their days…” He looked at Jon but he merely stared back; while he did not fault those who sought out such things he had never desired a whore and never would. “I seek to merely aid and teach.”

“A noble mission,” Jon commented.

“It is.” He looked about the Silver Room. “The Crown owns the Faith 1 million gold dragons. It is a large debt… and would do much to help us in our quest.”

“I am already working on that,” Jon stated.

The High Septon raised an eyebrow at that. “Oh?”

“Yes. My new Master of Coin is doing much as you are, cataloging the Red Keep for items we might sell. When King Robert took the Throne-“ and Jon didn’t miss how the High Septon flinched at that name, “-he wished to destroy much of the Targaryen Legacy but was stopped by his advisors. Had he had his way the plume of black smoke would have been seen from the Wall as he burned it all. Instead it has been placed in the deepest cellars… and I intend to bring it back up. The bones of the dragons alone will be able to cover our debt to you.”

The High Septon smiled at that… a forced smile. “That is good. Very good. I am pleased to hear that.”

‘What were you hoping for, old man?’ Jon thought to himself. ‘What were you longing for us to give you instead?’

He decided that it would be a wise idea to keep a closer eye on the Sept of Baelor… and the Sparrow that had begun to nest there.

~MC~MC~MC~

OMAKE 1

“Will someone remove that crazy man?” Cersei demanded, looking first at Tywin and then at the man with golden hair, green eyes, and clothed in the tattered remains on a Lannister doublet, a sword that looked a LOT like Brightroar in his hand.

“No… he’s not crazy,” Tywin said, eyes casted down, ashamed. “It’s… it’s true. I’m… an imposter. That man is the real Tywin Lannister!”

Everyone gasped.

King Robert stared straight ahead. ‘Keep looking shocked and move slowly towards the cake…’

OMAKE 2

Myrcella frowned as Tommen leaned over the seat of their litter. “I heard your dad went to a restaurant and ate the restaurant, and they closed the restaurant.”

Deciding not to try and remind Tommen that her father was his father she simply said, frustrated, “My father may have gained a little bit of weight but he’s not some kind of food crazed maniac!”

But anything else she said was stopped by the sight of King Robert riding in a wagon filled with northern beer and sausages, happily scarfing them down.

“Aawwwwww,” Myrcella moaned.

Chapter Text

Benjen

“When I was a boy I went to a tournament.”

“Was it filled with death?” Edd asked.

“Is there any tournament that isn’t filled with death?” Benjen asked.

“Not any of the ones I’ve been too,” Edd said with a cheerful smile. “It does well to remind me that we can all die at any moment. You could be doing something simple… like chatting with a dashing young man while you waited for a gangplank to come down on a ship… thinking that all was fine and that soon you could get some food and rest… and suddenly a seagull flies in and drives itself right into your rectum, causing horrific internal bleeding that leads to your death. One that is so bad and yet so hilarious that even the Silent Sisters would break out into cackles as they tried to figure out if one bone belonged to you or the gull.”

Benjen just stared at the young man before shaking his head. “I went to a tournament,” he repeated. “My father did not attend so he left us in the care of one of his most trusted men, a grim bear of a man who I was sure would step on me if he didn’t know right where I was at all times.”

“If he were a woman there would have been a long and fruitful career in Lys of him doing that,” Edd commented. When Benjen shot him a dark look Edd merely shrugged. “There is said to be an 8 foot tall woman, Lady Dee, who men pay for the pleasure of her stalking them through her manor. When they are caught she will press her bare foot against their face until they black out-“

“I will throw you overboard,” Benjen commented.

“The water isn’t that deep,” Edd replied before tilting his head. “But I suppose there are rocks down there that might dash my brains in. That feels like a properly ironic death for someone of the Night’s Watch… killed in warm water.”

Benjen nodded and continued on. “Old Isaac had stared down Iron Born raiders and made them run of in terror with just a snort. And yet I’ll never forget the look of terror on his face when my father told him he’d have to watch over us. I never understood that-“

“Fuck this!” Ygritte cried out and Benjen caught a blur of blue as the Free Folk Other easily leapt from the ship, soaring over the dock and landing on the shore beyond it before turning back towards the others. “Come on ya fucks! We got a city to explore!”

“Fuck ya!” Torrmund called out as he too threw himself over the rail, Rayne rolling her eyes but chasing after him while Steve focused on apologizing to the sailors before doing the same, giving chase after Ygritte and scolding her for leaping away without thanking the sailors for their hard work. But the Female Other merely grabbed his hand and tugged him towards the city.

Benjen just shook his head. “Now I do.”

“Aw, look at our large and violent children go,” Edd said, slinging his arm around Benjen’s shoulder. After a moment though better judgment (and Benjen’s glower) had him retracting his arm. “So, guess we should go retrieve our savage friends?”

“And remind them that we aren’t staying,” Benjen said with a weary sigh, knowing this could get rather difficult. The two of them began to head down the gangplank and into Braavos proper itself.

“Ever been to Braavos, First Ranger?”

“No,” Benjen admitted. “But I don’t think there is anyone who was readily available who has been so I was the best choice.” The city was large, bigger than anyplace he’d been to in his life. The closest that could come to comparison was Harrenhal and the Tournament but that was vastly differently. That had been a single large castle (admittedly the biggest castle ever made) with thousands of tents stretched out around it. A chaotic and wild time, when Ned and Isaac had done all they could to keep an eye on him but had failed many times because there was so much to see. That had been, well,they tourney, which while a delight there was some much to see with every step he took. Even the tents that simply belonged to knights looking to make a name for themselves had been interesting to him when he was young because there were so many different armors and weapons to be seen. But there had been puppet shows; ones for children like himself, others that had been meant for all, and a few that Ned had pushed him away from because, as he now realized, the puppets had cocks and quims for watchers to hoot over. All sorts of games to play from darts to milk bottles to obscure Essosi games such as one that saw men roll small wooden balls up a ramp to try and get them into different holes to score points. All sorts of different foods, with what felt like every animal that existed, and cooked in ways that Benjen hadn’t thought possible. There are been wrestling matches were knights wore bizarre armor and battled against one another; he remembered seeing a man dressed as a gravedigger battle a foul-mouthed warrior dressed in snake leather. Music had always been playing falling in and out of his ears as he had moved.

But Braavos… Braavos was something else entirely. A different beast.

Moving past the docks where a hundred different vessels from all over the world worked to either unload their goods or take on new ones the two of them came upon a long street filled with different wineskins, ale shops, taverns, and meal halls. And scattered amongst them were different wooden stalls, some with outdoor tables made of hardy wood, others barely a covered counter, offering more treats and tastes. What was truly amazing was the variety. Each place seemed to cater to a different taste and Benjen was mildly surprised to see several Westerosi sigils mixed in with the Esossi flags. There was one with the flag of House Martell that boasted the spiciest food one could find. Next to that was a Yi Ti Rice House where men were invited to sit on the floor and eat from wooden boxes. A Reachland Wine Shop that claimed to have over 10,000 different bottles available. An open fire pit next to a stall where a man shouted at them that he produced true Dothroki cooking and told them that his ‘sweet horsemeat’ would make them twice as strong after a single serving.

“Would you look at this…” Edd murmured to himself.

“I know,” Benjen stated as they walked. It made sense, to have so many different foods available; after all, Braavos was a major trading post, with only the likes of Pentos truly to compete with it. ‘And the Iron Bank assures that Braavos will always have the edge,’ he thought to himself as they continued on. ‘Sailors long for reminders of home so being able to eat at a place that is similar to what they know…’

“So many ways to get food poisoning,” Edd said with a sardonic little smile, causing Benjen to roll his eyes. “Still I suppose we should eat first.”

“We need to find the others and find travel to Meereen,” Benjen reminded him.

“And we will, we will!” Edd declared. “It’s just… do you really want to eat hardtack and salted pork for another week?” Benjen grimaced at that. Somehow the food on the ship had made what they got at the Wall taste like a Royal Feast. “We are doing very well on coin, aren’t we? Especially after Steven won all those arm wrestling matches.”

Benjen sighed at that. Steve had been worried about taking the sailors’ money but none of them had actually bet they could win. Rather they had paid in order to be able to claim they had battled an Other. While he had thought it foolish it had allowed them to not only make back all the money they’d spent on chartering the boat but nearly triple what they could spend. And while he did want to be smart about the money because anything could happen…

“Look at it this way,” Edd said, “the Free Folk are going to destroy things.”

Benjen frowned.

“But!” Edd continued on. “We either can deal with it on a full stomach… or empty when we are forced to flee!”

“…fine,” Benjen grumbled, patting the hidden coin purse (he wasn’t foolish enough to wear it openly or give it to any of the others, even Steve). Honestly he was hungry and it would be nice to have a bit of peace before he had to deal with whatever nonsense the others got into. While Rayne and Steve were far more levelheaded Rayne was still a woman that could become a giant wolf creature and Steve had lived in a time where bartering was far more common than coin… he would probably find some place to get something to eat and then ask if he could work off his debt serving tables.

That caused Benjen to have the rather horrid vision of Steve bending down while sailors slapped his ass as he set drinks on the table.

“Maybe this one?” Edd suggested as he pointed to one place and Benjen scowled when he saw that the ale house served Lysini food… served by bare chested women who wore straps of cloth to cover their nethers and proclaimed that for a few more coins one could select to ‘eat a server’ instead. “We should sample some things, since we might not have the chance-“

“I will sell you to the Dothroki horsemeat man,” Benjen growled.

“But that would make that old bog witch right when she said I’d die that way!” Edd complained with a laugh and Benjen honestly couldn’t tell if the lad was fucking with him or not.

Realizing he’d need to be the one to pick Benjen looked around, trying to find a place that would get them fed without costing them too much (because he had a feeling soon he’d have to pay for the damages Ygritte and Tormund caused) while also not making them sick to their stomachs. Already one shop, which claimed to make the sweetest treats one could find, was warning of the mother of all bellyaches.

‘Not the Dornish then,’ he thought to himself, remembering how one time Yoren had managed to bring them Dornish spices to try and make their meat taste a bit better; they’d all ended up shitting out half of their intestines that night, terrified that the Night’s Watch would end with them on privies. ‘And not anything from the Reach… we haven’t had enough fruits and vegetables recently so that will mess us up too. We need something hearty, that will sit well on the belly and get us through the rest of the day… maybe allow us to skip evening meal and go with just something light…’

“Ah!” Edd declared, perking up in a manner that Benjen had learned meant pain and suffering for him. “I believe that will do!”

He gestured towards a building that had been painted so that it looked like the there was snow and ice hanging off of it. Even the roof was white like any building in Molestown after a snow. There were barrels set out and a large log carved to look like a furry warrior with an axe in his hand.

“The Wendigo!” Edd declared. “Fine Northern Dining!”

“The Wendigo is a monster caused by someone consuming the flesh of another,” Benjen muttered darkly. “It is not something to be lightly mocked unless one is courting pain and suffering.”

“Sounds like my kind of place then!” Edd said cheerfully and he began to tug Benjen along, the First Ranger realizing that there was simply no way he was going to get out of this one. With a sigh he allowed Edd to lead him towards the establishment.

What he found inside was a nightmare made real.

It looked similar enough to the Great Hall of Winterfell that for a brief moment he felt the piercing gut punch that was homesickness. The long tables with benches that allowed one to easily pick up their plate and move someplace else if they were hungry. The smell of roasted meat, crackling and hot, wafting in the air. The laughter and cheers as men egged each other on to eat and drink more.

Yet it was also all… distorted.

Tapestries and carvings showed an altered history of the North. A man punching out a bear, someone riding a wolf through a burning forest… while playing a lute for some reason. Three men, each sitting on the other’s shoulders, so that they were tall enough to poke the eyes of a giant.

Dogs moved about the hall, much as they did in Winterfell, but they had packs on that were filled with salted jerky and sealed casks of ale, which men happily grabbed. The serving women were dressed in fur britches and boots, nothing else. One wall was filled with barrels of ale and beer that had names that made Benjen’s teeth ache at the cutesiness of it all. Take the Black Stout. Winter Brew is Coming. White Walker Ale. And at the very back of the hall, upon a throne of ‘ice’, sat a wood and stuffed leather direwolf king that watched all.

“We should have gone to the Lysini place,” Benjen muttered in disgust even as Edd dragged him off to a woman with frizzy black hair who wore rabbit fur undergarments.

“Welcome my lords,” she said in an attempt to have a Northern accent that made Benjen cringe. “Have you traveled up past the Throat to visit us here before you journey on? Perhaps to the Fearfort or Final Hearth?”

“Wow,” Benjen managed to get out.

“Aye!” Edd declared gleefully, for once delighting in something OTHER than death and destruction. “This is Benjen Stark of Winterfell and we have come to dine here!”

That caused the woman to pause. “…honestly?” she asked, dropping the accent. “Because we get some Northerners in here…”

“Aye,” Benjen finally stated. “I am Benjen Stark.”

The woman looked at him like he was the sun finally rising over the horizon. “Oh… oh this is wonderful!” she declared. “We’ve always hoped to have a Stark visit!” She motioned for them to follow her. “If you want to sit at the benches you can but we have the high table for special guests… normally that is extra but we will charge the normal fee for you. I’m afraid that we can’t crown you the King of Winter as that has already been taken…”

Benjen wished he could have been shocked when they were led to a table in the far back and found Ygritte sitting at the head of a long table, a wooden crown perched on her head.

“Kneel ya fucks!” she declared, lifting a goblet into the air. “Queen in the North!”

“Queen in the Fuckin’ North!” Tormund declared, though considering his mouth was full of beef it came out as ‘Ueen in a F-in Or!’ “This is gonna make me rethink fuckin’ kneelin’. If all ya have ta do is bend down ta get ale and meat served ta ya by lasses in furry britches then I find me a king ta pledge myself too!”

“You do and you are dead to me,” Rayne commented with a growl, hunched over her plate like she thought it was going to be yanked away. Edd took a seat next to her and began to help himself, leaving Benjen to sigh and count out the coins needed not just to pay for himself but the others; he didn’t know HOW they’d gotten a seat without paying first be figured with their chances it would be better to pay now before they were chased out. Once that was done Benjen took a seat next to a sheepish looking Steve.

“Sorry about that,” he said with a bashful smile that would have been more on place a young lad’s face than an old warrior like him.

“At least the food is good,” Benjen said, nodding towards Steve’s plate that was loaded with food. There were several platters that were half empty, telling him that Steve and the others had been at it for a good while and thus this had been their first stop. ‘Good… less likely I’ll be sitting here and have to deal with some angry shopkeep who is demanding that I pay for the damage they caused.’ He began to serve himself, selecting some cuts of pork, hearty thick potatoes practically stuffed with butter, and some warm rolls with a strong crust but so soft of an inside that they were like clouds. One of the serving girls came by asking what he wished to drink and he asked for a dark ale, not wanting to know its name as he had a feeling it would be so embarrassing that he wouldn’t be able to swallow it.

“How close is this to your home?” Steve asked.

“Have you ever seen a warped mirror?” Benjen asked. Steve, already tucking into his food, nodded in understanding at that. “I understand what they were going for but… it’s a mumur’s farce.”

“Aw come now,” Ygritte declared with a laugh as the serving girl returned with Benjen’s ale, “this is great! Ya tellin’ me you Northerners don’t have women like this waitin’ on ya hand and foot.”

“We must wait on our gracious Northerner Lords,” the serving girl said, a young thing with dark hair and skin far too tanned for anyone of the North. “We were but savages until the Wolf Kings showed us better.”

“…what?” Ygritte said, her smile falling.

“I think she’s saying they are supposed to be spear wives,” Rayne said with a smirk.

Benjen could see the very moment Ygritte’s brain froze and stop working.

Tormund began to pound the table, his thumps so hard that it caused everything to rattle and shake. “Ha! I am lovin’ this place more and-“ He let out a cry of pain when Ygritte slammed her goblet down on his hand. “Fuckin’ hell, woman!”

“You think this is funny?!?” Ygritte demanded, leaping to her feet and gesturing wildly. “Is that what ya want from me!? For me ta be prancin’ around in furry whatits so ya can stare at me tits?” She reached up and gave her breasts a jiggle. “Oh, I’d bet ya’d like ta try! Cept if I did I’d smash your head in with ‘em!” She waved her hand at her nethers. “Wanna give me a poke after rippin’ off me furry unders? I’d suck your cock right off then crush yar middle with my thighs! Only one fuckin’ man that can fuck me now!” She pointed at Steve who ducked his head in embarrassment.

“I’m sorry about all this,” Benjen told the serving woman.

“My lord, this isn’t even the strangest thing I’ve dealt with this week.”

That caused Edd to perk up. “You mean having two people with blue skin isn’t weird for you?”

The server shot him a level stare. “This is Braavos,” she replied like that was the answer to everything in the universe.

Benjen and Steve just shared a look, shrugging. They had been told that Essos would most likely be far more accepting of the two Others but that confirmation… it meant at the very least that the group wouldn’t need to deal with a mob chasing after Steve and Ygritte with torches and pitchforks screaming they were monsters.

‘Though…’ Benjen though sardonically, realizing that he was thinking of the dreaded Others as something other than monstrous. ‘All my life I was told of the demons beyond the Wall… the White Walkers with their army of spiders who led the armies of the dead. And while that is true… I could never equate Steve or Ygritte with them.’ The woman in question let out a screech and dove at a laughing Tormund, fingers out like claws only for Rayne to quickly grab her. Edd, for his part, simply reached over and snagged some winter corn to nibble on. ‘Well, usually,’ he amended as he set about eating.

As utterly embarrassing as the place was Benjen had to admit that it had good food and soon Ygritte decided it was better to eat than to bicker though she did make Steve and Tormund switch places as she didn’t want him anywhere near him. Benjen, for his part, looked around the small hall, noticing that it was a wild mix of people. There were a group of sailors who were competing in a drinking contest… but not so much trying to see who could drink more but rather who could create the most disgusting combination of liquors that their mates couldn’t stomach. A dark skinned man stood in the corner, wearing the odd combination of a red feathered cloak and dark leathers. Four short men with bare feet, not quite dwarves but near to it, hurried in and took a table before quickly demanding as much beer and food as the server could carry. Two women who glared daggers at anyone who approached their table were huddled together pointing at a map, hissing and whispering at each other. A young lad, probably a farmer’s son along with an old man wearing long tan robes similar to a maester’s walked over to a table where a pirate and his frankly astonishingly hairy first mate were sitting.

“We’ll need to find passage to Mereen,” Steve whispered to him softly. “I don’t think it will be overly hard.”

“What makes you think that?”

“I’ve been listening to people talking… it seems that many are trying to rush to get there, either by caravan or by boat.”

“Unrest?” Benjen asked, worried that the Red Skull, with his lead on them, would be able to get to Daenerys first. Steve had told them that it would be difficult for the Red Skull to travel, as he wouldn’t be able to march across the Wall and instead would need to find some way to cross the Narrow Sea completely on his own or make landfall somewhere along Westeros’ eastern shore and then find a ship that would take him and the Winter Soldier, along with any other wights or thralls he created, to Meereen. That was where they had a better chance of beating him.

“No,” Steve said with a shake of his head, taking a drink from his mug. “I don’t understand it but they are worried about her having something called The Juggernaut. Have you ever heard of a device or the like called that?”

Benjen frowned. “No… nothing of the sort. It couldn’t be her dragons, could it?”

“I doubt it,” Steve stated. “They made clear they wanted to know who she would be giving The Juggernaut to. I don’t see Daenerys giving up one of her dragons.”

“No… the Targaryens clung to their dragons desperately and when they died out they guarded the eggs.” He let out a sigh. “Well, there is no worrying about it now. We’ll need passage-“

Suddenly there was a commotion in the Hall and Benjen snapped his head in the direction of the Summer Islander, who had a man pinned to the wall, a knife pressed against said man’s jugular. But his position wasn’t as strong as he might have hoped for two more men were behind him, one with a dagger against the man’s side and the other holding a large bloodstained axe.

“Just a misunderstanding,” the pinned man said, flashing a smile.

“There isn’t any misunderstanding. I know who I was supposed to meet and you are not him.”

“I am a friend of his,” the man said and Benjen knew at once he was lying. “Just as the men behind me are my friends. And they would so very much be upset if something were to happen to me.” He reached up and placed his hand on the dark skinned man’s wrist. “So… let’s put our weapons away and see about getting the cargo, shall we? Because you want to be my friend, don’t you? Seeing as you have none.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Steve said and in a blur he was suddenly right next to the Summer Islander, glaring at the two goons that were backing the liar up, “I could be his friend.”

“You… really don’t want to be,” the pinned man said with a hint of malice.

“See, that’s the thing,” Steve stated. “All my life I’ve been told what not to do. What I shouldn’t do. I didn’t listen then… don’t think I’ll be listening now. So-“

“Fucking fight already!” Ygritte roared, grabbing a large carving knife and leaping from their table through the air, grabbing onto one of the rafters to help propel her even further so she crashed into the man holding the axe.

That caused three more men to leap up from their seats and draw weapons.

“YES!” Tormund laughed as he hefted up a great sword he’d taken to wearing everywhere, his sister rolling her eyes as the large wildling cackled in delight and stormed away from their table. Off to the left the old man and the farm boy were trying to leave only for a man with a deformed face to walk up to them and begin jabbing the boy in the chest… only for the old man to draw out a thin Valaryian Steel blade and hack the man’s arm off before guiding his charge away, not even looking back at the deformed man as he screamed in pain.

“Oh good,” Eddd commented dryly, “the death and dismemberment I order has arrived.” There was a scream and Benjen turned to see that Ygritte had tossed one of the newly added combatants at the sailors, causing their drinking game to come to an end as they pulled their weapons. The four little men dove for cover under the table, the youngest reaching multiple times to try and retrieve his mug of beer but failing thanks to the battle that was growing. The two women who had been discussing the map folded up their parchment and made for the exit only for one of the drunken sailors to come upon them; before either of the women though could react one of the serving girls came up from behind and kicked the man right between the legs, sending him crashing down with a whimper. The two women looked at her before nodding towards the door, the serving girl shrugged and tossing her tray at one of the goons that was trying to sneak up on Tormund, knocking him silly. The serving girl didn’t watch her handiwork as she linked arms with the two women and headed off.

“Come on, let’s end this,” Benjen commented.

“At least we had a nice meal before we waded into battle,” Edd replied. “Assuming the food wasn’t poisoned. That beef did taste a bit off…”

Benjen tuned the young man out, drawing his sword and pointing it at several of the sailors who had been looking for a fight but had no one to trade blows with. The three of them looked at each other before shrugging and turning on one another, whooping and hollering as they threw punches at each other, eventually landing on the ground and rolling about. Benjen, for his part, rolled his eyes and walked over to Ygritte, who had sat down on the Ax-Wielding bugger and was rather gleefully smacking him in the face while taunting him.

“I think he’s had enough,” Benjen told her.

“If he has then he’s a weak fuck,” she commented. “North of the Wall this is foreplay.”

“I believe its foreplay in Essos too,” Edd chirped and Benjen looked down to see the man’s pants tenting up. Ygritte wiggled a bit, noticing suddenly the bulge, and glowered at the man who gave her a saucy smile and wink.

Ygritte chose that eye to punch when she knocked him out.

“Fucking hells,” she muttered as she got up. “Why is everyone in the world so fucked up? We Free Folk ain’t this way-“

“See!” Tormund said and the others turned to find that he had grabbed a candle stick and was in the process of shoving it up one of the goon’s asses. “I told ya it’d fit!”

Ygritte firmly snapped her jaw shut while Benjen glanced at Rayne who sighed before taking off her shirt, ready to switch to wolf form and stop her brother before he went to see what else would fit up in the man’s ass.

That left them coming over to Steve, who had the original man that had started the entire mess with his lies pinned to a wall, fingers splaying in a way so that while the man felt his hand around his throat it wasn’t a true choke out, allowing him to at least speak. Which was good because Benjen could tell that the Summer Islander next to the Other was VERY interested in getting answers.

“Where is the man I was supposed to meet with?” the Summer Islander demanded.

“I’d answer him,” Steve stated. “And remember that all I have to do is twitch and…” He left that comment hanging in the air, causing the weaselly bastard to tremble a touch.

“Fucking hell! He went to Meereen, okay?”

Benjen raised an eyebrow at that. ‘Meereen. Another person going to see Daenerys?’

The Summer Islander glowered. “And how do you know that?”

Steve tightened his grip slightly, causing the man to curse before he dropped his voice. “He pays me off for information, okay? I hear things and he pays me. Sometimes he looks the other way when I smuggle in things… Nightshade Teas and stuff like that. He told me he was leaving… and with the Sealord and his freaks going with him too I-“

“And you decided to try and pretend to be him so you could steal from people and force him to take the blame,” Benjen said.

“Who the fuck are you-“ The man was cut off by Steve’s hand once more.

“This is going to be the last time we see each other,” Steve warned. “Because this time I’m going to be polite and kind. I’m going to let you go on your way. I won’t hunt you if you do. I won’t be lurking in every corner. You get to go back to your life. But… if you tell me something I don’t like… or failed to tell me something I should know… then if we do meet again it will be very bad for you. So… do you have anything else to add?”

The weaselly little man shook his head, understanding the threat. “Right… right… nothing else to say!”

Steve nodded and dropped him.

“Go.”

The man nodded, rubbing his throat as he edged around Steve, moving along Benjen’s side so he could avoid him and the Free Folk. “Maybe I’ll just send some people to check in on you…” the man muttered.

He never finished.

It was rather hard when his head bounced off the floor while his neck gushed blood.

Benjen stared Steve down as he grabbed the man’s shirt and Benjen used it to clean his sword. “Bastard had it coming,” he muttered. Steve, after a moment, nodded in agreement.

“Now this is feeling more like home!” Tormund declared as he walked over to them, Rayne following after as she pulled on her shirt once more.

Steven shrugged and turned towards the Summer Islander. “Sorry for butting in but figured you needed the help.”

“Its appreciated,” the man said, holding out his hand. “Isamalwi Iso Malsosia.” He glanced over when Tormund began to mutter the name… or attempted to at the very least, before shaking his head. “Call me Sam.”

“Steve Rogers. This is Benjen Stark, Eddison Tollet, Tormund Giantsbane, Rayne Wolfsbane, and Ygritte-“

“Skullcrusher,” Ygritted added. When the others looked at her she shrugged. “Tryin’ ta think of a last name.”

Sam just nodded at that, which made Benjen pause. “You don’t seem all that startled by us,” he stated.

Sam chuckled. “I’m a Summer Islander who used to live in King’s Landing. I’m used to people looking at me. Plus we now have three people with spider powers swinging around. You aren’t that strange.” Before Benjen could wrap his mind around that bit of news Sam asked, “Stark… you wouldn’t happen to have a nephew…” He trailed off, wisely not saying any names.

“A few. Robb, Jon, Bran-“

“Jon,” Sam said in relief. “Jon Stark.”

“You know him?” Benjen said, surprised.

“Good man. Very good man. He’s the one that sent me on this little task. Well, his wife did… being Hand of the King eats up some of his free time-“

Benjen cut Sam off. “Hand… Jon is Hand of the Fucking King?!?!”

“Suppose that news didn’t reach you yet. Yes, King Tommen named him his Hand.”

“Tommen?” Benjen asked, thinking back to Winterfell and the pudgy little boy that was barely beyond being a toddler, at least in his mind. “What happened to Joffrey?”

“That is a… long story,” Sam said.

“We have time,” Steve said. “You can tell us on the way.” Sam arched an eyebrow and Steve gestured at them all. “We are headed to Meereen as well.”

“The Red Fucker is headed that way to turn the Dragon Queen into an undead slave,” Ygritte commented.

At Sam’s now surprised look Steve shrugged. “Like you said, a long story. But we can travel together… we’re all headed to Meereen and there are safety in numbers.”

“…alright then,” Sam finally agreed.

Benjen knew that this was a risk. They barely knew the Summer Islander and now were taking him with them as they raced to try and get to Daenerys Targaryen before the Red Skull did. That this could slow them down, prevent them from being able to complete their task, possibly doom all of Westeros…

…but Sam knew Jon.

Lyanna’s boy.

There was never any question… Sam was coming with them.

~MC~MC~MC~

OMAKE

Catelyn gasped as she saw Jon unsheathe his sword. “Bastard, have you finally decided to steal Robb’s birthright?”

“I would never-“ Only for Jon to pause. ‘I’ve gone this far… I wonder what life would be like if I stole Robb’s birthright…’

In his head Jon saw himself sitting on the throne of winter, a sash proclaiming him the Lord of North, while a sexy red head danced beside him.

“I’ll do it!” Jon proclaimed. “I’ll take Robb’s birthright! Alright Lady Stark-“ Jon blinked as he realized, when he was daydreaming, he’d somehow ended up outside riding a horse while eating a sausage. “D’OH! Eh, I’ll steal it tomorrow.”

Chapter Text

Cersei

She stared at the mirror but no matter how hard her gaze was the reflection did not change.

Where once she had seen a beautiful young creature, almost otherworldly in her intense beauty, there was now just a woman. A beautiful woman, of course, but a woman all the same.

Cersei had worked hard to maintain her looks. While they weren’t her only asset, for she also had her brains and her charm and her cunning and her many skills, they were a powerful weapon and she refused to give them up. Aging, in her opinion, was merely one giving up the fight and admitting defeat. The old and the wrinkled and the saggy were losers who had not strength to fight. They were no different than the haggard soldiers that marched from a failed battle that had been lost because they didn’t have the drive to win. Everyone knew that battles were not won or lost through numbers or the quality of one’s weapons but rather through the hearts and minds of the soldiers. It was why a single Westerlander would always be the better of a hundred savage Northmen… assuming they had the right mindset.

And the right leader to put the fear of the gods in them.

But aging wasn’t a definitive. It was a choice. One nearly all people made because they were weak. Cersei was not and thus she did all she could to battle back. Only a week after birthing Joffrey she had begun working with her handmaids to remove the bloat she’d put on. While there was some appeal… she rather liked how shapely her breasts and hips had gotten thanks to her pregnancy… she hadn’t liked how it made her look and had put in the time, in secret of course, to remove the excess weight and return to her pre-pregnancy body. Everyone had gushed over how beautiful she looked and how she had shown hardly any signs of having a child, all of which helped her legend grow. Later, as she had gone through nameday after nameday, she had sought of treatments to keep her skin tight and glowing, her hair lush and full, and her body as it had been when she’d blossomed into womanhood.

It was hard work but worth it…

Yet as she stared into her mirror that morning she didn’t see the young maiden she had once been.

‘It takes more and more work to maintain my looks,’ she thought to herself as one of her handmaids brushed her hair. ‘Where once I needed only a dab of a few Lysini oils to keep my skin firm now I go through whole bottles. My hair had such body and bounce when I was young but now I must put special greases in it so it doesn’t hang limp and flat.’

She was losing the battle.

Something that could not come to be. Not with the enemies she now faced.

“Enough,” she said, holding out her hand. At once the handmaid nodded and backed away, dipping her head in submission. Good… she at least understood her place. “What are my plans for today?”

“Lady Margaery is having a mid morning tea, your grace,” a servant said, remembering that Cersei loathed when anyone called her ‘Queen Margaery’. “She has invited many of the ladies of the court to come.”

“Of course she has,” Cersei said with a sniff. “She knows how weak her power is and thus she needs to gather friends however she can.” She lifted up her foot and another handmaid hurried to put on her slippers. “Its pathetic, really. When I married Robert all flocked to me, begging me to attend this event or that. I was able to raise one up and drop them down purely through my answers. But little Margaery doesn’t have such strength and thus must bring all those of the court to her. That is not how a queen should be.” She shook her head. “She had not even consummated her marriage to Tommen and already she is a failure. I wonder if she will be able to even produce an heir.” She paused at that, looking right at Leena; she was one of her best spies in that rather than finding her information she spread it. Sometimes the best way to win the games was to control information. “I remember how Renly was… Robert come again. All said that. And Robert was fertile.” ‘Or at least the realm must believe that.’ “While it is true that Stannis had problems I blame that large-eared wife of his. Clearly she was at fault. So Renly must have had an army in his loins and yet… Margaery never got with child?

“Now I suppose she drank plenty of moon tea… I don’t believe that she came to the Red Keep a maid, that is was clever lie. But moon tea… it does ensure that a child doesn’t quicken but I have heard tell that drinking far too much of it can affect one’s ability to have children. That it can end up settling in the belly long after it has been drunk. I wonder if the Tyrells haven’t sold us a barren field rather than the lush garden they claim…”

She smirked as she caught Leena’s eye, the woman nodding ever so slightly. By the end of the day all would be whispering how Margaery was infertile. And because of Tommen’s youth it would be years before she would be able to prove the rumors to be untrue… it would torment her so and also help as Cersei whispered other dark words in willing ears.

“Where is Tommen today?” Cersei asked. “He has not come to see me. A son should visit his mother, after all.”

Nevermind that Cersei never sought the boy out; she was far too busy! She was Queen and had matters of importance to see too. And while she knew some would claim that Tommen was king even if he had actually been king and not a boy with a title he should still make time to see his mother!

“Your uncle Lord Kevan is with him, your grace,” Banny said softly as Cersei rose. “They are inspecting the repairs to the Red Keep.”

“Yes,” she said quickly. “Of course.”

Normally Cersei would have ranted about that. ‘He’s just a child!’ she had cried out so many times when the Small Council decided to take Tommen to do things far too dangerous for him. Usually it was her Uncle Kevan though occasionally it was Mace Tyrell who was dragging her poor boy around with him, filling his ears with poison. Never the Bastard but she knew that Jon Stark was meddling all the same. He still trained Tommen in the yard, probably waiting for the perfect moment to have an ‘accident’ and kill him. It was why Cersei had enlisted the Kettlebeck brothers to keep an eye on Tommen, just in case. But they were always taking Tommen places he shouldn’t go and having him do things that were far too adult for a little boy. Teaching him to ride. Taking him on tours of the city. Just the other day she’d learned that he’d met with the Small Council and then spent an hour chatting with Lord Otto. Yes, the man was from the Westerlands but he was still of lower birth than the Lannisters! He couldn’t be trusted.

But… she didn’t say a word about Kevan taking him today. Because that would mean addressing the damage to the Red Keep… and the cause.

‘We barely managed to rid ourselves of the servants that saw what had happened,’ she thought to herself as she left her room. ‘Everyone believes it was simply an accident with one of Qyburn’s experiments… nothing more.’

She had to keep telling herself that.

Cersei took the long way to where Margaery held her teas and she paused as she looked out at the open air garden. She glanced towards the sky, expecting Littlefinger to come flying down at any moment, raining death upon them with his stolen armored form. He haunted her dreams every night; his singing about there being ‘no more strings’ chasing her as she fled. Visions of Joffrey wailing in agony as he cut him down, of Jaime trapped on the other side, wondering why Cersei hadn’t to brought him back…

“Your Grace!” Margaery called out and Cersei forced a smile on her face as her good-daughter (and how she hated that term; just as bad as the little whore calling her ‘mother’ like they had some kind of relationship) waved for her to come over and join them. There were several tables set up filled with the annoying little dandelions that Margaery kept flittering about her but her attention was on the main one where the whore, the old rat, and the Sand Bitch were seated with a few others. It was a court of nightmares, where all those she dreaded were gathered.

‘No, not dreaded,’ she thought to herself, straightening her back. ‘I do not dread these women. They dread me. They are merely tiresome. Countering their little schemes, ensuring that they do no harm to my Kingdom… it is a loathsome and tiring task but one that must be done for the good of the Realm.’

So she walked forward and in her most polite and regal voice stated, “Margaery. So good to see you. Thank you ever so much for the invite.”

“But of course!” Margaery said with a smile, linking arms with her and already Cersei planned to have the dress she was wearing burned and its ashes buried. Her father was gone so the limits on her spending had been cast off… one of the only things, she supposed, she could be grateful to the Bastard for. “We are family and family should be close. You know that better than anyone.”

“Ah, your Grace,” the Queen of Thorns said as she came over. “Come to join us with these young fools?” She waved her hand towards the young ladies in waiting, women of the court, and Reach maidens who were all enjoying tea and small treats. “Feasting away on rather than doing something of importance. You’d think they’d be worried about attracting husbands but no, more important to stuff lemon squares and raspberry tarts past their lips. Though I suppose for some extra is needed if they hope to add some curves to their body. Men only put up with many of us because we have curves they can fondle… stay too manish and they will find a man to be with.”

“Grandmother!” Margaery gasped, scandalized, while Cersei noticed several women retracting their hands from the platters they had been going towards which others snatched up seconds.

“Oh hush child!” Olenna Tyrell said with a dismissive crack of her tongue. Cersei settled down next to her, not saying a word as the old woman tore into Margaery.

‘Perhaps coming wasn’t as horrid of an idea as I thought.’

“All know that most men only desire women for their looks and their abilities to give them heirs. They do not wish for your opinions on the ruling of their homes. Do not seek to include us in their favorite pastimes. It is a duty, nothing more. If a man could produce a baby-“

“The maester would have invented easier ways to do it,” Natasha said, cutting her off.

The Queen of Thorns let out a soft laugh at that and Cersei silently found herself agreeing with the Sand Bitch. ‘If Robert had been the one trapped on the birthing bed only one heir would have been born and he would have been whimpering and crying about it for decades afterwards.’

“That is true,” Olenna stated. “But they would also be rid of us all. Cast off to an island and informed that there was no need for any of us.”

“Come now, grandmother,” Margaery stated with a little shake of her head as a servant came over and poured Cersei some tea. “Do not think like that. Would grandfather not have missed you?”

“He would have missed my tits.”

Several ladies gasped and others awkwardly giggled at that. Cersei merely rolled her eyes; they’d been around the Queen of Thorns for months, how could they not be used to her by now!?

“So there are no happy marriages?” Margaery said in a grating tone.

“Oh, there are some. Most of that though is learning to find as much happiness as you can away from each other so that the time together is tolerable.”

“Then I’d say you are horrible at being a wife,” Natasha said, sipping her tea.

Margaery pointed at the Sand Bitch, bouncing up and down in her chair in a way that would have gotten Myrcella scolded… when she was 4. “And I should say we should listen to Natasha. Her marriage seems rather successful!” She smiled at Natasha even as she selected a small apple tart and placed it on her plate. “I have seen you often together and never has it seemed as if either of you wished to be anyplace else. Why, just last week you were in the Great Library…”

“Looking up some information,” Natasha said simply.

“But you prove grandmother wrong.”

“They are exceptions to the rule, of course,” Olenna said. “It all comes down to how they were raised.”

“Quite,” Cersei said, finally speaking, seeing a chance to deliver a wound to the Sand Bitch. “Being bastards both does cause one to look at the world in a different way.”

“Well, that is true,” Natasha said, not flinching or reacting at all to Cersei’s comment. “It granted me greater freedom. I was not expected to merely learn how to sew and to dance and to sing. I learned how to fight. How to ride a horse at full gallop. How to hunt and track. All things my husband enjoys. As for him… he was never taught to hate a woman for such things because he believed that he would never marry a highborn woman-“

‘Which he didn’t.’

“-so he never was poisoned like so many men are.” She paused and looked right at Cersei. “Take King Robert.”

“What of him?” Cersei asked, only allowing a bit of distain to color her words. While there was no need to hide fully her hatred for her husband there was also no need for people to believe silly rumors (even if they were utterly true). Some lies needed to be maintained even if she were able to take most of the fountain and tear it away, leaving only a full pillars to support the entire structure that was her life.

“What were his likes?” Natasha asked.

“Sleeping with anything that caught his eye and drinking,” Cersei replied with a bitter smile. “I do believe if he could have he would have fornicated with a wine cask.”

“I think Brandon Stark did that once,” Olenna murmured. “He toured the Reach after the Tournament at Harrenhall and one time I found him far too interested in one of our barrels…”

Cersei swallowed down another mouthful of tea, mentally deciding she’d be off arbor gold for a while.

“But he also enjoyed the hunt,” Natasha pointed out before looking at Cersei. “Your grace as a keen eye. No one would ever deny that. You are soft on your feet. You notice small details.” Cersei preened at all that praise, for it was very much true and should be said more often. And it wasn’t the things she was normally praised for which was always delightful. “With a bit of training you could be a most skilled hunter. It is something that isn’t seen as utterly unladylike…”

“That much is true,” Margaery stated. “The killing of an animal can be a ghastly thing, of course-“ And Cersei scoffed mentally at that; of course the child would hate killings things, she was far too soft, “-but falconing is a respected pastime for a highborn lady. And I myself had ridden during a fox hunt or two.”

“You act as if Robert would have enjoyed me being around him during a hunt,” Cersei replied. “My lord husband hunted to escape his problems. He left on his last hunt after Ned Stark’s shameful attack on my brother, after all.”

“Only because he was trained to not want you there,” Natasha said. “So many women are taught what is expected of them, of how they should behave, despite it making no sense. We are just as smart and cunning and capable as men. Why should we not hunt? Fight? Rule?” It was only the last comment that kept Cersei from dismissing Natasha outright. “And yet we are taught this by our own mothers, just as they teach our brothers that they are to only go to their lady wives for the very things that Lady Olenna stated when it comes to men. That they are to desire us for our bodies and then cast us aside. Allow us only trivial things to do. Lead separate lives. And then, when we become mothers, we do the exact thing. A continuous trap, one where the victims become the builders of the snares for the next generation.”

“Then what would you suggest?” Margaery asked.

“Break the trap.”

The Queen of Thorns laughed at that. “Perhaps you will have an easier time with that with your Iron Wolf, girl, but husbands will not take kindly to their wives making their sons soft.”

“I know it is the custom of those of a certain age to try and make themselves feel younger,” Natasha said with a bland smile that hid a dagger’s edge, “but even reducing me to ‘girl’ will not make you young again.”

Several of the Reach girls began to squawk at that but Cersei merely sipped her tea; she did love it when the beasts decided to eat each other.

Unfortunately the Queen of Thrones merely chuckled at her comment. “I’d have to render your mother a babe in the womb to make myself young again.” Her eyes danced with mirth. “But my point remains. Lord Jon is of a different cut than most men one can find now in the world. I won’t bore us all to tears, wasting time until Margaery’s nethers are as dusty as mine-“ And now Cersei would demand her maids step up the cleaning so she didn’t have to think about THAT either, “-by preaching that your husband is something out of a song or fable. We are all too mature for that… I hope.” She cast her eyes upon all gathered and even Cersei found herself trying not to wiggle in place under that gaze. It remaindered her far too much of her mother and when she had found her and Jaime… no, she would not think of the dead. Or the lost. “But he is from an age long gone. He is a cup found by a steward as he prepares for a grand feast.” Olenna held up her own goblet. “Beautiful. Wondrous. But not of this age. Not fitting in with all the rest. I dare say if I were to hold a tea for all the men of the realm who were like him… no, I’ll make it easier. Men willing to actually listen to their wives. They don’t need to agree, just listen. If I were to gather them all up… there would be more empty chairs in this garden than there would be those full.”

“Oh come now, grandmother,” Margaery protested. “You will depress us all.”

“Sometimes we need to be depressed,” Olenna argued. “It reminds us of the joys of life.”

Cersei found herself agreeing with that. After all dealing with Robert and the rare times he forced himself upon her made her times with Jaime all the better, for she remembered that fat drunken oaf and how unskilled he was and the stallion that Jaime became when they coupled…

“But that is the fate of most of us, I am afraid,” Olenna said. “Or at least the stupid. The clever know how to manipulate things to get their way.”

“You can’t claim in the same breath that men never listen to us and that they do,” Margaery said with a laugh.

“I did no such thing,” the Queen of Thorns argued. “I stated that men are designed by nature, for the most part-“ she nodded to Natasha, “-to ignore us. A lazy or stupid girl accepts this. A cunning one does not.”

Cersei could tell that was a jab at her. Olenna never looked at her but she knew it was an insult meant for her and only her. Her father had made such comments himself, only far more direct. How it was her fault that Robert had become as he did because has she been a true Queen she would have led him to glory.

‘Everyone believes that Robert was some pliable stupid thing who I could lead about like a loyal lap dog upon a rope. That all it would take is a single yank to get him to go where I desired. But they have no idea… Robert was a vain and stubborn man, refusing to see any reason. Jon Arryn spent Robert’s entire reign trying to get him to do the right thing for the Seven Kingdoms. All he managed to do was curb his excesses in some areas by directing him towards others. Keep him from blundering his way into more Civil Wars by allowing him his tourneys and his feasts.

‘No one ever recognizes my victories over him… not that they can know.’ She sipped her tea and selected one of the treats on a platter that Margaery was eating from; she hadn’t died yet so not poisoned. ‘Half of the Kingsguard was selected thanks to my whispered commands to Jaime, who played that old fool Selmy like a lute. The City Watch too. I was unable to do much with the Small Council but positions in the Red Keep?’ She looked about at the gathered women. ‘If I wanted to I could have them all dead by sunrise tomorrow morning. Command my spies and my allies to snuff them out in their sleep, drown them in their tubs, poison their food or send them hurtling from the battlements. They would answer with a single command.’

She smiled at that as the conversation turned to other topics.

‘So enjoy your little games, all of you. Mock me to my face and believe me foolish enough to think you are not. You do not realize that the sword is pressed to your neck already and all I have to do is give the command and it will swing down, ending you all.’

Her thoughts on her revenge and what it would mean for her hated foes disappeared from her mind however when a servant came in with a small bit of parchment, crisp and white and on a tray. She frowned before opening it up… and felt her eyebrows raising and her stomach dropping as she read it over again. And then again.

“Is everything alright,” Margaery asked.

Refusing to show weakness in front of the little whore Cersei forced herself to smile. “Perfectly fine. Just some news out of the Westerlands... nothing of note.”

She clung to the message through the rest of the tea.

~MC~MC~MC~

“Stop here,” Cersei commanded and at once the wagon driver called for the horses to stop. She had considered taking a litter into the city but had finally decided against it; while Jiffsun had done well to bring peace back to King’s Landing there was always a risk that one of the smallfolk would get it in their tiny little brains to try and cause harm to her. A wagon would be far better for escaping in and offer greater protection than a litter. And it was more regal. That was important.

The shop was a new one on the Street of Looms and Cersei had to take a moment to admire it. Rather than like most shops which used at worst a large sign to advertise their wears or at best had shutters that could be opened or close to allow people a chance to look inside the owner had bought clear glass, thick and strong, that allow them to display the dresses that could be made. There was a crowd already gathered in front of the store when she’d arrived and it only thickened when all realized that it was the Queen who had come. They murmured and whispered amongst themselves and Cersei smiled at them as she approached the door, a guard nodding and opening the door as she did so. Not a bow, as she would have preferred, but she was willing to let that go because he needed to be alert to protect her.

Inside the shop several women moved around, examining fabrics that lay spun around great long wooden planks that had been smoothed and polished so much they were as slippery as ice, ensuring that they would not mar the precious fabric. Myrish lace, Lysini cotton… there were the deep reds of the Westerlands, the burning oranges of the Dornish and the southern Reach, and the wild exotic patterns of Pentos. Painted on the walls were different designs so that a lady could have a visual idea of what the seamstresses could do. And in the back she could hear the faint sounds of the looms at work, smallfolk hard at work churning out the lovely designs.

It was with a reluctant sigh that Cersei moved towards the stairs, not bothering to speak to the owner as she approached. The woman made no move to stop her; a wise thing as Cersei wasn’t in the mood to take tongues at the moment.

The steps were of the standard quality one would find in lesser keeps and buildings; wooden things that squeaked and groaned with every step she took. Her guards remained at the top, standing before the opening to ensure that no one got any bright ideas and decided that it would be a good idea to follow after her. Down she went into the darkness and halfway along the stairs suddenly found herself struck by the odd sensation of being caught. The light of the doorway above was still behind her and she could see at the bottom of the stairs light coming from that entryway… but where she stood was just darkness. The point where the light from both sources couldn’t reach and left only twilight. A strange, dizzying sensation filled her, making her stomach tremble and her head swim for just a moment.

Cersei reached out suddenly and grabbed the rail, holding onto it with her flesh and blood hand, using it to ground herself.

‘You are Queen of the Seven Kingdoms,’ she hissed mentally to herself, unable to, much to her annoyance, voice the words. ‘You are the Queen. You are not a child. You are not frightened of the dark!’

Still… her descent down the stairs quickened.

The entryway was lit by lamps filled with sunstones, allowing her to walk without gagging on soot. She followed along the path, the sounds of the looms above her now a rumble like the belly of some great drake. Once more the odd sensation of dizziness filled her and she felt for a moment as if that was exactly the case: she was walking through the throat of a great dragon, a roar slowly building in its mouth, and the lights were its flames that would burn her.

She did not run.

A Queen did not run. She did not flee or scurry or race. She moved at a proper pace… perhaps a quicker one than she normally did but it was not a run.

Finally reaching the door she flung it open to find Qyburn sitting at a table, looking over some rope he had suspended in some sort of amber liquid in a jar.

“Ah… you got my missive,” Qyburn said, barely glancing at her before returning to the jar. “This is rather interesting. The webbing of one of the spiders… I am still running some tests but I believe it is the female.”

“How-“

“Did I get the webbing?” Qyburn said, cutting her off. “Oh, it was dreadfully hard. Dreadfully. It turns to little more than dust after about 2 to 3 hours, depending on the temperature and if it has rained. I had to try all sorts of different fluids to preserve it… I found honey of all things does the trick. I wonder if it is connected the animals that originally produced them? Bees and spiders-“

Cersei stepped forward. “How are you still here?”

Qyburn glanced at her, muted red eyes taking her all in before he shrugged. “It was difficult to find a place to settle within King’s Landing. I considered the Dragon Pit but heard rumors that some thieves had made their home there so decided against it. Even if they have left you never know what might be left behind that could contaminate an experiment. Luckily the history of King’s Landing has always been people working in secret to carve out little places they can tuck themselves away in. Sometimes I wonder if Maegor’s attempt to place his soul in his armor didn’t cause it to dissipate throughout King’s Landing, infecting everyone ever so slightly. Would explain many of the odd events… the sudden bouts of cruelty, the need for secrets, the stillborns… ah, but that is something to study a century or two from now. Come, look at this webbing, it is very interesting. The smallfolk say there are three spiders, a female and two males. I wonder if it isn’t like an ant colony, where there is a queen with her male servants-“

“Qyburn,” Cersei said, cutting off his rambles that even on a good and pleasant day she would have had no time for. He looked up at her and she said in a cold voice, “I thought it was agreed that you would leave King’s Landing?”

He was a threat. He knew far too much. She did not know where Littlefinger had gone off to but she had no doubt that eventually he would begin to spread chaos throughout all of Westeros. It was his nature to do that; she had heard him more than once boast during the Greyjoy Rebellion how sometimes wars were a good thing as it ‘got rid of the deadwood and allowed new saplings to grow’ and that ‘chaos is a ladder’. That upheaval allowed people to rise up. As someone at the top naturally she couldn’t have that. So yes… Littlefinger would begin spreading chaos and while she had utter faith in the power of the Westerlands and the Crown to defeat him she didn’t need the smallfolks and the minor lords learning that it had been her who had unleashed him. So… Qyburn had to be eliminated.

And yet there he was. Still in King’s Landing.

Still alive.

“Did we? I remember you saying I needed to leave the Red Keep. Which I agreed with… I thought the power blessed to those stones would aid me but I was wrong. The books were rather nice though and I do apologize but I have taken many with me but be assured they will be safe here. Very good for keeping old books, this place.”

“I meant for you to leave King’s Landing,” Cersei repeated. “That is why I had the guards escort you.”

“Yes, that,” Qyburn said with a casual shrug. He walked over to a cabinet. “It was the oddest thing… as I was packing up the last of my supplies-“

‘Which were to have been burned on my order,’ Cersei thought.

“-and leading the wagon out the men you sent to escort me… well, there must be some sickness going around, probably brought in by one of the soldiers returning from fighting the Northmen, because they tried to attack me.” He turned his back and Cersei pulled off her false hand, creating the purple energy blade from her stump. It seemed she would have to take care of matters herself-

Qyburn opened the cabinet and Cersei reared back in horror at the sight of the four severed heads suspending in jars much like the webbing, faces twisted in silent screams. There were also hands and feet and organs as well. Hearts and other fleshy bits. Ears and eyes. All lined up like perfume bottles on her vanity.

“Well… I can’t blame you for their sickness, can I?” Qyburn said in a sweet voice, never bothering to glance back at her. “And I’ve been give so much to study! Normally I like to consider the living but sometimes we are able to learn so very much from the dead.”

Her mind raced. How had he done it? How had he managed to kill the men? Did he have allies? Had he led them into an ambush?

“It was of course a bother to have to deal with them,” he continued on, lifting up one of the jars that had the head of one of the men, a dusky haired man with a nose that had been broken many times. Now his nose was forever smashed in, driven right into his skull. “Getting my hands dirty. It is such a loss of potential when you have to kill a man. All they could become… all that they could pass down to their children. Do you know if they had children?” There was something in his tone that made Cersei shudder in revulsion. “I would like to see to them, if they did. To make sure they aren’t… infected with whatever battle sickness took their fathers and made them believe it was a wise idea to attack me.”

He turned and Cersei hurriedly drew back the energy blade.

“Oh… your hand came off.” He walked over and held out his own hands, palms up. “May I?”

Cersei nodded numbly and Qyburn smiled, gently working to reattach her false hand.

“There we go,” he said with all the patience of a nursemaid, “all better.” He went back to his table and sat down.

“You… sent a message,” Cersei found herself saying, making no move to join Qyburn at the table. She had sent four guards, strong and strapping. Bulls and boars all of them… not that bright but smart enough to know how to kill someone. She’d sent them to deal with plenty of servants who had stuck their noses where they didn’t belong. Ones who thought because they were close to her they would be able to do things that were simply against the order of the world. And who might know a bit too much. All four had heard plenty of screams and pleading and bribes in their years serving her and never once faulted. And they’d never failed to return from… escorting… someone out of King’s Landing. If they died on the trip back home, as she would inform concerned parents or siblings, then it was a matter for the lords of those lands. The world was dangerous, after all.

And… it seemed… so was Qyburn.

“Just to let you know that I have settled here. It’s a good workshop. And it will allow you to visit me often, as I am sure you will want to do.” He smiled and Cersei heard the threat in his words. “After all… we must plan to deal with the Ultron Armor. It wouldn’t do to let him go unchecked, razing the countryside. No no no… we must work together on this, to ensure that he is properly handled. I have a few ideas… but I admit I will need some things for you.”

She had been expecting that and normally would have become angry at being extorted in such a manner. But with the heads of her guards still staring back at her with their lifeless eyes she had no choice but to swallow her rage.

“How much?”

“Oh, not gold,” Qyburn said with a laugh. “No need to worry about that! I have managed to squirrel away plenty of coin. No… think of them as favors.”

He paused.

“You can start by using your influence as queen to help move some things along.”

“What things?”

“Alysanne Targaryen was known as a great match maker,” he stated. “Arranging marriages, bringing the right people together… and keeping them together. She understood that children were important. That they could bind the great houses, rise up lesser ones, and broker peace amongst the feuding factions. And, of course, with the right matches the children would be greater than their parents. Why… just look at you!”

“At me?” Cersei said, confused.

“You father chose well. Your mother and him creating you and Ser Jaime. Yes, there was Lord Tyrion but that can happen… all the negatives rather than the positives.”

“Quite,” Cersei said, feeling a bit better where she stood when she was able to engage in her favorite activity of mocking the Imp.

“Alysanne understood the power of a queen… how they could convince people to do their duty and produce the children the realm needed. Oh… she learned so much from me…” He blinked. “I mean I learned from her. Of course.” He shook his head, Cersei not quite understanding what he had been trying to say. “The point remains that what you can do for me is assist in assuring that such matches are made and children are produced.”

Cersei frowned. It… wasn’t the hardest thing to do. Make some small talk, perhaps some veiled insults about one’s ability to produce… yes, she could do it. “Very well.”

“Excellent,” Qyburn stated, red eyes burning into her own. “You can start… by getting Natasha Stark with child.”

Chapter Text

Daenerys

“And you will not consider-“

Daenerys cut Ser Barristan off with a withering stare. “No.”

The old man bowed his head. “Of course, your grace, it is your choice. I merely wished to present you all your options and how they might affect you.”

“And I understand,” Dany said, doing her best not to snap at the old knight; after all, she had told him that she wished for him to advise her so could she truly get mad when he did just that? “But the answer remains no. While it is lovely and I am sure there are many that would appreciate it… no.”

With that one of her handmaidens took the beautiful pale pink silk dress that Ser Barristan had been trying to convince her to wear out of the room.

“We will need to ensure the Myrish delegation knows you, at the very least, received their gift. We wouldn’t want them offended.”

“And why not?” Dany asked as she walked over to the great cabinet that took residence in the left corner of her chambers. “They have offended me.”

“It is just a dress, your grace,” Ser Barristan said.

“A dress that was woven by the hands of slaves,” she retorted. “The cocoons of the silkworms were harvested by slaves. Boiled by slaves. Cleaned and dyed by slaves. Woven by slaves and then cut and stitched by slaves. Every piece of that dress was created by slaves and then the Myrish lords snatched it away and presented it to us as if they themselves had crafted it. I doubt they even commanded it made… they most likely demanded their slaves tell the other slaves that it be made.” She shook her head. “My stance on slavery has been made clear to all, Ser Barristan, and still the men of Myr insult me in this way.”

She looked back at the knight, seeing him remaining utterly impassive. It was a sign of just how much practice he had when dealing with royalty; he understood that no matter what he was to remain dignified and collected.

‘I wonder if he realizes how much that annoyed others,’ she thought to herself. ‘It would be so much easier to be angry with him for trying to push that dress on me if he were to become angry or bitter. But because he is so respectful he makes me want to give in!’ It made her all the more frustrated yet she also knew it was silly to FEEL frustrated over such a thing.

“It is the duty of a ruler to be gracious,” Ser Barristan said, clearly trying to keep his voice respectful so he didn’t come off as a lecturing parent. Daenerys had made it clear to ALL from Ser Barristan to Ser Jorah to Logan to Doom: she was not looking for a father. She was a woman grown. She needed advisors, not guardians.

“And how would my brother Rhaegar have reacted had he been given a dress?” she asked.

That caused Ser Barristan to smile. “Confusion that he was given such a thing.”

If he had thought that it was a joke, her setting him up to make some quip, he was sadly mistaken. “Exactly, Ser Barristan. Because Rhaegar was meant to rule. In fact it would have made more sense to give a gift that was a dress or some fancy jewelry to him as he wasn’t a ruler yet. He commanded an army but he was not king. I am the Khalesi of Dragon’s Bay… I have no time for such insults.”

“It wasn’t an insult,” Ser Barristan argued again. “They thought-“

“Wrongly,” Daenerys said, cutting him off. “They thought wrongly and poorly. They believed me a meek thing that would be entranced by their baubles. But I am a ruler and a warrior, just as much as all Targaryens that came before me. I will not change who I am for anyone simply to make them happy.”

It was a warning to him. Stop pressing her on such things and understand she was as she was. She wore leathers and kept weapons at her sides and when they came to Westeros she would not come in a dress but in steel. Aegon the Conqueror hadn’t won the Seven Kingdoms by dressing in silk shirts and bedecking himself in jewels. His crown had been black with only a few rubies. His seat one of swords. So too for her.

“Is all well, Daenerys?” Viktor said as he entered, sweeping into the room with his green cloak billowing behind him. He always did manage to cut an impressive sight when he moved about, something Dany was rather envious of. If capes weren’t frivolous things to her, thanks to her most likely just burning them away with her flames, she would have considered one for herself.

“Quite fine,” she said as Ser Barristan bowed his head and moved to leave; she knew he wouldn’t go far, most likely waiting outside the door even though the Unsullied guarded her.

Viktor waited for the door to shut before he spoke. “You must be more understanding towards him. He looks at you and sees the chance for a life he thought gone to return again. A dream suddenly made real. All those that reach the end of their years feel that way.”

“Which is understandable,” Daenerys stated. “But the past is not the wonderful thing we make it out to be with our lack of clear vision. Jaehaerys the Wise saw the most peaceful time in all the Seven Kingdoms, did he not? The maesters rank him as the greatest of my ancestors.”

“Between him and Aegon the First,” Viktor stated. “Maekor is a rare favorite from those wishing to court scandal and get attention for themselves. The ‘attention getter’ in more common terms. And those who believe that the maesters and the Septons should be merged into one will point the Baelor. Aegon the Unlikely for the commoners but we are speaking of the Maesters so yes, usually it is Jahaerys I.”

“And yet his actions led to the Dance of the Dragons,” she pointed out. “He was unable to raise his children properly. Taxation was heavy and nothing occurred to better the relationship with Dorne. We talk of his glory days but forget that they were surrounded by darkness, gloom, and error.” She paused. “The scholars, when they speak of me, will remember how I took the Three Sisters of Slaver’s Bay. They won’t mention how I wandered in the desert, unable to determine how I would care for my people until you arrived. Or if they do it will be brushed aside, treated as nothing more than an interesting footnote. Perhaps a pretty little tale… they won’t speak of the blisters on my heels from constant walking or how my lips bled thanks to the dry air. So too with Ser Barristan and his dreams that I will be some silver queen wearing fine dresses who rules over a summer that never ends. We will be marching on Westeros in the Autumn… as loathed as I am to say it the Starks are right that Winter is Coming. That is not a time for little girls. It is a time for rulers.”

Viktor nodded at that. “And ones with clear eyes.” He waved his hand. “But we can not concern ourselves with such things at the moment. There are more important matters that lie before us.”

“Yes, the delegations,” Daenerys stated wearily.

“Do not let others see you so put off by these meetings,” Viktor warned her and Daenerys fought the urge to roll her eyes, knowing that doing so would only start him on a different rant. She didn’t need to be told yet again about controlling her emotions. “In the end they will serve several great purposes. The Juggernaut must be dealt with.”

Daenerys nodded at that. Marko was still imprisoned in his golden trap, though modifications had been made. They had doused him with a year’s worth of Milk of the Poppy to put him to sleep so he might be moved to the dungeons and the gold reformed around him so that he might be able to, as disgusting as it was, shit and piss himself. The servants and guards tasked with feeding him had to be careful because when he wasn’t spewing insults and threats or trying to bite off their fingers along with the long spoons they used to feed him he was holding in his waste so that he might do it when they arrived; she’d heard that he always laughed when he managed to piss on a man’s boots.

‘It would be easier to just kill him,’ she thought once again. ‘But he is too valuable. He is kin to the Sea Lord of Braavos and even if they loathe each other family is still family. And word has it that there are those that claim blood debts against him… ones that will be transferred to me if I steal their honor by killing him.’ It was a horribly tangled mess, a knot of many ropes that desperately needed to be unwoven yet she had little idea how she would be able to do so and keep all happy. Thus the delegations… and how they wore her down.

“Who is arriving today?” she asked as she moved towards the door, opening in and strolling out with a confident gait. At once the Unsullied and Ser Baristan moved to follow.

Viktor only waited until they were out the door before moving to walk beside her, something she didn’t miss but also didn’t comment on. He was, after all, not a servant or a member of her Small Council. Viktor was a ruler in his own right, Lord and Master of Latvaria, and thus was owed the honor and right to walk beside her as an equal.

“According to my spies,” and Dany wasn’t at all surprised that the man had spies in her city (in fact she would have been bothered if he didn’t), “the Braavosi delegation has been slowed by the need to assist with a small village that is suffering from a drought and bandit attacks. They will now be arriving in a week’s time, depending if they need to stop and aid more; that is possible, for the Sealord has a kind heart. That leaves only the Myrish, who arrived last night-“

“And have already provided their gift,” Daenerys muttered.

“-the Pentosi, a representative of a Smithing Guild, and the Wakandans.”

That made Daenerys’ brow furrow. “I am… not familiar with the Wakandans.”

“Not surprising,” Viktor stated. “They keep to themselves, even before the Doom. They saw how the Dragon Lords of Old Valyria hunted for Braavos based only on whispers and legend and dug in deeper than them. There are many that dismiss them as being of little interest. Just poor farmers who barely managed to make an existence in their mountains.”

“You don’t believe that though.”

She could hear the pleased tone in his voice. “No. No I do not. There are… other whispers. Ones that speak of secrets that they cling to fiercely. The Wakadanas are poor, yes, but they are also strong. I have seen them fight and they are as skilled as your Unsullied. Yet I have never heard of a Wakandan being taken as a slave. They never beg for food or supplies. And their lands have never been targeted.”

“You said the lands were thought to be poor.”

“That doesn’t matter to many,” he pointed out. “The Garden of Bones is worthless to Latvaria but I still claim it as my own. So too should it be with the Wakandans… and yet their neighbors make no attempts to snatch up them up.”

Dany nodded at that. “And the other two? The Guild and the Pentosi?”

“The Guild is something new. The representative seems an odd sort from what I’ve heard.”

He fell silent.

“Viktor,” she said, coming to a stop at some stairs. “The Pentosi?”

For the first time since she’d met him the man known as Doom was… off-put.

“They are led by Illyrio Mopatis children.”

Dany raised an eyebrow at that, sensing a story.

Viktor narrowed his eyes behind his mask before finally letting out a huff. “I do not wish to speak of it but I can see that you will not let go of the issue. And they are your guests so you deserve to know of them. Mopatis’ children were born to him by the bastard daughter of House Mertyns of Mistwood who he had charmed. While Illyrio eventually moved on from her the children she gave him honored her and took her bastard name as their own. They travel with a man known as Benjen the Grimstone… you will know him when you see him… and the last son of a cadet branch of the Northern House Reed.”

She waited for him to continue on.

“We have… encountered one another,” Viktor admitted. “Meddlers who failed to understand my actions and thought themselves heroes.”

“Will you be able to handle being in the same room as them?” Dany asked.

“So long as they do not seek to confront me? Yes. But they will confront me, Daenerys. It will be them to make the first attack. And I will not allow myself to be harmed just to satisfy your guest rights.”

“If they truly attack you first them I will stand with you,” she informed him. “We are allies, Viktor… your enemies are my enemies.” Left unsaid though was ‘so long as they truly are enemies I wish to have’.

The rest of the trip to her throne room was a quiet one, with only the soft clanging of Ser Barristan’s armor to fill the silence. She arrived to find the rest of her Small Council gathered already, along with representatives of the city and her Khalasar. Walking up the few steps that lead up to the raised platform where the stone chair she had selected to be her throne rested Daenerys sat down before giving a nod to Domino.

“Presenting The Generous Masters of Myr: Onolo Poi, Tunim Myc-“

Daenerys tuned out the names of the Myrish delegates. They, like the ones that had already arrived from Lys and Volantis, were all the same. They paid homage to her, invited her to visit their fair cities, and refused to say a word about what they wanted with the Juggernaut for there was ‘time for that later’. No, they would remain in her city until all arrived, eating and drinking her food while muttering under their breath about how she was a fool and destroyer of culture and if only she would allow for slavery to return… or how they wish they could savage her. That was a common thread per the servants who brought back to Dany all that was said by the Masters. And this point if words were cock thrusts every one of her holes would have been plundered a hundred times. As well as he tits, both hands, her feet(???), and one strange man the back of her knees.

Gifts were brought that set her teeth on edge. Cloth. Gems. Perfumes. It didn’t matter that she sat on a throne in dark leathers and wore a simple crown on her head they still thought so little of her! She could feel the flames begging to come out, to consume her form and turn her into a being of pure flame so she might show them how wrong they were. But Daenerys tapped down those urges and instead plastered a benign look on her face as they finished up and finally let her be.

‘At least these ones did not offer to wed me,’ she thought darkly to herself. Of course they weren’t actual ‘offers’. More they were attempts to get her to submit to them. She was ‘such a graceful creature’ who ‘must be so lonely’ and who ‘desired companionship’. She heard the words unspoken so easily: you are a stupid girl and need a strong man to take over. They thought of her as one might a child playing pretend.

They never said those words openly in front of her, of course. It was boasted of in tavern halls and mead shops and wine sinks, where a man deep in his cups would forget all his courtly grace and loudly proclaim how he would ‘break the dragon bitch’ with his mighty cock. More than a few had talked of how their girth was so great that they would render her a ‘cum addicted whore’ and their length so large that they would bring her the mind altering pleasure of ‘striking her womb’.

Dany had laughed at that last one.

Then she’d sent Logan and Wade to, well, have fun as they saw fit.

The boasts had died off after Logan had castrated a man of Volantis and Wade had managed to fuck him in the mouth with his own severed cock.

Domino stepped towards her and whispered. “This one will be more fun.”

“What makes you say that?”

But Domino merely smirked, refusing to answer and instead declaring, “Presenting from the Smithing Guild of Essos Ulysses Klaue!”

At once Daenerys knew that this man would be different from her previous meetings. Klaue wore fine leathers and armor much like her other guests but his had clearly been used. The armor had small scratches and dings in the metal and the leather was dust-covered and worn in spots. Cared for, that was clear, but it wasn’t for show. He was a man who knew the hardship of travel and prepared for it. Upon his back were several sheaths, the handles of swords and daggers sticking out.

He had a sunburn face, weathered from the wind and the rains blasting into his features as well as the heat of the forge when he wasn’t on the road. His hair was trimmed almost impossibly short on the sides of his head while being left long and curly on the top and he had a graying patch on his chin. And of course there was his left arm. He openly displayed the loss of his left hand with a strange prosthetic: four pincer-like pieces with a tube between them.

“Lovely place here, your grace, lovely place,” Klaue said after having taken a moment to bend the knee, rising up quickly once she’d motioned for him to stand. “A million issues but that is to be expected. The Meereeni only cared about making things look pretty rather than functional… had slaves to cover the gaps which is stupid. Why not just make it right in the first place?”

Dany found herself amused by the man. “Yes, I have found that in Astapor, Yunkai, and Meereen the answer always is ‘more slaves’.”

Klaue spat, literally, at that. “Idiots and fools, your grace, idiots and fools.” He looked at her and smiled. “Now then, I’m told you have a man trapped in metal here. I’d like to see it.”

“I will be arranging visits to the Cain Marko once everyone has arrived.”

“I don’t care about Marko,” Klaue said with a shake of his hand. “I want to see the metal.”

“The… metal?” Daenerys asked.

“The gold,” Klaue said. “Its true you used gold?” He raised an eyebrow at the word ‘gold’ and Dany suddenly felt like she had been sized up and found wanting.

“I did,” she said in a firmer voice. “from the capstone of this very pyramid.”

“Fuck,” Klaue growled. “I need to see it then today.” When Dany merely stared at him the man scoffed. “Gold is fucking soft metal. People think it is hard and durable just because its heavy but its shit for shields, swords, and restraints. If someone is looking to free that bastard they’d only need a chisel and a good sledge and he’d be fucking loose within a few minutes. We need some good solid steel to keep him wrapped up…” He tugged at his beard with his right hand. “Suppose we could sell that gold… people would pay extra for the gold from the Great Pyramid… and that stopped that bastard’s rampage… and it was kissed by your flames and that of dragons…”

Daenerys felt like she’d gone from gracefully dancing to having her feet replaced with clunky wooden boards. “Your concern is… the gold.”

Klaue chuckled. “Of course!” he waved at himself. “I am Klaue of the Smithing Guild! What do I give a fuck about the Juggernaut… other than him busting up my wears and the people who might buy them? No… I heard you have him trapped in gold and knew I needed to see it so we could make it BETTER.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Fucking hate shoddy work. Take this.” He reached behind his back and pulled out a curved blade; Dany was familiar with it, for many of her bloodriders preferred such swords. “One of your Dothraki had this, was boasting about how amazing it was. ‘Fit for the Khalesi’ he said when he was telling everyone how he’d won it.”

He suddenly lashed out with his false hand, striking the blade and causing it to shatter like glass.

“I only paid him what he asked because I didn’t want you to get upset at me cheating him… but he’d been robbed the moment he pulled out his coin purse for this dreck.” Klaue looked at the slivers of metal before tossing the handle he’d been still holding away and then pulling out a new sword.

Dany’s throat seized up.

It was… beautiful.

The same design as the blade Klaue had destroyed but at once she could tell it was the superior. Like seeing a mummur pretending to be some great beauty only for the real lady to walk onto stage and reveal the falseness of the entire performance. The curve flawless. The edge razor sharp. The handle made of fine wood and inlaid with carefully selected black leather.

And the blade…

‘I know that metal,’ she thought as she looked towards Logan. He pulled his eyes away from her and nodded, lifting a single hand up.

The blade was made from the same metal that Logan’s claws were.

“This… is a sword,” Klaue said before bowing down and placing the blade on the ground. Brelgo, one of her Bloodriders, moved forward and took the sword and Dany could see he was marveling at its craftsmenship even as he brought it over to her; the poor man looked heartbroken to pass it to her! Dany examined the sword carefully, respectful of its deadliness but also in awe of its style and grace. “Forged from Blood Valyrian, known also as Adamantium. A gift to you, Khalesi, and hopefully proof that what I offer is something you will accept.”

“You want us to believe that you would part with such metal?” Bruce of Tarth said, the first of her advisors to speak up.

Klaue merely smiled before reaching behind his back… and drawing out another Adamantium Sword. “It is an interesting thing. I buy Valyrain Steel Daggers and other trinkets for… well… 100,000 gold coins.” Those gathered began to murmur at that. “I then forge them into a Sword and I can ask for a million gold coins. But… turn one in Adamantium and I can gain all I ask for and more. Which, in turn, allows me to purchase more Valyrian Steel Daggers and…” he gave a casual shrug. “These are but a fraction of my armory… to be honest they hold little appeal to me anymore. When one learns a secret it is a fine thing to have but it loses its power to hold your interest. Bed the woman of your dreams and you begin seeking out another. Travel to a place you longed to visit and soon you wish to go further. The same is true with metals. I have master Adamantium… I wish to find new things… more powerful things. And thus… my offer to you.”

“And what do you offer, Master Klaue?” Dany asked, knowing that there had to be more to what Klaue was offering. A Valaryan Steel Dothraki Blade… with it at her side she at once would be seen as the equal to every ruler in Essos. This was something that wasn’t parted with lightly, despite his claims.

“My services,” he said with a wide bow. “I will find the perfect metal for you to imprison the Juggernaut with. And I will improve many things here. Make your scorpions fire farther, your gates stronger, and get your blacksmiths to actually craft decent swords and spears. I will be paid, of course, but I also ask in return free reign to examine the stores of metals that the Meereeni have kept locked away.”

He paused.

“And… I may ask, from time to time… for your fire.”

“My fire?” Dany asked.

Klaue smirked. “I have a theory, your grace. The art of creating new Valyrian Steel disappeared with the Doom. I believe you and your dragons may be able to show the way to rediscover it.”

Daenerys’ mind raced at that. ‘Valyrian Steel. Able to cut through armor like a knife through butter. Able to be swung a thousand times and never lose its edge. Men have given up everything they own, sold their families into slavery and been left without a single copper… and refused to give up their Valyrian Steel Daggers and Swords. If we could rediscover the art of making such things…’

“We accept your offer, Master Klaue,” Daenerys stated. “We offer you the temporary position of Royal Blacksmith. Should this alliance prove fruitful we will make it permanent and offer to you a seat as advisor on my Small Council.”

Klaue bowed at that. “Thank you, Kkalesi.”

There was a lull as Klaue left and Dany looked over her new blade.

“Do not become entranced by your bauble,” Viktor said, walking over to her. “It is a fine thing but it is a thing all the same. Just another dress.”

“I’ve never seen a dress kill someone,” Daenerys retorted.

“I have!” Wade said helpfully. “One time, at band camp, I… no, wait.” He tilted his head. “That was a flute. Well, anyway, I know I’ve seen someone strangle a person with a dress. It might have been me.”

Dany didn’t want to know if Wade had been the one to strangle the person or the one being strangled. Honestly with him it could have gone either way. So instead she turned to Viktor and stated, “Klaue brought up good points and offers us advantages. I would rather have him on our side than against us.”

“Of course,” Viktor stated though she could tell he wasn’t in agreement with her.

“What will you name it?” Ser Jorah asked. “Every sword needs a name.”

“I will need to consider that,” she admitted. “Perhaps it is bad luck to not give it a name at the moment but I do not wish to rush such things.” She looked at one of her handmaidens, Isa. “I will need a way to carry this. I can not wear it open as my bloodriders… the edge is too sharp. Please see to it.” Isa nodded and took the sword (with a bit of fear, Dany noticed) and hurried off to begin work.

“The next guests have arrived,” Domino said and Dany nodded as Ser Jorah and Viktor returned to their seats. “May I present-“

“Rickard…” Viktor growled low a foursome entered.

“-Rickard Reed, Susun Storm, Jon Storm, and Benjen the Grimstone.”

The first man to enter was a tall, lanky figure with the features of a highborn which were hidden behind a dark beard. His eyes were sharp, Dany could tell that instantly even from the distance between them, and there was an intelligence there. He looked about the room with the same critical eye as the head of a fish market, looking at the catch to determine the prices that would be placed on the trout and bass. He was a man that, she got the sense, had won friends and allies not easily but had worked for them, battled to claim them, and needed to fight to maintain them every day. Very much Daenerys’ opposite in that and in many aspects.

In contrast with that cool and calculating man was the blond figure that walked with a swagger in every step. He was clean shaven and kept his hair short, much like the bearded man but where his was uniform and salted with white at the temps the blond clearly chose to keep his locks shorn because he wanted to show off more of his face. Indeed she could see that he had made up his face and powdered it just as much as most women of high birth did. He smiled, teeth blindingly white, and gave a cocky little wave to the crowd, even having the gall to wink at one woman who blushed and turned her head away. When he spotted Dany he locked eyes with her and she felt… something… flare up in her stomach that she was rather quick to smash down. She was not some simpering maiden who would be done in by pretty eyes. The blond merely smiled back at her, pouting his lips together.

That earned him a smack from the woman beside him. They were similar enough in looks that Dany decided she must be his sister and not his wife (though, considering her own family history, Daenerys realized she shouldn’t be so quick to select only one or the other). She was the perfect contrast between the blonde man and the bearded one, able to take the charm that the fawning her brother had and apply it in a far more measured and controlled way. She was one that could dominate a room and also charm it. Yes, she had all the classical things men sought, with her lush blond hair, ample curves, and lean and elegant face, but she wasn’t a painting to be admired. Power could sense power and she knew at once that the woman, Susun, was a force to be reckoned with.

And finally there was… well, she couldn’t quite tell what the man looked like, other than he must be rather fat, for he wore a thick heavy robe with a hood that swallowed up all his features. Only his feet were visible and he wore the oddest orangish brown shoes that Dany had ever seen-

“Reed?” Bruce suddenly asked and Dany turned to find the man from Tarth had risen from his chair, face utterly pale.

“Bruce?” the bearded man asked and while not losing his color like Bruce she could tell he was stricken.

“BRUCE!” Susun cried out and suddenly Bruce was rushing away from where he was seated with the Small Council, hurrying over and giving Susun a hug, spinning her around.

“Sue!” Bruce exclaimed happily before letting her go and embracing the blond peacock. “Johnny!”

“In the flesh. Which is more than I can say about some of us.” He glanced back at the hooded man, who must have been Benjen the Grimstone.

“Eh, watch what your sayin' dere, Hot Head! Okay?”

“Its good to see you Bruce,” Reed said with a smile, clapping Bruce on the shoulder. “We thought you were dead.”

“I thought you were dead!” Bruce exclaimed. “When… well…”

“It was bad,” Sue said, it clear that even though they had gone through all the same trauma they didn’t want to share the details amongst themselves. “We thought perhaps the Green Guardian had killed you.”

“Green… oh,” Bruce trailed off, Dany at once knowing what the foursome were going to say next.

“Yeah!” Johnny said with a laugh. “That thing made even Ben here look like a blushing bride.”

“I'll bride yuh!” Ben declared, Johnny laughing and backing away. That clearly settled (even if just for a second) he turned back towards Bruce. “But yeah, we went lookin' fawh yuh only tuh encountuh dat green brute. Wasn't keen on us bein' dere so he decided tuh throw fists.”

“If not for Ben we wouldn’t have escaped,” Sue said.

“Yeah… about that…” Bruce said awkwardly. “The… Green Guy?” He paused and Dany was just able to see Bruce make his eyes go green.

“…of course,” Reed said, leaning in to examine Bruce’s face. “Add more muscle, darken the skin to emerald… yes…” He rubbed his chin. “Clear as day now. We should have seen it.”

“To be fair we were running for our lives,” Johnny pointed out.

Bruce just stared at the four. “But I don’t understand… how did you escape the Hulk?”

“Because you aren’t the only one to undergo a radical transformation thanks to your time in Old Valyria,” Viktor stated, reminding everyone that he was still there. “Come now, Benjen, remove that cloak… unless you expect us all to believe you are going to spend all your time hiding.”

Ben took a step forward at that. “You're one tuh tawhk about hidin', Doom! How ‘bouts I remove dis cloak when yuh take off dat ugly face plate and frayin' green cloak?”

“I see your ability to hold a meaningful conversation remains woeful,” Viktor stated dryly. “Come now Rickard, even for you and your low standards you can’t find companions with a bit more brains than Grim and your flaming peacock?”

“Oh, you want flaming?” Johnny asked and Dany’s eyes went wide when the blonde burst into flames. “We can see how that cloak of yours does-“

“ENOUGH!” Daenerys roared, leaping from her chair and igniting her own form.

Johnny…went ramrod still.

“…okay, so I am thinking of so many things I want us to try out,” he said only for Ben to reach out and smack him hard, causing his flames to sputter out. “Hey!”

“Keep your cock in your pants, Johnny! Okay? That's de Queen you're speakin' tuh!”

Viktor huffed at that. “At least Benjen knows decorum.”

“Enough,” Dany said, shooting Viktor a dark look, making it clear that SHE was in command and didn’t want any side deciding that they could talk out of turn. “I will have answers-“

And that’s when Reed’s head stretched over to her, neck elongating by 10 feet, so he could examine her burning form while remaining where he was standing.

“Fascinating. Very similar to Johnny’s flames but different. You don’t generate them directly, do you? They come from an outside source but you are able to control and grow them. Is there a limit?” His head began to move to look at her from behind, causing Dany to turn so she could continue facing him. “What are the limits of the flames? We had some reports about a flaming chimera in Qarth but we assumed it was Viktor attempting to replicate Johnny’s powers-“

“How about you back off their, bub?” Logan said, rising and popping his claws. “Before I get to see how that stretchy neck of yours does when cut into a thousand pieces.”

“Everyone, please!” Bruce called out, raising his hands. “This… this is a good day. A happy day.” He smiled as he looked at the newly arrived foursome. “I thought you all dead… you thought me dead. Can’t we just… leave it at that?”

“…Aw, doan get all mushy on me, Bruce.” Ben said before reaching up and removing his hood. There was a gasp from many gathered as they took in Benjen the Grimstone. Rather than the normal features one would have expected instead they saw a face made of orangish brown stone, with a thick brow and heavy lips. The body was rocky, with thousands of different textured stones making up the face and chest and arms of the man. Only the eyes were clearly human, a deep and soulful blue that spoke of a tender heart under the monstrous exterior. “Befawh yuh say a wawhd I'm still prettiuh than your green butt.”

“You will find that your looks will not have you judged here,” Bruce said with a smile.

“The title of ugliest goes to me!” Wade said cheerfully. “Which is fine because I have to compensate for having the second biggest dick in all of Essos.” He pressed his hand against his mouth and false whispered, “but its only belongs to Gray Worm.” He clicked his tongue in the Unsullied in question, Gray Worm not reaction in the slightest.

Ben looked about and realized that other than the brief shock everyone had shown… no one was reacting. No screams. No shouts. No one bellowing and calling him a freak or a monster. It honestly pained Daenerys to see how the stony man looked ready to cry over the fact that he was being treated as, well, normal.

Then he set his jaw and glared right at Viktor. “Still wanna know what dat tin plated bastard is doin's here.”

“He is my guest,” Daenerys said before Viktor could say a word. “I trust that won’t be a problem.”

“Not at all,” Sue said quickly. “Right Ben? Johnny?”

“Hey, I’m more interested in the queen with the flames,” Johnny said, leering at Dany. She narrowed her eyes, refusing to leave her burning form just in case the lecherous man decided to try something funny.

“Heh. Leave it tuh yuh tuh get on de bad side of a woman wit' dragons, Hot Head! Wonduh if dey'll take kindly tuh yuh flirtin' wit' deir mudder.”

Sue quickly covered her brother’s mouth before he could say another word. “We will be on our best behavior, your grace.”

Reed nodded. “Of course. We are here to ensure that the Juggernaut is handled carefully. He is a danger to many.”

“Everyone in this room is a danger to many, Rickard,” Viktor stated. “The only difference is that some of us know how to handle our power and do not hide away from it… or claim the power is an evil thing.”

“No,” Reed said, “just those that abuse it.”

“Enough,” Dany said forcefully. “My servants will show you to your rooms. I would remind you that all in Meereen are free. If I hear you have mistreated anyone, be they high lord or simple street sweep, your punishment will be harsh.”

Reed bowed at that. “Of course. While we represent Pentos we don’t hold to the same beliefs as many do about the enslavement of man.”

She wondered if that was the reason why they had been selected to treat with her. If so then Master Illiyrio had proven to be far smarter than those around him.

When all four left the room and a servant was told to pause the other new arrivals Daenerys finally dropped her flames, looking down in annoyance at the charred remains of her outfit. “I truly need to learn how to preserve these,” she muttered even as a servant rushed over and brought her a robe, which she covered herself with before stalking back to her room to quickly change.

Returning as quickly as she could she found her Small Council talking quietly to themselves, all falling silent when she made her presence known. “Well?” she asked.

Logan huffed. “We were just telling Bruce here that we are owed some stories here. But he said he wanted to wait until you showed up.” He waved his hand towards the man in question. “She’s here now, bub…how do you know those four, Green Jeans?”

Bruce smiled softly. “Rickard Reed is a brilliant man… it is only because he found life in the Citadel far too stifling that he never attempted to earn more than a few links of his chain. When my cousin Brienne’s condition became worse he was one of many I sought out for help. While he couldn’t cure her he did suggest ways I could help her. He, along with Sue and Johnny and Ben, were the only ones willing to go with me to Old Valyria. It all had to be done in secret, of course… even without the edict in Westeros that none are allowed to step foot in Old Valyria there are plenty who would see such a trip as a death sentence. We hired a crew to get us as close as we could get and then the five of us continued on alone.” He rubbed his forearm. “It wasn’t easy and… well, honestly I don’t want to talk about it too much anymore.”

“Then don’t,” Daenerys said, her tone firm yet also filled with kindness. She remembered their talk, when they had been walking back from watching over her children, and the haunting things that danced in his mind. She had no urge to hear them again, for the nightmares they had brought still plagued her. And she had only heard the stories second hand, not lived them as Bruce had.

He nodded, grateful. “When… well, when I became the Hulk… its all very foggy. But I woke up near Ashai and believed them to have died, killed in Old Valriya like everyone else and I cursed for damning them to that fate. Or… at the very least… I prayed they were dead. Because better dead than to be twisted into one of the Guardians Monsters that now stalk that place.” He paused. “But they clearly survived.”

“And were altered,” Ser Jorah said. “Reed… he is able to stretch his neck?”

“Not just his neck,” Viktor replied. His tone was like a cold knife: no give, cutting to the heart of the matter. “His entire body has been gifted with the ability to stretch and twist like saltwater river taffy. He can elongate his fingers and turn them into a net. Stretch out his legs so a single step covers a dozen yard. Wrap his body about a foe like a boa constrictor. It makes fighting him rather difficult.”

“You’ve fought him?” Ser Jorah asked.

Viktor narrowed his eyes. “Rickard is the most… troublesome… of that foursome.”

“Okay, that’s all well and good,” Wade said, cutting in, “but before we get into that dramatic backstory of revenge and hate there is something very important we all need to know.” He leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. “Can he stretch out his cock?”

Dany honestly wished she could say she was surprised by that question. She truly wished she could.

“…Daenerys, who is this fool that is about to die at my hands?” Viktor asked coldly.

She shut her eyes. “Viktor, Wade is the captain of every mercenary group that currently serves me. Meaning I must ask you to spare him.”

Wade nodded. “Its true. My men love me.”

Viktor considered that. “I doubt that assertion.”

“I did too,” Logan muttered, “but the dumb fucker has enough of them on his side.”

“I pay REALLY good,” Wade told them.

“Something he has said far too often about many aspects of his life,” Domino quipped before looking at Viktor. “What about the others? The rock guy I think is pretty obvious…”

Viktor nodded, clearly pleased they were back to discussing matters that he deemed proper. “Benjen’s body is made of very durable stone. It has also increased his strength. Do not think him slow though due to his bulk; he is very quick on his feet. He is even able to swim.”

“…how?” Ser Barristan asked.

The lord of Latvaria was silent for a long moment and when he finally spoke it was as if every word was hurting him. “I once asked him. He stated he does not swim. Rather that the… water moves away from him… for fear of being… clobbered.”

Dany let that little comment just hang in the air.

“As for the others Johnny-“ and it was so weird to hear Viktor use such a cutsey name, “-is much like you, Daenerys. Yet also different. He is able to create his own flames which can consume his body and hurl them at foes. It has granted him flight and made him a terror to many of his enemies.”

‘I felt those flames,’ Dany thought to herself. ‘They called to me, much as the fires my children create whisper and sing songs only I can understand.’ She should have found it off-putting but it was oddly… comforting. And that was the most disturbing and bothersome thing of all.

“But,” Viktor continued on, “it is Susun that you should fear.”

“Why is that?” Logan asked.

“She has the ability turn herself invisible.”

That made Daenerys pause.

‘The ability to be anywhere and one wouldn’t realize it,’ she thought. ‘To slip past the best trained guards and kill your enemies. To make it appear one killed themselves rather than the act being one of murder. To leave and enter at your own choosing…’

“Hmmmpf,” Logan said dismissively. “Seein’ things ain’t all there is, Doom.” He tapped his nose. “The Nose Knows.”

That… was a bit of relief for Daenerys.

“It is unwise to allow them to remain here,” Viktor said. “They are dangerous. And they will not stand with any of your plans. Rickard and his friends… they do not see that sometimes progress is only made through battle. They would allow the status quo to remain forever if it meant not an ounce of upheaval. When they learn you mean to go to Westeros to reclaim your throne they won’t be allies. First they will try arguing with you. Plead to your ‘better nature’. Then the threats will come. The bribes. Followed by true subterfuge. And finally the full out attacks. Unless you hunger to battle them I suggest you rid yourself of them now.”

She wasn’t surprised that Viktor had suggested such a thing. But it did make her wonder just what else he wasn’t telling her. While it was entirely possible that Rickard and the rest of his group were the meddling annoyances he was trying to make them out to be… Dany had done enough in her life to know there were two sides to every story.

‘Growing up I was told horror stories of the Dothroki. How they were savages that ate their own children and slept with their horses and would sweep across entire cities like locust, consuming all they found and leaving nothing in their wake. And while their campaigns can be brutal… they can also show kindness and loyalty.’ She thought of Drogo, who had scared her even at the beginning of her marriage, but she had learned he had a softness to him. He had been so happy when he’d learned that she was pregnant with their child and had been so careful with her…

The same applied to herself. She knew that for many in Essos she was a nightmare that they whispered of, praying to never have darken their steps. The Dragon Queen who could become living fire and who left ruined cities in her wake.

‘Can the same not be true of Rickard and his friends?’ she thought. ‘And of course the reverse it true. Viktor has been kind to me… but he is a powerful man with ambition and pride. Only the naïve would think that he could not be cruel… I saw as much with how he dealt with the Pureborn of Qarth as well as the different Merchant Guilds. Is there any chance that he turned Rickard and the others into enemies… and their actions against him were justified?’

So instead of making a decision Dany called out, “Let us continue on. Please show in the next petitioner.”

Domino nodded. “Presenting from the Kingdom of Wakanda…”

He had dark skin and a regal bearing to him and he knew just how he presented himself to the world and the affects it had on others. There was a confidence there, bordering on arrogance, as he strolled into the room, his thick-soled boots making barely a sound. He wore a blue shirt with a silver breastplate over the top of it and baggy dark pants that were popular in the Summer Isles for allowing the user protection but also breathability. He had a lean long face with a high forehead, his chin covered in short cut hair and a carefully trimmed mustache draped over his lip. His hair was long and had been braided in a Dothraki style, styled so they pulled up away from his high forehead before falling to the right side of his face.

“…N'Jadaka.”

Chapter Text

Arya

“Utterly amazing.”

“I mean… wow.”

“Absolutely perfect.”

“Wrong,” Arya said in a huff, arms folded over her chest and a glower on her face. She, along with Theon, Lord Manderly, Brienne, and Gendry had been called into the captain’s quarters on Lyanna’s Lance, one of the newest war galleons that White Harbor had crafted for the northern army, to go over their plans for their arrival back in Westeros. Land had been spotted and they were racing towards the Northern Port, which made their last minute need to go over final details all the more frustrating. Arya had thought they had everything covered and done with but it seemed like everyone in her life needed to make plans. And plans upon plans. And plans for the plans upon plans. It was annoying and frustrating and it made her want to bang her head on the wall.

But… she was supposed to act dignified. She looked like an adult now, she was a princess apparently (and she would never get used to that as it felt wrong for her to have that title when that was all Sansa had ever wanted), and she was a representative for the Brotherhood. She needed to be mature and respectful and kind and-

“That is the most hideous, ugly, disgusting thing I’ve ever seen,” Arya snapped. “I mean it, Mystique… that is just… ugh.”

Theon shot her a look. “She’s you.”

Mystique was standing in the middle of the room, barely 4 feet tall with her hair braided in the northern style, pale skin, and huge dark eyes that blinked FAR too often.

“She is NOT me,” Arya complained.

“Well, she’s little you,” Gendry said, holding out his hand, palm down, before slowly lowering his arm to represent… well, Arya wasn’t a 100% sure what it was supposed to represent but she got the basic idea all the same.

“She is NOT ‘little me’,” Arya complained.

“That’s true,” Theon said. “After all Arya is still little. I suppose littler Arya is the proper term.”

“Small Arya and Little Arya?” Gendry suggested.

“Tinier,” Theon stated.

“All of you are tiny to me,” Brienne commented, Lord Manderly nodding in agreement.

“ENOUGH!” Arya shouted, pushing away from the wall she’d been leaning on and gesturing at Mystique who was still standing there with a cocky little smile on her face. “You did it wrong. Or you are pranking me. Or both. I don’t know just… no.”

“My lady,” Lord Manderly stated, “I know that it has been some time since I saw you… at that age.” He winced at his word choice but Arya didn’t blame him; she was still undecided how to discuss the fact that in a night she’d gained a decade. “But I was there when the King came to Winterfell and I remember seeing you. And Lady Ravan-“ he gestured at Mystique, “-looks just like you did back then.”

“…no, she doesn’t,” Arya said stubbornly.

“She looks JUST like you,” Theon commented. “She looks more like you than… you.”

“She does not,” Arya complained. “Look at how dainty she is. Those little arms and legs…” The others stared at her. “My arms weren’t like that. I had… muscles. Because I was always running around! And that face is far too pretty. It should be twice as long. And the hair is far too shiny. Silky smooth… my hair is… was… like rat hair!” She grabbed some of her own locks and held them up to Mystique’s head. “See?”

The others just stared at her and Arya looked down, seeing that their hair matched perfect.

“…and her eyes are too big and beautiful and I feel like I am going to be sucked into them and that is NOT how I used to be!”

“Arya,” Mystique said.

“That too!” she exclaimed, pointing at her mentor. “That voice! It is too sweet and pretty. Like pure sugar! I had a horrible voice. Squeaky and ear splitting. It should make your head hurt hearing it!”

“Arya.” Mystique shot her a look. “We are going to have a long talk about your self worth later on.”

“Why?” she asked, tilting her head in confusion.

The way the others stared at her made her shift and squirm, not quite knowing why they looked so sad but knowing it was something she had done. Something she didn’t quite understand.

Not wanting to dwell on their stares Arya blurted out, “I don’t get why we even need to do this!” She waved her hand at Mystique, who was stubbornly refusing to shift back to her normal self, then to her own person. “Why do we need a little me running around? I’m me!” Theon opened his mouth but Arya held up her hand. “Yes, I’m not THAT me and that’s how the North last remembered me but we have Lord Manderly here!” She waved at the very fat man, who was seated on a bench because there was nothing else in the room that could support his weight. “He can just issue a decree that I am Arya Stark and we’re all good!”

“And he’ll be arrested as a traitor for trying to pass off a clear fake,” Brienne replied. “And most likely killed before he even gets to Winterfell. And you will be beheaded and your skull presented to Lord Stark.”

Arya stared hard at the green woman. “You’re exaggerating.”

“She isn’t,” Theon said simply.

“And I was worried the North would be different from Flea Bottom…” Gendry muttered.

“You can become metal, you are safe,” Arya said before turning back to the others. “And you are exaggerating. I know my father is fighting in a war but he is still my father! He is still Eddard Stark! He would not attack his own bannerman without investigating. He would not kill a woman without confirming her claim!”

Theon and Brienne shared a look.

“What?” Arya demanded.

“The Lannisters… claimed Lady Sansa was still alive,” Brienne finally said, her voice far too quiet for a woman so big. “From what your father’s Master of Whispers was able to gather Cersei Lannister and much of the Small Council selected a whore who was several years too old and whose hair had been dyed red to pose as your sister, who sang of how wonderful Joffrey was and how just his reign was. They later sent ravens to The Twins, Riverrun, and Winterfell, all of which proclaimed that Sansa was alive and simply waiting for your father to end the ‘foolish war’ and bend the knee so she might mend the schism between her old family and her new.”

Arya grit her teeth in frustration, hands balling up into fists. “Those fuckers…”

“Language!” Mystique scolded, which even Arya found odd considering their differences in size at that moment. But she couldn’t bring herself to smile… not with the news of how the Lannisters had dishonored her sister and her memory.

“They paraded around a whore and called her Sansa?”

Lord Manderly chose that moment to speak up. “From what we hear it was the Queen mostly. When Lord Tyrion and later Lord Tywin found out about it they were rather livid.” He smiled weakly, which looked so odd on his large round face; it was far better suited for smiles and laughs than such dark looks. “But do you understand now why we can’t simply bring you into White Harbor declaring you are Arya Stark? After what happened with your sister…”

“Yes… yes of course,” Arya said with a nod of her head. “But you couldn’t have her look like me?”

Mystique merely smirked at her. “You were adorable, deal with it.” She did a little curtsy, much to Arya’s disgust.

There was a knock on the door and Arya turned in time to see Gambit enter, a smirk on his lips as he looked down at Mystique before glancing up at Arya herself. “Not enough ta be able ta look at yourself in the mirror, chere? Need ta have Ravan here look like ya?”

“Piss off, Remy,” Arya muttered in annoyance.

“Tell me that too,” Gambit said to Mystique. “I want to see what it looks like in stereo.”

“I am close enough to bite your cock clean off, swamp rat,” Mystique said, lips pulling up to reveal her teeth which she chomped down with twice.

Gendry frowned. “What’s a stereo?”

“So cruel to ol’ Gambit,” the man said with a sigh. “Gambit pays you both compliments and that’s how you treat him?” He shook his head, tsking slightly. “Shame on you both. Shame.”

“What do you want?” Brienne asked, folding her arms over her chest and looking down at the man.

“Other than ta climb ya like a monkey?” Gambit asked with a smirk, Arya learning that Brienne could blush even with green skin. And Theon could turn beet red though she wasn’t for sure why exactly that was happening. “We are moving into the harbor.”

“Ah, yes. Thank you Remy,” Lord Manderly said as he shifted himself up onto his feet, letting out a slight groan as he did so. “Now then, allow me to take the lead… I will ensure that all is handled properly.” He let out a laugh. “I am the lord of White Harbor, after all!”

Following after Lord Manderly Arya looked forward past the bow of the ship and saw their destination stretched out before them. There were heavy clouds in the sky, threatening a stormburst which was why Lyanna’s Lance had been pushing so hard to make it through the final bit of the journey. They hoped that they would be safely within the city before the clouds unleashed their down pour; even better if they were tucked away in the main castle, safe and dry and able to sleep on a bed that didn’t shift with the rolling of the waves. Even with the sky so dark though the coastal city before them seemed to glow brightly, the white stone that made up many of its buildings almost radiating with light. Arya wondered what it would have looked like had the sun been shining upon it and reasoned she would have been blinded. As it was the city was like a hand, the towers its massive fingers reaching into the clouds to rip away the darkness and reveal the sun.

The other thing she saw was the great overload of ships that were coming in and out of White Harbor. Little fishing boats with patched sails. Rowboats being driven by men with thick arms who looked up at the Lyanna’s Lance with begrudging respect, knowing their liege lord was on board but more focused on the waves the ship was kicking up which were making their job all the harder. There were large shipping galleons like their own that carried cargo to and from the city, flying the flags of exotic cities that Arya couldn’t place and those of Westerosi cities that she knew she should. A great behemoth of a ship, loading with timbers, was currently trying to turn around, its captain clearly having decided that the storm wasn’t worth the trouble and it was better to seek protection within the harbor. Small crabbers though didn’t care and as they passed one a fiery haired man was shouting at his crew to hurry up and secure the crab cages so they wouldn’t make the boat shift and rock in the increasing waves.

‘If we were on any other ship this would be impossible,’ she thought to herself as she saw the docks approaching; the land was growing so close she could see easily the men that walked the planks though their words were lost to the winds that were kicking up. ‘We would spend hours trying to get into position so we could safely anchor…’ She saw many ships doing just that, with many small vessels moving to put themselves near the larger ships, calling out if they could lash themselves to their sides in hopes of protecting themselves. The storm was going to be fierce, that much was clear, and all wanted protection. ‘But we are the ship holding Lord Manderly… no captain would risk preventing him from reaching the docks safely.’

Sure enough within twenty minutes they had been able to set anchor, the gangplank was brought out so they could descend from the ship. Lord Manderly grinned and waved to the dockmaster, calling out that all that had helped them dock would receive 10 silver moons each for their trouble, which led to cheers of his name and “White Harbor!” from the men. The captain of Lyanna’s Lance was given a poach that Arya knew had to contain even more coins before Lord Manderly moved towards a litter that had been brought up near where they had landed; the man was simply too fat to properly ride a horse and thus had to be transported in such a way if he wished to get around at all.

“We make for Castle Stair!” Lord Manderly declared before he leaned in close to one of the muscular men that would handle the litter. “This is Princess Arya Stark and her sworn sword. Both are to be protected at all costs. Theon Bracken is to come to no harm as well… for he is the one that found the Princess and thus the claim on his life will be lifted once this is known.” Raising his voice again he shouted, “To New Castle!”

“Come along “Arya”,” Arya said with a huff.

“That is Princess Arya. Or your grace.” Mystique smirked at her even as she pulled her hood up.

“No one will believe that you are Arya if you worry about such things,” she informed her mentor.

“You had a change of heart while in Essos. It happens. I’m thinking we should take up dancing… perhaps the harp.”

“I will clap you on the ear, your grace,” Arya ground out, knowing her mentor was enjoying all of the scheming far too much.

“Yes Kat,” Mystique said, using her false name from Harrenhall.

“Ah, I see the lights were finally replaced,” Lord Manderly stated as they turned onto a long broad street that was paved with white stones. Occasionally there would be steps that would lift them up to a higher level, allowing them to rise up along the great hill that sat in the center of the city and upon which New Castle sat. On both sides of the street were large mermaid statues, their uncovered breasts finely crafted (and Arya could guess why that was), and in their upraised hands were orbs that held glowing stones. “We paid quite a bit to secure the sunstones needed to replace all the whale oil… it will be worth it though in the future. From what Lord Antony says the sunstones seem to gather the light of the sun and hold it for decades… perhaps centuries! It will be well worth it when Winter finally arrives and we are able to move about the streets without fear. Nor waste time having to refill the bowls.”

“The risk of fire will be diminished as well,” Theon stated.

“Quite right, quite right!” Lord Manderly declared. “Well thought, Lord Theon!”

“I will never get used to you being ‘Lord Theon Braken’,” Arya commented as they continued on along the street.

“That is the biggest change you have a problem with?” Theon asked, bemused.

Arya merely shrugged.

“And, of course,” Lord Manderly continued, “the sunstones smell better!” He let out a laugh at that. “Why there were many who debated living on Castle Stair, for while it was the best lit street in White Harbor it also stank something fierce when the winds blowed the wrong way. But with the sunstones I imagine prices will rise greatly!”

He continued on like that, telling them about the many different interesting and impressive sights they were seeing. Arya found herself wondering what it would have been like for her had she come to White Harbor first, before so much of her life had changed. It was an impressive castle, to be sure, but thanks to King’s Landing and Braavos it was just… a city. A grand city but a city.

They entered New Castle nearly half an hour later, the castle guard all saluting their lord as he was finally lowered from his litter and greeted the Maester, a rather strong looking man of thirty and five with a dark beard and deep set eyes. He looked more like how King Robert had appeared in her father’s stories than a maester but he bowed his head just as Maester Luwin always had and welcomed Lord Manderly back.

“We have much to do,” the rotund man declared. “I must give several proclamations and ravens will need to be sent to Winterfell with the news I bring.”

“All went well with the Iron Bank?” the Maester asked; Lord Manderly had forgotten to introduce him so Arya had no idea his name.

“Very well but we have more important matters. Much has changed.”

“It has,” the Maester stated. “I have much to inform you of as well.”

“Then let us make for the Merman’s Court!”

What followed was another trip where Lord Manderly seemed to have a story or a tale to tell every few steps. The inside of the castle wasn’t white stone like the outside of New Castle, instead made of darker grays that were covered in all manner of trinkets and trophies. Old banners that were so faded that Arya could barely make out which houses they belonged too… assuming the houses even remained for her to place them. Broken shields and rusted swords as well, taken from the Manderlys’ enemies, the victors and the losers all long reduced to dust yet their weapons remaining upon the walls. People moved about and Lord Manderly knew them all, greeting even the lowest of chimney girls with a fond smile and a question about their lives and how things were going for them.

The Merman’s Court continued the southern grandeur that all of New Castle had, with a doorway that was nearly 20 feet tall with two massive Mermaid statues on either side and doors crafted from great dark wood that looked all the more black thanks to the white marble statues.

But when they walked in they found that rather than the normal audience one might have expected for the returning of a lord there was instead only a few gathered people, sitting at a table and looking expectantly towards their group. Arya frowned, wondering just what was going on, when a rather plain looking man, despite how finely he was dressed, rose to his feet. He had on a pale pink cloak with white fur trim and wore black leathers that, when he rose, shifted to reveal red ringmail was hidden underneath. The only thing about him that was truly eye catching were, ironically, his eyes, for they were so pale that they reminded Arya of the moon full and bright.

“Roose!” Lord Manderly cried out, holding his arms out wide, a great smile on his face. “Whatever are you doing here, my friend?”

“Come to greet you,” Roose Bolton (for who else could it be but the Leech Lord, Arya realized) said with the slightest of smiles. His voice was soft and quiet, forcing Arya to take a step closer in order to hear him properly. “Much has happened while you were across the Narrow Sea, Wymen.”

“Indeed and I am glad you are here to hear what has happened,” Lord Manderly stated before gesturing at Mystique. “Theon Braken has not only proven himself honorable and skilled in helping me negotiate with the Iron Bank but has also done the North a great honor. May I present Princess Arya Stark, returned at last.”

Lord Bolton looked down at Mystique… before shaking his head. “No.”

“No?” Lord Manderly said.

“No.” He turned his gaze towards Arya and she saw his eyes widen ever so slightly, which she had a feeling was for him a gasp of shock or a scream or startled surprise. “You look like she used to. Lady Lyanna, that is. No longer but you look like as I remember her.” He dipped his head. “Princess.”

“Well… so much for that,” Gendry said with a shrug, Gambit snickering slightly.

Lord Manderly was far more open in his surprise than Lord Bolton was. “Roose, how-“

“As I said, much has changed. We received word that Princess Arya was in Essos and that she has been… changed… by the experience. Much as her siblings.”

“What do you mean?” Arya asked, taking a step forward. Mystique, realizing that the cat was out of the bag, shifted back into her normal blue skinned form but Lord Bolton merely raised an eyebrow at that before focusing on her.

“You aren’t the only one to find yourself grown, Princess. Your brother Rickon lived 30 years in the realm of the Children of the Forest before he returned.”

“…thirty?” Arya asked softly, trying to wrap her head around that fact.

“You said… how Lyanna was?” Lord Manderly asked.

The tale that Lord Bolton told left Arya’s mind spinning, forcing her to sit down.

Robb bonded with some living black goo, which allowed him to transform into a 7 foot tall monster man.

Rickon was now closer to father’s age rather than her own, having been trained by the Children of the Forest… who had bonded with her grandfather, uncle, and aunt.

Sansa was ALIVE but trapped in the body of Lady.

Jon, according to the ravens that had just arrived, was HAND OF THE FUCKING KING to TOMMEN.

Finally, after it had felt like she’d been put in a wine barrel and rolled down a steep hill, Mystique decided that they all needed rest before the Welcome Home feast that was planned and guided Arya to her room, leaving her with a few kind words and assurances that this was all good news (and of course it was… it was just so… so…) before leaving her be.

She laid on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, the only company being the rains that had begun to pound down upon New Castle. The storm felt… very appropriate for what she was feeling in that moment. Turmoil and chaos that left her battered.

‘Why is this so upsetting?’ she thought to herself. ‘They changed. I changed. We all changed! What does it matter if Rickon is older than me? Or Robb has that… goo? Or Sansa…’ She couldn’t even finish that thought; she’d spent so long knowing her sister was dead that to have her be alive just made her heart and her head ache. ‘I should be thrilled… giddy with delight that they are okay! Jon is trapped in King’s Landing but we can save him…’

Because there was never any doubt they needed to save Jon. Her father had shown to her that there was no true protection in being Hand of the King. It could all be ripped away in an instant and she wasn’t going to let the Lannisters take any more of her family.

Even though, apparently, they actually hadn’t.

Sansa.

Arya shut her eyes.

‘Why is this plaguing me?’ she thought again.

A small voice whispered, ‘Because you wanted to be the only one who changed.’

She didn’t know if it was because she wanted to be special… or if she wanted her family to be as she had dreamed them to be.

Frowning Arya finally got up, unable to stand just… lying there, feeling sorry for herself when she didn’t even know if she WANTED to feel sorry! Making her way to the door she paused, realizing that it was quite likely that Lord Manderly had left guards outside in the hall to keep her safe. Which meant her desire to go on a peaceful walk, without anyone to intrude on her thoughts, wouldn’t happen…

She looked at the wall and rolled her eyes.

“Come now Arya, you’re smarter than this,” she muttered before she phased through the opposite wall, easily walking through an empty bed chamber before ducking into the hallway, the guards focused on her door and not to just to the left of them.

Biting back a naughty giggle she quickly darted away, pleased to find that part of New Castle rather empty and thus giving her a chance to walk and think.

‘At least they’ll be more accepting of all my changes,’ she thought to herself as she snuck about the castle, darting from room to room, avoiding anyone before they even had a chance to spot her. The old games of her childhood, when she had earned the title Arya Underfoot, returned only now with far more tools at her disposal. Arriving in the Merman’s Court she took a running start and vaulted herself up a wall, finding the perfect handholds to allow her to scurry up into the rafters, easily slinking among the timbers until she was high up above the hall, able to sit and recline on a beam. ‘They aren’t going to claim I’m not me when they have Rickon around. And being to phase… at least I can do that without some black goo.’ She wondered what Robb truly looked like… Lord Bolton had been careful with his words but she got the sense he was rather fierce. She wished she could be fierce… maybe there was more of the goo somewhere and she could get a partner? It would be fun to be as tall as Brienne, able to actually look down at people for once…

As for Sansa… well, she still wasn’t sure what she would do with her sister.

It was so easy to forget all the dark times when she had been dead and focus on the good. The moments of true sisterly love. She remembered when they had been very little, before the Septa had poisoned her sister’s mind with tales of how she ‘should’ be, and how they had played together. All sorts of silly games that only they knew the rules of. Sansa could be energetic and Arya had been more willing to do ‘girly’ things back then.

‘Seven Hells, I was better at running a castle than she was,’ Arya thought, remembering how much she had enjoyed practicing the balancing of ledgers and determining servant workloads. Sansa had always gotten confused by numbers and complained that she shouldn’t need to worry about such things because her husband would do it. That was when they’d truly begun to drift apart… when Sansa had decided that life was a song and thus anything not sung about was meaningless while Arya rebelled against her mother trying to make her the same by becoming the very opposite.

She wondered… what would life be like now? Assuming they could get Sansa back to being a human, something she wasn’t even ready to begin considering, would her sister wise up and see the harshness of the world? Or would she stubbornly revert back to the mutton-headed fool she had been when she’d blinked her eyes at her ‘darling Joffrey’ because she had dreams of being a lazy queen?

And it made her wonder if she would embrace being a woman, something she had loathed and feared as a child yet now found herself forced to deal with thanks to her transformation. Arya had the body of a woman and knew that as time went one she’d grow more comfortable in it. ‘Would I be able to use it to my advantage as Mystique does?’ she pondered as she lazily dangled her leg over one of the timbers. ‘Be okay with wiggling my hips and letting my dress be cut so men can see hints of my breasts?’ She didn’t think she would be able to but she wasn’t for sure, to be honest, not with all the other changes in her life. She had noticed she… reacted… to things differently now. Had odd dreams… odd desires…

Shaking her head, no wanting to focus on any of that, Arya rose up and decided to see what else she could discover in New Castle. Flinging herself easily to another part of the rafters she phased through the ceiling, pulling herself up only to find herself in a rather large privy. She wrinkled her nose and was about to leave when she heard voices and moved silently towards the door, pressing hear ear against it.

“-not considered what this means?” Lord Bolton was saying, Arya having to strain in order to hear him. “They have a shapeshifter with them.”

“Yes,” Lord Manderly replied, sounding bemused by the entire thing. “It will be a great asset to the North, assuming that her loyalties can be pushed to the Starks. It will be difficult, I admit, but I have a few ideas…”

“The Blackfyres…” Lord Bolton muttered. “And they all have powers?”

“Princess Arya can phase through solid objects, from what I am told. I have not seen it myself but all of Braavos knew. They didn’t think much of it… she is rather respectful about it.”

“She can pass through walls, Wymen,” Lord Bolton stated. “She could be listening right now.”

“I very much doubt that. We are boring.” He paused. “Unless you have a reason to be worried. I know I haven’t. I am loyal to our King. So are you.”

“Of course,” Lord Bolton said. “But it must make you… concerned… how the Starks grow in power. It is one thing to declare yourself a king. Anyone can do that. The fool Balon Greyjoy did that once… twice if the rumors are true.”

“I hear he’s dead,” Lord Manderly said casually.

“But Eddard has done more than name himself King. He has done all he can to make it true. Gathered his forces, won us victories, held back threats…”

“All good things,” Lord Manderly pointed out.

“But now the power he gathers around himself…” There was a pause. “The Great Houses have only maintained peace because of the balancing that has been done amongst them. The Starks have shown great strength, able to eventually dominate all the houses that would see to rise up against them while at the same time offering an open hand to all that were loyal. Even the most bloodthirsty of them knew how to show favor to their allies and the weakest how to bring the sword to the rebellious. They ruled us all, yes, but there was an understanding there. And… should we have had the misfortune of having a poor Stark as King or Lord… it was known that we could all easily overthrow them.” He stopped once more. “As a last resort.”

“As a last resort,” Lord Manderly echoed, sounding far more sure of himself on that count.

“But now?” Lord Bolton continued. “His heir has bonded to that… creature. You haven’t seen him, Wymen. Robb Stark can now become as large as the Mountain but with a speed that the man would have salivated to have. I did not mention it in front of the girl but he has been rather open that he EATS his enemies.”

Silence.

Arya frowned at that. Robb… was eating people?

“I suppose if he were making fine robes out of their flesh that would be tolerable?” Lord Manderly asked.

Lord Bolton was clearly not amused. “We have not done that in centuries.”

“Come now, old friend… we both know that isn’t true.” There was a bubbling sound, most likely the Lord of White Harbor pouring them both a drink. “Your blades are sharp… and so are your skills.” He chuckled. “There is no need to worry, your secret is safe with me so long as you keep to only the worst of criminals.” Another pause. “Roose, don’t be foolish now. Drink.”

Arya leaned forward, almost ready to risk phasing through the door to see what was happening, but then she hear a glass clink against wood and figured that the Lord of the Dreadfort had, indeed, had a drink.

“Rickon Stark is a mad creature. Always making his little quips. It drives Stark mad; he has become the Kingslayer and the Imp rolled into one. But… his skill in the training yard? He can use his right and left hand with equal skill and fight 4 castle guards to a standstill.” He sighed. “And he fights dirty. Something Stark has only recently embraced but with Rickon? I take back that he is the Kingslayer and the Imp… he is the North’s Red Viper. The Star Wolf.”

Lord Manderly chuckled. “So long as he doesn’t fill the North with bastards… the Queen would not take kindly to that.” Arya frowned at that comment, not quite understanding why Lord Manderly had brought it up; it took a touch too long for her to realize he was referring to her mother.

She would never get used to that.

“Sansa… normally I would worry they had lost their minds, believing that a direwolf was their daughter. But… she can write, Wymen. I saw it when Stark gathered us together. She wrote out her name… she answered questions I asked her! And she leads a pack of wolves, over 200 strong, perhaps more. With the biggest direwolf I’ve ever seen… a bitch from what I could tell.”

‘Another direwolf… NYMERIA!’ Arya nearly cried out in shock and joy. ‘You found Sansa?!?! Nymeria… oh Nymeria!’

“And then there are Rickon Stark’s allies. Lyanna, or Gamora as she calls herself now. She could kill all your guards quite easily, Wymen, don’t believe otherwise. And Brandon… he is as boisterous and pigheaded as ever but his skills are far sharper than before his foolish ride to King’s Landing. And Rickard… Yondu as he is called… the Starks having his cunning mind in their employ is a danger. That doesn’t even get into the talking raccoon or the walking weirwood!”

“And this upsets you?” Lord Manderly asked.

“And it should you as well. The balance is destroyed. The Starks are gathering an army of people with fantastical abilities. What if Bran Stark isn’t missing but rather in training somewhere? He could return to… well, I don’t know but I worry about it. And Stark’s bastard as Hand of the King… he was dangerous enough that he was the Centurion.”

Lord Manderly laughed at that. “Jon Stark? The Centurion? Are you still on this mad theory of yours that it is Antony Stark who is the Iron Man?”

“That armor… it is said to be a marvel-“

“Which he made, per his Grace himself. But he also saw Lord Antony wearing it… it doesn’t fit him.” He let out a chuckle. “And Lord Jon is far too busy with that Dornish wife of his…”

“A dornish wife known as the Black Widow due to her skill and whose father is the Red Viper. Should something happen to Doran Martel’s children Jon Stark would be in line to be the next Prince of Dorne.”

Lord Manderly’s laughter tapered off. “You fear the growing influence of the Starks.”

“We all should. Balance, Wymen, balance.”

“And I suppose you believe I will do something about it… since you can not dream to act with your son and heir still in swaddling?” Arya could hear amusement still in the fat man’s voice… but also steel. “My family grows powerful, Roose. Powerful… but also ignored. And for good reason! Because I want it that way. The fox who darts out into the open is the one that is killed by the hunters. It is the fox that understands its role, who is happy to slink and slide and only take that which it can easily claim who survives.

“I could desire to be king. But at what cost? Not men or wealth… but time. Not just to claim the throne but also to deal with what comes after. Eddard will spend the rest of his days worrying about the North and what to do in order to make it grow while also fearing that one of us might rise up. Meanwhile I get to reap of the benefits of our new kingdom… and sleep far better.” There was the sound of a chair moving. “Go to bed, Roose. Dream of your son and how he will become a strong and powerful man in this dynasty. How he or his sons may very well marry into the Stark family. And how much better it will be that they have to deal with this mess that is all of us.” He chuckled and Arya heard footsteps moving across the room, a door opening and closing, and then the creek of a chair. “You can come out now.”

Arya started at that.

“It must be bothersome hiding… please, come out.”

After a moment Arya phased through the door of the privy and stepped into Lord Manderly’s solar.

“How did you know I was there?” she asked.

“I assumed someone would spy on me. You or Mystique or your friend Gambit. Not Gendry… the boy lacks subtly.” His eyes twinkled at that. “As such you can be assured what I spoke of was true… I didn’t tailor my words to just you, Princess.” He paused, folding his hands on top of one another as he sat at his desk, staring at her intently. “I do hope you remember that. Goodnight.”

Arya, unsure of what to say, could only muster her own goodbye before leaving.

By opening the door.

Chapter Text

Adrian

“What is on your mind, my Hand?”

Adrian glanced over at the looming form of Ultron as he approached where Adrian was standing at the rail and he called upon every skill he had in not shuddering. He had managed to stay his hand when it came to the Tyrells, never once giving into the urge as he bowed to suddenly leap forward and stab Mace Tyrell in the throat. He could do the same with his new… king.

‘As wrong as he feels to me,’ he thought as a bit of seaspray struck his face. Out loud he said, “Nothing, your grace. Merely… pondering.”

Ultron was pleased with the honorific. It was something Adrian had figured out rather quickly, that the spirit liked when people groveled before him. But-

“Oh wonderful and mighty King Ultron,” a lowborn Valesman sailor said in a simpering voice. He was crawling on his belly like a serpent, eyes cast down to the ground as he wiggled towards them, voice thin and reedy. All on the boat had witnessed Ultron’s power and had been quickly cowed into provided the two of them passage. “Mightiest of the mighty. Grandest of the grand. My King eternal.”

Ultron merely stood there.

“…bringer of justice and righteousness to these savage lands,” the man said, clearly trying to call upon the memory of every grand title the village septon had ever said to describe the Seven in his attempt to kiss Ultron’s silver ass. He kept his forehead pressed to the wooded deck, eyes closed as his mouth continued to spew out every lofty title he could think of.

Finally Ultron brought his foot over to the man and tapped it three times upon the deck. The sailor glanced at the… boot? Foot?... before at once leaping at it and kissing the metal. Ultron glanced at Adrian, a bemused little smile on his lips, before motioning with his hand for the sailor to rise.

“What might I do for you…” he rolled his hand, motioning for the sailor to speak.

“Grig, your grace,” the sailor said quickly.

“Grig. What might I do for you?”

“The captain says we are anchoring point.”

“Very good.” Ultron smiled at that, his ghostly features showing every twitch of his skin and muscles despite him not actually having either anymore, just the appearance of them. He reached over and patting the sailor on the shoulder and to Adrian it looked like the man was about ready to cum on the spot. “Thank you.” He let his hand lay on the man. “I wish you to look me in the eye.”

The sailor, trembling, tilted his head up, revealing tears running down his cheeks even as he smiled.

Ultron’s hand glowed and the man had a moment to gasp before his body was flash-burned, reduced to a smoking ruin that fell to the deck and half turned into a cloud of smoke.

“I was talking to my Hand and I do not have time for your wasteful prattle,” he said simply, the other sailors quickly getting back to work. Ultron turned back to Adrian and let out a put upon sigh. “I truly hate it when people waste time, you know? I am very busy.”

“Of course, your grace,” Adrian said.

“See, that’s why I like you, Hand. Others would have screamed and wailed seeing that… you understand that a king must do such things. That is a rare sense of clear vision… you don’t find that often in the world.”

‘I also know you’d do the same to me if I threw a fuss,’ Adrian thought to himself. Instead he stated, “It would only waste your time if I began such dramatics.”

“Exactly,” Ultron said with a smirk. “Now then… what was it you were pondering?” While he kept his tone light it was clear that he wanted an answer. No dismissal. No deflection. The truth.

“Why did we take the ship?” Adrian asked simply. “We both can fly… and I know that my wings alone are quicker than this vessel.”

“And I am faster than you,” Ultron replied with a nod; he needed to say that, Adrian could tell, but only for his own peace of mind. “You are right, of course. We could have made this journey in a quarter of the time. Though…” he paused, glancing at Adrian, “you would have forced us to stop, so you could attend to your human needs.”

“True, your grace,” Adrian said, seeing no reason to deny that or pretend he hadn’t noticed the dig at his fatal flaw of being ALIVE. “But we could have easily taken an inn for that. Once or twice at most.”

“Yes, you are right again,” Ultron stated. “That would have been far more practical. But something I have learned, Hand, during my time in King’s Landing, is that sometimes a King must sacrifice the practical in the name of the impression.” Even though Adrian didn’t say a word in response to that Ultron launched into pontificating. “A king can do everything correct, make every right decision. Lead their people to a greatness that will be written about until the end of time… and still find the smallfolk jeering them because they don’t wear fine robes or eat the most grand of meals. For all the talk people make of their hatred of the wastefulness of lords and ladies the truth is that they NEED them to be better than them. Just as a man will always choose a beautiful whore who has never laid with a man and doesn’t know not to use her teeth when suckling at his cock over one with a few wrinkles but who can bring about grand pleasure… so too will people flock to a king who LOOKS kingly rather than the one that behaves so.

“One only has to look to their history, Hand. Aegon the Dragonbane was a simple man who cared for simple things. And while he is remembered for the death of the Dragons he still ruled Westeros fairly. He saw the debts created by the Dance wiped away, King’s Landing rebuilt, and the maesters write that he was even handed in his judgments. And yet he is seen as a failure by the smallfolk because he did not enjoy balls and wear fine silks. The same with Aegon the Unlikely. He was scorned the moment he got the crown because he was seen as too… common. Even by the commoners! They hated that he wasn’t dripping in gems and fine wears like his brother Aeron Brightflame… nevermind that Aeron was utterly mad and died drinking wildfire.

“Meanwhile Aegon the Unworthy managed to cling to power for far too long because he gave the impression that he deserved to have it. It was only because he allowed his body to bloat out that the whispers began. Mark my words, Hand, if he had died handsome and young the maesters would still throw their fits but the smallfolk would weep for him. Because they are stupid fools who care only for petty things. And they want their lords and ladies and kings and queens to have those pretty things because… well…” Ultron gave a shrug. “If they don’t have them and still can rule… then the smallfolk must look upon themselves and realize that the only reason THEY don’t have such things is because of their own weakness.”

With that he reached out and tapped the railing with a single finger.

“A king must travel in style. Even if I am the first to fly…” He chuckled at that.

‘Except you aren’t,’ Adrian thought to himself, adjusting his coat as a strong cold wind suddenly came up over the Narrow Sea. ‘The Targaryens flew their dragons… Jaehaerys and Alysanne traveled on dragon back all the time, sometimes with only a single guard, sometimes all alone, from castle to castle. Despite your claims that this is being done for others… you like being able to march around this ship and terrorize the crew.’

He had seen evidence of that before. The Night’s Watch Recruits, including Yoren, had been kept in cages after their capture, watched over by servants who were paid well, and had the fear of Ultron put into them, to ensure that while cared for there was no chance of escape. Ultron had delighted before they left on their journey in visiting once a day, reminding them all that he could kill them quite easily. The pleading, the cringing… it fed him no differently than a hearty meal would feed a flesh and blood man. It was his supper, the terror and the adulation of the people.

“Besides,” Ultron said, drawing Adrian from his thoughts, “impressions will be needed with who we are dealing with next.”

Adrian raised an eyebrow at that. “You haven’t told me who we are coming to recruit.” He looked out past the churning white waves towards the icy lands that lay before them. There was no port they would be pulling into… there was no port for as far as the eye could see. Not here.

Not in the Lands of Always Winter.

“There is a creature here… one of great and terrible power… I wish to make him part of my court, so he might aid us.” Ultron leaned forward. “And he will bring terror to my enemies.”

‘Of which there are so many,’ Adrian thought to himself.

It took another hour for the ship to reach the point that Ultron had selected, based on the latest of reports that they had received from a Northern fishing vessel that Ultron had scoured of all information, resources, and finally life itself. Northern vessels disappeared all the time, especially in the autumn months when the weather at sea could suddenly turn deadly. No one would search for the men who had been turned to burning corpses. Looking out Adrian saw the landmark the captain of the doomed vessel had spoken of, which looked like a cow’s skull with its nose pointed towards the sky. While Adrian didn’t know exactly who they were chasing after he had learned that whoever it was had put terror into the souls of the wildlings, driving them with fire in their feet to move South. Near the rocky landmark there would be a village that was one of the wildling strongholds, few that they were so close to the wall, where they hoped to hold out.

Ultron was hoping that it would serve as the perfect bait to lure in their man.

Adrian quickly donned his gloves and despite his anger at Phineas for getting him in this mess he had to admit the work the man had done was impressive. Where before it had taken a complex rig to get his wings on, with them strung up with rope and needing an entire pulley system to get them into place before he could take mental command of them, the secrets Ultron had shown the tinkering genius had allowed him to take the Vulture King’s harness and turn it into something truly beautiful.

The entire device could now curl in on itself to become a pair of simple gloves. While unable to find dragonbone Phineus had shown them to be lesser than what he could accomplish, using a blend of metals to create the same structure that granted flight, with the benefit that the wings were far thinner and thus allowed him greater flexibility in how he used them. They’d also gained a green tint thanks to the metals and while Phineus had suggested that he could try again to get them to be black Adrian had waved him off; he could manage rather well with emerald.

Adrian gave a single thought and the wings unspun, extending out to nearly 12 feet long when he stretched his arms out wide. The sailors quickly hurried away as he crouched before he leapt from the ship, taking to the air as the wind sliced across his form. Below him he heard a rumble and looked back to see Ultron following him, his own flight having caused the ship the violently rock. If they sailors finally found the nerve to protest Ultron’s disregard for them Adrian didn’t know, for they were already out of earshot… or at least he was.

‘Who knows with a spirit?’ he thought to himself, adjusting his flight slightly when a sudden gust pushed him to the right. ‘How much can he do? See? Know?’ That was the terrifying thing with Ultron, which left Adrian sleepless many nights: he simply didn’t know what the man could do. If he could even be considered a man. ‘He doesn’t sleep. Doesn’t eat. He just keeps going, relentless in his scheming.’ That’s what truly worried him… he had no idea just how to interact with the spirit. How to handle him and his plotting. ‘With others I can use my own experiences to guess how they might do things. But… how do you deal with a dead man who has abandoned all human needs other than a lust for power and a craving for revenge?”

Finally getting to land didn’t bring much comfort when it came to the cold. The winds were still swirling around him, worming their way through his clothing, finding every little hole and loose spot like a skilled butcher wiggling a blade along the ribs of a pig. And knife was the right way to think of it, for even the slightest touch of the frigid Northern air brought with it a stabbing pain that caused him to grit his teeth. He had been prepared for the cold when he had thought he was going to end up the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch but this was different; mostly because Ultron demanded he dress in a way that ‘pleased him’.

Another case of practicality being shunted aside in the name of presentation.

‘But the North isn’t one that cares much for how grand one looks. They are a hard people because this is a hard land. Ultron is setting himself up for failure if he believes fine clothing are the answer to winning over whoever we are seeking out.’

They didn’t have to fly much further once they reached the shore. There was a small river that led to the ocean and upon that Adrian could see in the distance a village. If this was the great last refuge of the wildlings then he would have hated to see what they lived in normally. There were no shield walls or even fencing to protect them, the people rather choosing to simply take great tree trunks that they had clearly harvested from the nearby forest and sharpen one end into a point before driving them into the ground at an angle. The entire thing had no real sense of structure, with the logs just randomly being pounded into the ground, with some far too close to one another so that they almost touched.

‘A waste… but perhaps a smart move,’ He thought as they drew closer. ‘A pattern is one that anyone can figure out, if they have the time to study it. But randomness… there is a strength there.’

Yet even as he thought this he saw that the barrier wall and is haphazard construction had done nothing to protect the village in the end. A settlement that size should have had several fires burning, both for warmth and for the needed uses for the flames. The drying of leathers, the boiling of water, the cooking. But there were no fires going, not even smoke to show where they had once been. There was nothing but the snow and the little wooden huts.

“I think we might be too late,” Adrian said as he moved to hover next to Ultron, looking down upon the village. “I think they are all gone.”

“Oh no… they are still here,” Ultron assured him with a smirk. “You just have to know where to look.”

Adrian frowned but followed after his king, setting down on the ground, feet sinking into the deep snow. No one made a move to greet them nor did he see anyone try and shift and hide themselves from the two flying beings. That told him that there was no one in the village because unless each and every one of them had been trained by the finest masters in stealth their reactions would have been flight or fight. It was simply how people were. He had seen it often and not just when he had flown into merchant camps on one of his raids. People were naturally curious and worrisome, wondering at the new and different or loathing it and seeing it as a danger. That always gave them away, especially if they were startled. They would lean out too far in order to see the new arrival, or tense before fleeing, terror guiding their movements.

To have nothing…

“Well?” Ultron said, waving at the village. “Go find them for me. That is your duty as my Hand.”

Adrian merely nodded, glad for his mask as he didn’t want Ultron to see the glower he was shooting his way.

‘Its too quiet,’ he thought to himself as he began to make his way through the village, the only sound he was able to hear being the shifting of the snow as he trudged through it. He retracted his wings even though his every instinct screaming at him that something was very wrong.

The village honestly reminded him of the Tombs. People talked about how lovely it was, coming there to pay their respects to the Tyrell ancestors. They would mention how they thought that a tomb should be a dreary, sad place but his home was so wonderful and beautiful and how blessed he was to have it. Adrian had always been forced when he was younger to hold his tongue, knowing that his father wouldn’t be gentle with him if he told the fawning old lords and ladies what he truly thought. That the ‘beautiful quiet’ they found so enchanting was delightful… when one was able to leave whenever they wished. When it grew too oppressive for them they were able to simply travel to some other place, enjoying their feasts and their balls and their tourneys. But one didn’t dine lavishly with bands playing and hundreds gathered at the Tombs. No… one had to be respectful. It was a place for the dead…

Adrian froze.

The dead.

‘You just have to know where to look.’

Suddenly Adrian began to notice things he hadn’t before. The buildings were standing but he could see where damage had been done that did not match up with the normal wear and tear one would have expected from the elements. Slashes and gashes in the wood, doors pulled away from their frames, leathers that sealed them up against the cold ripped from the hooks that secured them in place. He glanced in one of the huts and saw the remains of a meal and near another was a weapon made of iron, so crudely made that he couldn’t tell what it was supposed to be only that it was flat and heavy, but it had been left in the snow without a care. While in Westeros this wouldn’t have been seen as a problem, as even many poor farmers would have seen little use for such a tool, Adrian knew that for the wildlings such a thing could spell the difference between life and death. It wouldn’t have been abandoned like that.

His foot suddenly hit something large and heavy.

Crouching down Adrian stuck his hand into the snow, already knowing what he was going to find. With a heave that had his muscles aching he yanked up his find, a flurry of pinkish snow heralding the corpse he dragged up from the drift. It was a woman and he knew at once her death hadn’t been pleasant. Her face was twisted into a scream and she’d been slashed open from her left hip, across her chest, and to her right shoulder. Sharp broken bones peaked through dark muscle that had been left frozen by the cold. One of her organs, Adrian couldn’t tell which one, fell from her stomach as he shifted her, dangling from her body like the fuzz balls on a knitted shirt that had been worn a touch too long. While there were no good ways to die her’s had been a far worst way than most.

‘Not an animal,’ he thought to himself as he reached into the chest cavity and touched the wound. ‘Its too clean… but I doubt there is anything this far North sharp enough to slice through her this easily.’ It would take well made castle steel to do that kind of damage. ‘And its not from any blade I’ve seen.’ All weapons left a mark; he’d learned that when he’d studied to become a maester. An axe cut differently than a sword which cut differently from a spear. And different swords and axes would leave marks unique to their design. A sword from the Braavos and the Reach and Dorne would all leave cuts that were vastly different from one another, allowing someone trained to see such things to know exactly what had caused each wound.

And as Adrian stared at the body… he found she had been sliced open by something he’d never seen before.

“There are more of them around,” a voice said, causing him to spin around and tense. There, sitting on a stump, was a man with dark hair, his head turned so Adrian could only see him in profile. “All under the snow. What killed them… likes to hide the evidence. Wildlings keep coming here, seeking refuge. So they wander in and don’t realize that the dead are all around them.” The man glanced at him. “Same with you, I imagine.”

Adrian took a step forward. “And what, exactly, killed them?”

The man turned to reveal that his left eye was just an empty socket.

“Me.”

And with that red goo suddenly burst from the hole in his face.

He let out a sound that was half scream and half laugh as the tendrils rushed out of the socket, ripping and tearing at his flesh like spider legs made of metal. More organic spikes shot out of his skin before collapsing, covering him as he rose up, body rapidly gaining another foot or two in height; it was hard to tell with the way the man was lurched forward. His face seemed to twist in on itself with a sickening wet sound, teeth and bits of skull rolling like the world’s most vile flower blooming. Finally from the figure’s back burst several larger tendrils, each one ending in a sharp point. The end result was a creature that looked like a flayed demon that leered at Adrian.

“...you don’t seem that SHOCKED by all this!” the creature said in a high pitch cackle as it took a step forward. “Normally people are screaming and shrieking when they see me!” He began to prowl around Adrian, his wide toothy smile stretching all the further as he looked Adrian up and down with consideration. “I can’t decide how I feel about this! ON one hand I so do LOVE the screams they make when they see me… almost as wonderful as when they begin begging for their lives only for their whimpering to turn into cries of agonizing pain!” He let out a long deranged laugh at that. “But on the other hand… it is so nice to be able to think without having to deal with their mewling! Allows me to hear my own thoughts!”

He paused, tilting his head.

“Huh. I want to hear you scream.” He took another step towards Adrian, who remained in place. He held out his right arm and his fingers merged together before stretching into a long red ax head, far larger than any that had ever been made. Even the Mountain would have had trouble lifting up an axe that large. But the massive red creature before him merely cackled and turned his left hand into a sickle. “But I have to ask… why aren’t you trembling in terror?”

“I’ve led an interesting life,” he said before he fully unfurled his wings and launching himself into the air.

That caused the demon to laugh. “Oh! Oh this is good! You might actually make me work up a sweat!” With that the tendrils on his back sprouted smaller spines that he began to fire at Adrian. He dove down and past a building, hearing the spikes tear through the wood as the creature tried to bring him down. He caught out of the corner of his eye one of them drive through the wood, the hooks at the end clearly designed to rip and tear if one tries to yank them out. “Yes! Yes!” he cheered, growing more excited. “Keep it up! But just remember… no matter how hard you try the ending will be the same as it was for everyone else! CARNAGE!”

“So that means for you your ending will be a bloody death!” Adrian snapped as he flew up high before diving down with the Northern sun at his back. While it might have been a weak light it was still enough to blind the demon below him, allowing him to twist his wings around him as he went into a corkscrew, feathers tearing and slashing into the flayed creature. Twisting around he saw that he had hacked off several large chunks of the demon, leaving him with a hole in his side just smaller than a wine barrel.

The demon just looking down at the wound before throwing back his head and letting out a shrieking laugh, the bits of him that had fallen off reduced to puddles of hissing red goop while more tendrils, thin like thread and ending in red hooks, launched out from the wound and began to pull at his flesh, forcefully dragging and stretching it all until the wound was completely resealed.

“Now you’re catching on!” he said before, with inhuman speed, he rushed as Adrian, swinging his left hand right at his head. His wings at once wrapped around him, forming a hard shell that blocked the blows. Adrian crossed his arms over his face, the sound of the blades scraping and scratching at his wings filling the air. “Oh, I do love treats like this! Crunching on the outside, soft and screaming on the inside!”

Red tendrils began to appear through the cracks and crevices between his feathers, expanding out and slowly forcing the wings apart. Thickening, working their way in further… and growing sharper and spikier as the demon realized he could just pierce Adrian right there in his shell.

Anyone else would have struggled, trying to squeeze the feathers tighter, fought desperately to keep him out.

Adrian though did what he always did in his life.

He went left when all others went right.

“Well…” the demon said in surprise when the wings suddenly opened wide, causing him to stumble slightly when he found the force he was applying wasn’t actually needed. Adrian let out a weak pant, dropping his head.“That-“

Adrian slammed the wings shut right as the creature reached to grab him, slicing its hand off at the wrist. The demon let out a scream but Adrian was already moving, shooting himself up into the air, kicking up a plume of snow to blind the bastard.

“That hurt!” the demon cried out, looking at his stump… before regrowing his hand. “Oh, can I have another father?” He turned his hands into whips and struck them hard against the snow, sending up his own clouds of white. Adrian frowned, wondering what he was doing… only for his eyes to go wide when he saw a corpse come flying at him from the cloud. He lashed out with his wings, cutting it in half, causing old blood and bile to splatter all over him as he did so. “Heard Ser Gregor Clegane did this fighting the Iron Man! Of course the ones he was throwing were alive… I would have kept some kicking if I knew you’d be showing up!” He hurled two more but Adrian just dodged them, rising a bit higher. “Come now pretty bird, why don’t you want to be near your Nuncle Carnage!?!”

“You’re welcome to come up here,” he called down, really hoping the bastard couldn’t fly.

“Up, down, side to side… it doesn’t matter! I will still tear you into pieces! Just up to you and how annoyed I am just how alive you are when I do it!”

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to interject,” Ultron said from Adrian’s right. His helm was up, covering his face, and the leering opening of the helm that looked so much like the red demon’s own smile glowed before he fired a beam of raw energy that struck Carnage right in the shoulder. The creature let out a howl of pain, falling to the ground and writhing as Ultron continued to blast him. The flesh of his form bubbled and popped before retracting to reveal the man Adrian had been dealing with before. “Come down, Adrian… he won’t be a problem anymore.”

“I’ll show you a problem-“ Carnage snarled only for Ultron to blast him again, causing him to cry out in agony.

“Interesting… it seems that my energy blasts are able to harm him far more than they would a human. I suppose whatever he’s bonded with is weak to it.”

“Bonded?” Adrian asked, watching as Carnage tried to claw his way towards them. He wasn’t getting that far though, seeing as he could only move one arm well at the moment.

“There are two of them sharing one body. Euron Greyjoy and… whatever it is that allows him to do what he does.”

“Euron… the fucking Crow’s Eye?” Adrian twisted and glared at Ultron. “You want to fucking recruit the Crow’s Eye!”

“Yes, I do,” Ultron said. “He has talents.”

“He’s a psychopath.”

That made Ultron laugh. “Oh, who isn’t!” He moved towards Greyjoy, tilting his head in consideration. “But even the deranged have their uses.” He squatted down, hands wresting on his knees. “Tell me… what is it you long for?”

“To tear you to shreds!” Euron snarled, tendrils bursting from his right palm and striking Ultron in the chest.

There was soft ‘tonk’ and then nothing. Even Euron seemed confused by the lack of… anything.

“Beyond that,” Ultron said with a casual sigh, like he was talking to a mutton-headed field hand. He lightly brushed his hand over his chest, forcing Euron to retract the tendrils back into his body. “Come on now, there must be something else you desire. Something beyond the here and now. I’ve heard all about you, Euron Greyjoy… and seen even more during my brief… sleep.” He chuckled at that. “The most skilled tactical mind the Iron Islands ever produced. Had you any sense of loyalty to the Dragons or the Stags… and they any common sense… you would have been made Master of Ships and helped them bring about a new age of brutal command of the seas. You thought twelve steps ahead. You even managed to stay a step ahead of Thanos.”

Adrian frowned. ‘Thanos… Natasha mentioned that name…’ His eyes went wide as he suddenly remembered when she had used that name… and how pale she had gotten when discussing the Night’s King. ‘He has dealt with Thanos!?’ He stared at the man on the ground and felt his blood freezing in his veins. ‘What is he getting us into?!?’ He mentally screamed as his gaze turned towards Ultron.

“Even this village… though small and barely meaning anything… shows you know how to plan! How to come up with a strategy to get what you want! Yet… I can’t believe all you want is to cackle as you kill a few wildlings who would have died anyway.”

“Do not dismiss my work!” Euron snarled, lifting up his head and narrowing his one remaining eye. “I am learning the secrets of death in ways that Thanos will never understand!”

That made Ultron laugh again. “The secrets of death? That’s what you want?” His helm split and folded, revealing his ghostly features. “Is that all?”

Euron stared at him for a LONG time, mouth opening and closing without any words passing through his lips. Finally, like a pilgrim having encountered one of the Seven, he raised his hand up and touched Ultron’s shoulder.

“…how?” he whispered.

Ultron smiled. “Join me and I will tell you all I’ve seen. What lies beyond. All I ask is one thing.”

“And that is?”

“The brutal deaths of my enemies… the Lannisters, the Baratheons, the Arryns, the Starks-“

At once Euron had his head pressed to the ground. “My king,” he whispered, though a mad giggle bubbled up from his lips.

Ultron nodded at that. “Very good. Prepare yourself… we make for my ship.” He paused. “Don’t kill the crew until they aren’t needed anymore. Otherwise you’ll answer to me.” Euron lifted his head and quickly nodded, sprinting off to… somewhere, Adrian didn’t know. He looked at Ultron who rose up and let out a sigh of disappointment. “He is not the man I was hoping for.”

“He’s insane.”

“Very much so,” Ultron admitted grimly. “And far worse than he was before. There was always madness in Euron Greyjoy but it was controlled by a will of steel. Others might have believed he was a creature of whim but I saw that he had a plan for everything. He restrained himself… did not allow his actions to be governed by flights of fancy. For as depraved and wild as he could seem he was a genius. Almost as smart as I. But now…” He shook his head. “The creature he has bonded with… that hasn’t helped with his mind. It is cracking like glass and soon it will shatter. You saw it in your fight, yes?”

“He was too wild with his attacks. He flailed about like a child trying to fight against their nursemaid.”

“Exactly. There were brief glimpses of skill but… the power of that creature… it is addictive and Euron does little to try and fight the cravings.”

“Then why are we bringing him with us?” Adrian asked. “He is a liability.”

“One I have proven I can destroy easily,” Ultron retorted, amused. “Do not doubt that if it had merely you here delivering my message he would still be trying to kill you. But… he knows of MY power. And power must respect power.”

“I don’t like it,” Adrian said softly. “He is a sword with cracks and rust.”

“Indeed. But even the broken have their uses, I have found. Euron, Carnage, whatever he wishes to call himself… he can still serve a purpose. As part of my Small Council-“

“The Small Council?” Adrian asked in shock as Ultron began to walk towards the edge of the village, clearly expecting Euron to find them.

“My maester,” Ultron replied. “My wise council in the ways of death and pain. He is an artist in such things. Or perhaps my Setpon. That might be better. The leader of the new Faith: glory to me… death to the rest.”

Adrian didn’t like that… didn’t like that at all. It was madness to believe that Euron Greyjoy could be of any use to them and putting him on the Small Council…

“Adrian?” Ultron said, turning towards him… and allowing his helm to form once more around his head. “You are my Hand. You advise me. You tell me what I need to hear, good and bad.” Though he could no longer see his face Adrian could tell from his tone however that he was glaring at him. “But never contradict me in front of another again.”

“Understood, your grace,” Adrian said at once, feel the energy welling up in Ultron and knowing that if the king attacked he would die.

And then it was gone and Ultron chuckled. “You did well… very well! Far better than I expected! I thought I’d need to rescue you but you held your own. I am proud that you are my Hand.” He clapped his hand on Adrian’s shoulder and the man of the Tombs forced himself not to wince. “We are going to do marvelous things together.”

Adrian knew that to be true.

He just wondered, with the likes of Carnage, if Westeros would survive such marvelous things.

Chapter Text

Catelyn

Despite the years that she had spent in Winterfell whenever Catelyn thought of home her mind would always drift to Riverrun.

Oh, Ned had done all he could to make her feel welcomed in Winterfell. Brought plenty of servants from the Riverlands to attend her. Made sure the meals during those first few years had always included plenty of dishes that she was familiar with. The creation of the Sept within Winterfell. He had been careful to shield her from the more foreign and strange of Northern customs. The ‘Fight Nights’ that the guards and people of Wintertown would participate in were moved out of the main courtyard of Winterfell and into Wintertown, with Ned not presiding over them… or taking part in them as his father had as a young man or Brandon as well.

Catelyn would always be grateful for that. Thankful that he had done all he could to protect her and ensure that she was able to ease her way into the life she now led in Winterfell. And if she were honest with herself, especially now having seen Brandon again and been able to remove the blurriness that came with age and memory, she knew that Brandon wouldn’t have done all that Ned had done. He would have demanded that Catelyn either accept his ways or set herself aside.

(Sometimes she wondered if it wouldn’t have been better if Ned had done that. Forced her to adapt to the North rather than allowing her to cling to much of her Southern ways. While she wasn’t sure she would have managed… she couldn’t help but wonder how many of their problems would be gone if she had been forced to choose.)

No, when Catelyn thought of home she thought of Riverrun.

It was a place of so many good memories. Wonderful memories. Where all was right in the world and nothing bad could ever happen.

‘Are you sure of that? Are you truly sure? Your mother died trying to give your father another son that he could use as part of his grand scheme to gain more power in Westeros. He could never handle that he was allied with the Arryns, the Starks, the Lannisters, and the Targaryans… all of King’s Blood save for him, the blood of slaves.’

Where she had been able to play and dance in her youth and as a woman did her duty and helped her father manage their holdings.

‘You enjoyed the power you held. Loved when men would whisper that you were the true ruler of Riverrun even as you did all you could to claim that you had no desire for such a thing. You thought that you deserved it as first born and cursed your gender for seeing you bypassed for a squawking infant that spent his days sticking his toes in his mouth.’

He father showing how a man truly should rule, with a hand held out to all but the other clenched, ready to strike down any that might threaten his home.

‘Even if they were within. You heard his murmurs as you and Ned past through… it was not you he forced the moon tea upon. Family, Duty, and Honor are misordered… family always came last for him if they stained his honor or prevented him from his chosen duties. It is why your brother has been allowed to gallivanted about, learning nothing to rule even as your father grows weaker… he wrote him off long ago. He never wanted to be a father, he did so only because it was expected of him.’

Lysa happily trailing after her, asking a thousand questions and dreaming of her fairy tales and her songs, of how she would have her handsome prince that would take her to a land where it was always spring.

‘And you allowed her to hold onto those delusions even though you knew your father was seeking to sell her off to whoever he could manage. Lord Tywin thought her insipid and tried to change the deal, to give you to Jaime Lannister and have Brandon deal with Lysa…  but the contract had been made and your father feared the rage of Rickard Stark. So Lysa went to Jon Arryn… to a cold and barren rock where her dreams became bitter delusions.’

Her baby brother Edmure, clinging to her skirt tails as she moved about the castle, watching her with wide eyes. Such a good little boy, following her orders, obeying her when she gave him commands. Always listening to her.

‘You were his mother in all but name and when you left he didn’t understand what was happening. He went from you guiding his every action to being all alone, left with a father who was more focused on currying favor with Robert Baratheon than showing his son how to properly rule. Edmure noticed who your father cared for the most… why else would it be that now the only skirts he clings to are those of barmaids, the only ones his wide eyes have sights on are whores?’

And it wasn’t just her family either. She remembered fondly the others of her childhood. The Blackfish, who always told her such interesting stories of his travels.

‘Your father sought to force him into a marriage for political gain to a woman he didn’t desire. Drove away his own blood for his ambitions. And what did that gain him? Your son will be king but through Eddard’s actions, not your father’s. Riverrun will be an honored bannerman of the King In The North but within a generation their importance will be forgotten. They will be no different than any of the other Southern lords. And the Blackfish’s marriage would have amounted to little… and it cost him greatly.’

Brandon, so strong and powerful, getting the cheers of those around him. He had met her so gallantly, so unlike the Northern Lords she had heard about from her septa.

‘And Drax proves that was a mask. He would have fathered a hundred bastards and would have tossed you aside the moment you tried to correct him. He would have been another Robert and you another Cersei, trapped forever upon your seats, hatred the only chain to bind you two.’

Oh, and she couldn’t forget little Petyr. Her dear friend who she and Lysa had played kissing games with and who had been so eager to help her with any of her tasks.

‘Whose obsession turned to madness and then into dark jealousy. Your lord husband nearly died because of him. He got Brandon murdered and threw the realm into war. A vile little boy who was allowed to do as he wished because you refused to see just what he was! Just as you refuse now to see the world around you!’

Catelyn stopped, looking about her. “Stop saying those things.”

‘No,’ the voice called out, sharp like the shrill cry of the morning bird.

She looked about wildly, trying to find the source of the noise. But all she saw was fire. The flames rose up around her and over her, trapping her in a cage of burning and she knew if she touched the bars that she would burn too. “Why are you saying these things?” she demanded.

The flames suddenly moved to close in around her, causing Catelyn to shrink and curl in on herself. And from them emerged a great bird’s head, eyes glowing with yellow fires that melted all the barriers around her soul and the delusions she had tried to build up around herself about her life and all that had come before.

‘Because you have been asleep for far too long, Catelyn Stark! It is time for you to WAKE UP!’

“CAT!”

Her eyes snapped open and she panted hard as she looked about to find Ned next to her, gripping her arms tight. She looked about wildly, heart slamming in her chest so violently that it was making her dizzy. Catelyn vaguely realized they were both naked but that wasn’t much of a surprise; only the very old would wear clothing, even in the North, when going to bed. But she wasn’t under the covers. She was  standing on the cold floor, far from the bed…

…next to the raging hearth, hands extended towards the flames.

“Ned?” she got out, voice as fragile as a baby bird.  “What… what is…”

There was a knock on the door and Catelyn turned to it, suddenly aware of her nakedness. That realization, the venerable position she was in, snapped her out of the last traces of confusion and had her spinning around, pressing herself against Ned in an attempt to hide herself before someone came in. Ned wrapped his arms around her, making Catelyn realize just how large he was when compared to her.

‘He’s gained muscle,’ she thought to herself. ‘He was like Robert but he had gotten a bit softer in the last few years… but no more. He might be even larger than he was during the rebellion.

“Your grace?” Maester Luwin called out and Catelyn relaxed a touch. “Might we enter?”

“Just you at the moment, Maester Luwin,” Ned called out. “We aren’t… decent.”

“Of course, your grace,” Luwin said and after a moment the maester entered, walking over to the two of them. Catelyn relaxed more once the door was shut; Luwin was different from all others. He had brought all but Robb into the world, seeing her in ways even Ned never would. Finally letting go of Ned she made to walk over and grab her robe… only to find Ned refusing to let her go.

“Ned?”

“Maester Luwin, would you mind?” He nodded towards the robes that were close at hand. Despite it not being the task of a maester the old man nodded and walked over to the robes, bringing them over and slipping one over Catelyn’s shoulders. It was only when Maester Luwin was behind her that Ned let her go, donning his own robe and moving to grab a pair of breeches, yanking them on before hurrying back over to her and, to her shock, hefting her up into his arms so that one arm was supporting her legs and the other was just under her arms.

“Ned!” she exclaimed in shock. “Put me down!”

“No,” he rumbled.

“Ned!”

But rather than respond Ned instead called out “ENTER!” and Catelyn watched in surprise as an entire troop of people came into the room. There were Robb and Roslin, both looking rather tense but also probably the most fully dressed. Rickon was wearing only a pair of breeches while Ser Rodrik entered looking stern and grim. Shireen Baratheon, wearing breeches herself as was her style, easily darted around the others despite her greater height while Jane Seaworth followed in her path. Catelyn’s maid Moyra was allowed a path to her, at once moving to the bed were Ned had sat down… while refusing to release Catelyn, much to her irritation. Finally there was the click-click-click of nails and Catelyn saw Sansa dart into the room, moving past the others to come to rest near Catelyn. She knew that Sansa was using the fact that she looked like a dog to be able to come to her first but she honestly didn’t mind, reaching out and running her hand along her head.

“Ned… please…” Catelyn pleaded. “I can sit on my own!”

“No,” he repeated before looking at Maester Luwin. “Look her over now… I have her.”

“What is going on?” Catelyn asked. “I was sleep walking… it is a thing that happens.” Admittedly, she mentally added, she had never done it herself but that meant little.

Ned looked at her even as Maester Luwin began to examine her, running his hands along her throat and up long the sides of her face before pulling open one of her eyes. “Cat… we’ve been attempting to do this for 2 hours.”

“…what?” she asked, unable to comprehend just what Ned was saying.

“It is the Hour of the Nightengale,” Ned informed her. “At the Hour of the Eel I awoke to find you building the fire in the Hearth. I attempted repeatedly to awaken you and several times seemed to bring you out of whatever… trance… you were in, only for you to rush back to the hearth and the flames.” She turned towards him to… to refute or dismiss his comments only to notice finally that one of his eyes was blackened and there were cuts along his cheeks and his chest. “Aye,” he said, “you fought hard when I restrained you. It is why some many are here… we were all concerned Cat.”

“By the Gods,” Catelyn whispered, truly taking him in. It looked like he’d tried to capture a rabid cat!

“We’ll need to spar, Father,” Robb said, a bit too lightly in her opinion. “Earlier the better… people will talk if they see you wounded but if it was done by your heir…”

Ned considered that for a moment. “Aye,” he finally said, “aye… that would be fine. There is no shame in one’s son getting a lucky hit in.”

“Lucky!?!?” Venom snarled, bursting up from Robb’s shoulder. “There is nothing lucky about Robb! His skill is beyond you all! Give him another black eye, Robb!”

“I’ve seen the wonders of Asgard and I will still never get used to that…” Jane muttered.

“I don’t know why you need to do the spar,” Rickon said, rubbing his chin. “Just tell everyone you and mother were having passionate sex.”

“RICKON!” Robb shouted, Sansa whipping around and snarling at her brother. “Those are our parents!”

“And they have fucked far more than five times,” Rickon replied with a shrug. “Father is still a virile man and mother is very attractive.”

“By the gods,” Robb complained while Catelyn watched the entire thing with a detached sense of horror. It was like seeing a boat heading towards a waterfall, where you knew it was doomed but still couldn’t look away.

“Come now, you should be pleased. Roslin is a very attractive woman and will want her needs met often. Mother and Father are proof you will be able to do so.” He gestured at her and Ned, Catelyn knowing she should be angry at her son but honestly was more embarrassed than anything else. “Admittedly you two are already rather active.”

Robb’s eyebrow twitched. “Have… have you been spying on us, little brother?”

“What? No!” Rickon complained. “The walls just aren’t as thick as you two think.”

Sansa let out a ‘woof’.

“Exactly,” Rickon said with a grin. He looked over at Shireen. “You know… based on my grandfather, father, and brother… I will probably be rather virile as well.”

Shireen merely looked down at Rickon, eyes narrowed. “I suppose some traits don’t breed true in all members of a family.”

Catelyn winced at that then made a mental note that one of them HAD to talk to Rickon about how to properly court a woman.

“Her grace appears to be out of whatever overtook her,” Maester Luwin stated. “You may all return to your bed chambers.”

“Do they have to be our own?” Rickon asked even as Shireen twisted on her heels and marched out, reminding Catelyn once again she was Stannis Baratheon’s daughter. “I’m just saying we’re all wide awake…”

“Father, I will see you in an hour in the yard,” Robb called out, leading Roslin away.

“Three black eyes!” Venom shouted as they left. “I don’t know how but we will figure it out!”

That seemed to be the cue for everyone to leave the room, until it was only her, Ned, Maester Luwin, Moyra… and Jane, which confused her. It clearly was odd to the men because they looked at the woman who merely shook her head and smiled.

“Maester Luwin, take his grace to be patched up. I think Catelyn could do with someone to talk to.”

Ned glanced at her but Catelyn merely nodded. “I think I would Ned… I am awake now so I think we have nothing to fear.” She looked to Moyra who had moved to the hearth, shifting some of the logs so that the fire didn’t burn so hot. While she did prefer their rooms to be warmer than Ned desired the blaze she had started in her sleep had made it near unbearable. Even the thin robe she was wearing was too warm for the heat. “It would be cruel to Maester Luwin to force him to remain in here… go with him and I will see you soon.”

Ned considered her for a long moment before finally nodding, getting up and following after Luwin with a promise to send someone to retrieve his clothing for him.

Once the door was shut Catelyn turned to Jane and sighed. She hadn’t spent much time with the woman since she’d arrived; Jane tended to spend her time with Shireen and if not with them she was with some of the Guardians, as Rickon’s group had taken to calling themselves. It was rather common to find Jane in the late evenings sparring with Gamora (sometimes it was easier for Catelyn to think of the woman not as Lyanna Stark), the two of them going at each other with knives and daggers, their movements so quick that their limbs were a blur. And if she weren’t with any of them she was with Ned in his solar, going over maps and explaining the strengths and weaknesses of the Stormlands and the Crownlands. From what little she had seen the woman was polite… if a bit critical of magic and the like. More than once she’d seen Yondu walk by, grumbling under his breath about Jane’s pestering of him.

 “I apologize for Rickon… I will speak with him again about how he talked around others. I am afraid that my husband’s family has trained him well in battle but not how to talk around  others-“

Jane waved off her apology. “It is fine Catelyn-“

“Your grace,” Moyra said firmly, cutting in.

“Yes?” Cat asked.

But her maid shook her head. “No… I was speaking to Jane. You should address her as ‘your grace’.”

“Ah, yes,” Jane said and Catelyn caught the flinty look in her eye. “All those titles… so important.” And suddenly she seemed to be so much larger than she had been moments earlier, sitting up straighter and locking eyes with Moyra. “For example, I am Princess Jane Seaworth Lokidotter, daughter of Loki Odinson, crowned prince of Asgard. When my father passes I will be Queen Jane, Allmother and ruler of Asgard. Not a kingdom. The entire REALM of Asgard. The current king, the Allfather Odin Borsson, is the father of my husband, Prince Thor Odinson. The Thunderer. I am the adopted mother of Shireen Stannisdotter, Queen of the Valkyrie.”

Catelyn swore she heard the rumble of a storm overhead. Not in the sky… in the room they were sitting in.

“Titles… are important?”

Moyra ducked her head and set about cleaning and organizing the room.

Jane turned to Catelyn once again, a smile once more on her face that was kind and warm. “As for your apology there is no need for it. I am married to Thor and that man simply speaks his mind all the time. I am quite used to it.”

Catelyn pressed her lips together at that, shifting slightly and tugging at her robe. “It is… so very odd… to hear you talk of The Warrior that way.” Shireen had been rather open about how her adopted father was part of the ‘Faith of the Seven’. Catelyn might not have believed that had Shireen not unfurled her wings and shown her ability to call for lightning… and bring out shades of the dead. Winterfell’s Septon, Orys, had been left in utter fits, locking himself away in the Sept to try and deal with the information.

It had been another blow after countless blows, not helped by Shireen demanding rather firmly that she not be worshiped. Catelyn had tried to bow to her, the mortal made a god, but Shireen had commanded her to never do that again and in fact treat her as she would anyone else.

Which only proved her holy state for she demanded of humans that which was, in Catelyn’s opinion, an impossibility.

“Or the Smith,” Jane said with a teasing smile. “You must remember that there are far more than seven in Asgard. All of you merely took the pieces you remembered of their journeys here and slotted them together to create the Seven.”

“But your husband… he is a god?”

“He is a long lived man who can control storms, yes,” Jane stated. “But there is a clear and easily understood explanation for that.”

“…which is?”

Jane’s smile faltered. “When I figure it out I’ll tell you,” she muttered, reminding Catelyn very much of Arya when she was forced to admit she had done something wrong. “But he isn’t a god as you would consider it. They don’t hear your prayers.” She suddenly snapped her mouth shut, grimacing. “I am sorry… that came out far more rude than I wished it to.”

Catelyn forced herself to nod. She wanted to be upset but… again… Jane was married to The Warrior so she had the right to say what she did. More than any other person in Westeros she understood the Seven and what they could and couldn’t do. But it was still a bitter blow that all her years praying in the Sept, lighting candles, asking for aid and guidance… had been for nothing. The gods had never heard her prayers for Ned to return home safe from the wars. For her children to make it through their births and be healthy. That the North stay strong.

‘I suppose though that all people pray for such things. It is said that Shireen’s mother Seylse prayed every day to bring a boy into the world. I found Lysa in the Sept when word of her marriage to Jon Arryn was heard. All prayed… and their prayers weren’t answered.

“I know many take comfort in the gods,” Jane continued, clearly trying to offer some comfort to Catelyn after her unintentionally cruel words, “believing they are up there, deciding out fates. I just find it more comforting to know that they aren’t doing that.” Catelyn merely stared at her and Jane gave a helpless shrug. “It means our mistakes and our successes are our own. They aren’t the work of others who place blessings or damnations on us. When we make a mistake we don’t need to worry that it will be the gods smiting us that will see us punished. Rather it will simply be those around us… which, in my opinion at least, is far better than some force I have never met and can’t understand deciding what is and isn’t right and fair.”

Catelyn considered that for a long moment before she finally nodded. “Yes… I suppose so.” She didn’t know if she’d be able to give up easily the things that had been engrained in her since she could speak. The prayers. The worship. The belief. Yet… there was a comfort to know that what had happened to her children wasn’t the work of some god that was tormenting her because of minor crimes. That rather it was merely cruel twists of fate.

And yet…

“Perhaps… not the gods,” she said quietly, “but there are things I have done that have harmed my family. Punishments not because of a god but because of others around me, punishing them for my actions.” She let out a soft sigh. “Ned nearly died because I convinced him to trust the wrong man.”

“Baelish,” Jane stated and Catelyn looked up at her, surprised and yet in the same instance not that Jane knew of that little tale. “I never cared for that man. He thought he was smarter and more charming than he ever truly was.”

“I forget sometimes that you spent years so close to King’s Landing.”

“Just under a decade,” Jane stated. “I was brought to care for Shireen when she was just a babe, after the grayscale incident. Her father felt that she needed a protector and that the others in his employ had failed in that matter. Lord Stannis… I don’t think he ever truly forgave himself for being at court and his family at Dragonstone , so he wanted to do right by her. My father was his trusted aid and advisor and Lord… King… bah, its hard to decide his titles anymore. Stannis. Stannis knew I would be a good match for Shireen. But yes… there were plenty of times we went to the Capital to see him and I got to meet all of the Small Council and the Royal Family.

“Cersei was cold, though that might be my fault considering I staged it so Robert believed Joffrey had tried to attack Shireen with a knife.” Catelyn’s eyes widened at that but Jane merely flashed a dark smirk. “He was mocking and tormenting her… that was never going to stand. But Pycelle liked to look at me for far too long and I swear only shuffled so I was ahead of him and thus allowed him to look at my arse. Varys hid things, which I’m sure your husband has told you. Renly… I always got the sense that Renly was trying to pretend to be something he wasn’t. It must have been tiresome. Slant was a corrupt little fool, always boasting about how powerful he was.

“But Baelish? Baelish liked to claim the mockingbird was his sigil and others called him a weasel. I rather thought of him as a scorpion.” She paused, glancing at Catelyn, clearly gauging her mood.  “Have you ever heard of the Dornish tale of the scorpion and the frog?”

“I can’t say I have,” Catelyn admitted, though she had a bad feeling that she would not enjoy it.

“Once there was a great river, fat and full because of recent rains. And upon one bank was a frog, looking to get across. Doing so wasn’t a problem at all for the frog; it was something that it had done a million times and would do a million times after that day. But just before it leapt into the waters the frog heard a voice call out to it.

“’Frog, might you help me?’ a scorpion asked, skittering over to him. ‘I need to cross the river but I can’t swim.’

“The Frog considered the Scorpion. ‘I know of you, Scorpion,’ he said. ‘Your sting is deadly. Just the smallest of pricks can kill a man easily and I am much smaller than them.’

“The Scorpion though shook his head. ‘I will be on your back, Frog. If I sting you we will both drown.’

“The Frog thought that over. All the other animals were leery of the Scorpion, knowing the danger he brought… but the Frog saw the logic in the Scorpion’s comment and finally nodded his head. ‘I will jump into the water though,’ the Frog warned the Scorpion, ‘and you will need to jump on my back. And when we are near the shoreline you will need to jump off as well.’ The Scorpion agreed and the Frog was rather pleased with himself; he had thought of everything!

“And so the Frog leapt into the water and the Scorpion jumped onto the Frog’s back. And the Frog carefully began to paddle across the river, not wanted to splash the Scorpion too much. They were halfway across when the Frog felt a terrible burning pain and turned to see the Scorpion had stung him on the leg. Already the Frog’s muscles began to lock up as the pain overtook him, making him thrash.

“’Why?’ the Frog asked as they began to sink, the Scorpion also struggling to swim. ‘You will die too! Why did you sting me?’

“’It’s my nature,’ the Scorpion said simply.”

Catelyn swallowed that. Yes… she could see that as a story the Dornish told to their children.

“Every single person in King’s Landing believed they were the sole one who had gained Baelish’s loyalty. That he would lie and scheme against everyone else… but not them. Never them. Maybe they had a friendship with him that only the two of them understood… a shared interest or a moment of bonding. Maybe they had done him a favor and they thought that meant he was in their debt. Maybe they simply believed that they had looked deep within him and found the human being.

“Jon Arryn believed because he’d known him since he’d run Gulltown that he understood the man. Robert looked down on anyone that couldn’t swing a sword and believed them to be weak and thus dismissed them outright… and the fact that Baelish kept giving him gold helped. Cersei thought that she controlled everyone, not just him. Renly and him would spare but he thought it a delightful game. Same with Varys. Everyone thought they understood him. Could use him. And would allow him to ride their backs as they went across the river.”

Catelyn pressed her lips together. ‘I thought the same way,’ she chastised herself. ‘I told Ned to trust Petyr… that he was my friend and would help me. Despite him doing this to clearly mock us all I kept making excuses. Had… had he helped take Ned’s head would I have still made excuses for him? Allowed our childhood together to color my thoughts? Dismiss his actions as merely Petyr being Petyr? Saw the boy he was… instead of the man he’d become? Was he ever that boy?’

Jane looked at Catelyn, wiggling her jaw back and forth. “I… know he was your friend. Or at the very least that is how you saw him. But I’m afraid I can’t agree with that assessment.”

“What he did to Ned… how it resulted in what befell Sansa-“

“No, I’m not referring to that,” Jane said.

But she didn’t continue on.

“What?” Catelyn asked, prodding her verbally to speak. “What is it?”

“Do you know the stories he tells about you?” he asked. “Do you truly know?”

“Ned heard… whispers,” Catelyn said, grimacing in remembrance of the things Ned had shouted at her during their last fight. “That Petyr claimed to have taken my maidenhead-“

“You’re being too kind,” Jane stated flatly. “Years ago, when I first entered into Stannis’ employ, Baelish tried to get me to become his spy. He invited me to a dinner he claimed would have many but was just himself. Whether he thought I would spread my legs for him just because my father had only just recently gained his title and I had been born a common girl with no family name, I don’t know. But he wanted to… impress me I suppose is the best word. He told me how skilled he was as a lover. That he had taken both you and your sister at the same time. That before he had been forced from Riverrun you had gone to his chambers and begged him to put a baby in you. That while Ned was off to war… he had done just that.”

Catelyn’s eyes widened in horror.

“Yes… he claimed Robb was his bastard.”

She clenched her hand hard, feeling the scars the Valyrian Steel Knife had left on her hands ache in protest. She didn’t care though. She savored the pain.

“I never-“

Jane held up her hand. “I know,” she assured her. “I know. Baelish was a liar of the highest standing. He eagerly claimed many things, all of them lies. Sometimes I wonder if he even began to believe his own tales.”

‘Petyr… how could you do such a thing?’ Catelyn thought in disgust and horror. ‘Deny Robb his birthright… and endanger the rest of my children?’ If there was even a small amount of doubt that she’d given Ned horns it would be in his right to set aside her and all their children. The people would believe him… while Sansa had the most Southern of looks Robb, Bran, and Rickon all favored her more than Ned. Arya… well, perhaps he would claim Arya in such a scenario, or state she was a bastard born of some servant from the North. But Ned would set them all aside and take another wife or have Jon legitimized and…

She shook her head.

‘No one would believe Petyr’s lies,’ she reminded herself. ‘Not after all he did to us. His betrayals. His lies. His tying himself to the Lannisters…’

Catelyn’s brow furrowed.

Why then… was she defending him herself?

“-duel with Brandon. It is ridiculous.”

“What?” Catelyn said, realizing she’d zoned out.

“The tales he tells of his duel with Brandon Stark… they seemed to get more outlandish every year. I spoke with Drax and-“

“What does Petyr claim?” Catelyn asked, dread filling her.

Jane frowned, clearly realizing she may have stepped into another thorny situation. But it was too late for her to back out of it and thus had to forge on. “Well… he challenged Brandon for your hand, for it was clear that both of you were only going through with the wedding because it was your duty.”

“Of course it was our duty,” Catelyn stated with a scoff. “But that didn’t mean I couldn’t see myself loving Brandon.” Mentally she added, however, ‘But no longer. Even if the Child of the Forest Brandon joined with caused a shift in his personality there is still enough of Brandon in Drax for me to see… well, the tales the servants told, of how he earned the name The Wild Wolf, show that I would never have been happy in a marriage with him.’

“Baelish arrived in just a helm, breastplate, and mail, while Brandon, in a need to be dramatic, donned full armor-“

“He most certainly did not!” Cat proclaimed. “If anything it was the opposite. Brandon had thought that Petyr merely wanted to spar and made the claim for my hand because he was… playing a joke on him or was too shy to openly admit he wanted to test his sword against Brandon. He was still one of the best swordsmen the North had ever produced, after all, and did not have to duel anyone who merely asked. A reason needed to be given.” She shook her head. “Brandon arrived in just leathers, along with blunted swords. Petyr was there in mail and helm and plate and he threw a fit that Brandon wasn’t taking the duel seriously.”

“Yes, I could see his pride being wounded that Brandon wasn’t taking the duel seriously,” Jane said diplomatically.

Catelyn let out a frustrated sigh. “What else?”

“As Brandon removed his armor, attended by your brother Edmure-“ Not quite right, as rather it had been Brandon agreeing to have a bit of armor, complaining that it was a lot of work for a ‘short spar’ which now Catelyn could see would have only fueled Petyr’s anger, “-you went to him and pleaded with tears in your eyes for him to spar Petyr’s life.”

“…no,” Catelyn said, with a shake of her head. “The only one I pleaded with was Petyr and that was when he declared they would use true steel for their duel. It was when all of us realized that he was serious. Brandon tried to talk him out of it but Petyr began to mock him, calling him a coward. He probably thought he was going to rile up his wolf’s blood but Brandon… Brandon saw it for what it was.” She dropped her head, shoulders slumping. “What else?”

Jane shifted on the bed. “There isn’t much else to tell, to be honest. He talks about how Brandon toyed with him before finally delivering a blow that proved nearly fatal-“

“He did NO such thing!” Catelyn exclaimed, shocked and scandalized.

Jane nodded. “I always found that part of the story the most false. Petyr always said he had on a breastplate but then Brandon sliced him from shoulder to navel.” She drew her hand drown from the top of her sleeping dress to her hip, cutting across her body. “He was laid up for a month-“

“He caught the flu that had been going around,” Catelyn groused. “Lysa had had it just before him.”

“And when he was healed your father banished him from Riverrun.”

Catelyn shook her head though. “No… it was time for him to return home. Petyr’s father had taken a bad fall while hunting with one of the Freys and the wound turned bad. My father…” she trailed off. “Oh, what does it matter?”

“…it matters because you still call him friend,” Jane stated, rising up. “And now I will take my leave.”

With that she left.

Catelyn sat there for a long time, playing with the edges of her robe, feeling her fingers ache from overworking them.

“Your grace,” Moyra said gently, “would you like to get dressed?”

“There are… many things I would like,” she said hoarsely. “But I suppose that is something I can actually have.”

Chapter Text

Jeor

“Sorry for being late,” he said as he quickly moved into the room, the other members of his… well, fuck no he wouldn’t call it a ‘Small Council’ despite how many times Thorne muttered that’s what they were. Small Councils were for the damn South, not the North. And they were for Kings and that wasn’t what he was either. He was just an old man trying to help his home who’d ended up in a position of power once more.

One he hated.

Jeor had joined the Night’s Watch not merely because he had wanted to do right by Jorah. He remembered how his father had been, having had him so late in life: an old man who ruled from a bed, coughing up blood. How the old man had managed to sire Maege, he’d never know; not that he WANTED to know, even after all these years and maturing as much as he had… some things were still disgusting to think about. But Jeor hadn’t wanted to be like that so when he had begun to feel long in the tooth so he had given up his title and his sword and gone to the Night’s Watch.

Most thought the reason he’d chosen the watch was to ensure that no matter what happened he couldn’t change his mind or be seen as a threat to Jorah’s rule. After all, if Jeor wed a woman and had a son he could be used against Jorah. After his son’s disgrace he had wished that he had done just that. Found some poor girl who wasn’t the most beautiful but was kind and sweet and deserved to be settled for life. Get her to produce a son and then inform her that, so long as she was careful, she could be with whoever she wished, he would accept that. But no… he had joined the Watch. And for a far different reason.

It was his lifelong dream.

Jeor had known since he was 8 years old that he wanted to be a member of the Watch. To stand on the Wall, protecting the North from the threats that lay Beyond the Wall. He had already tasted combat against the wildlings at five, after a raiding party had attacked him and some warriors who were just trying to fish. He had slaughtered one and not flinched. He knew what battle brought. And he had understood what the Watch truly was thanks to a trip to the Wall… he’d claimed it was to support the men up there in his role as Heir of Bear Island but in truth he just wanted to pretend for a while that he was one of them. He wasn’t blind to their faults. How far they had fallen. But much like his First Ranger there was something in his blood that begged to be there. Pleaded and whispered. Every night when he’d gone to bed at Bear Island his dreams hadn’t been filled with endless feasts, grand hunts, or his dear wife’s great bouncing tits.

The Wall had been in his dream. Singing to him. Asking why he wasn’t there.

Jeor had never joined expecting to be Lord Commander. Honestly he had no desire to be Lord Commander either. He had hoped to train the lads in the yard, to find a way to make them better than what they were, to show them that what they were when they came to the Watch no longer mattered and here they could have honor. Become a father to them, someone they could come to with their fears, and help them grow into true brothers of the Watch. When his strength left him he could have then moved to assist the maester… yes, he wasn’t the most scholarly but he could read and write. He could have taken messages and seen to the books.

But Set Alliser had been already made the Master-At-Arms (a shit one at that and Jeor’s greatest regret was that he still hadn’t been able to find a way to move the man to a different position and find someone better to train the Brothers) so Jeor had been prepared to act as a steward. That would have been fine with him as well… he was too old to be a ranger but he knew how to do the tasks that kept Castle Black running. He was willing to empty chamber pots and clean rooms and help other men dress. That didn’t bother him. He had seen himself growing older but serving as a wise council for the next Lord Commander. He had thought it should be Benjen Stark, for the man was young and passionate about the Watch and had been taught how to rule. It would be fitting for the man to be Lord Commander and he at his right.

But then, two days after he’d arrived, before he’d even been able to unpack the meager few belongings he’d brought with him, Lord Commander Qorgyle had died choking on a potato and the Black Brothers had been gathered to select who would rule them. Jeor had stayed quiet, feeling it wasn’t his right to argue for who should be Lord Commander as he had just arrived. And thus he hadn’t been able to stop Benjen from declaring that Jeor should be Lord Commander and all the others rapidly agreeing due to his experience as Lord of Bear Island and defending against the Wildlings…

…fuck it. They had picked him because he was the safest choice that would lead to no fighting and most of them didn’t want the job. Even Thorne had admitted that he’d never want to be Lord Commander as it was a shit job.

He shook himself from his thoughts. ‘Bah, no reason to sob over things long done,’ he thought as he settled into his chair.

“Only a few minutes more,” Othell commented while Alliser merely glowered. The man had always been surly, from what he’d been told, and every year of his life seemed to make him more so. The Rebellion’s victory and Ser Alliser forced to take the Black when he refused to bend the knee. Being unable to become First Ranger due to Benjen holding that spot and thus forced to train the new recruits, something he both loathed and loved for its chance to torment. Sometimes Jeor thought he was bitter he hadn’t died in the womb.

‘And now the Free Folk,’ he thought, already knowing that they’d be in for an argument there.

“Have we heard from Benjen yet?” Jarman asked.

Malladore shook his head. “Too soon. They would have only just arrived within a week or two and a ship needs time to bring the message back.”

“Not like they are in danger,” Othell stated with a smirk. “What with two Others to aid them.”

“An Other and a Wildling with powers,” Alliser muttered. “And she has more reinforcements.”

“Ygritte will not harm Benjen,” Jeor stated. “I know she won’t.”

“Aye, because you are so friendly with them now,” Alliser stated as he shot a glance at the only non-brother in the room. For his part Mance Rayder merely smiled, doing nothing to aggravate the man… which ironically did more TO aggravate him. Jeor noticed that Bowen was nodding his head in agreement though with Alliser’s venom.

‘Damn it all,’ he thought. Alliser and Bowen had been the two that had caused the most problems for him when he’d agreed to allow the Free Folk to cross into the Gift. For Bowen it was a long held hatred; when he had been a young man there had been a lass he had fancied. A beautiful thing, from the way he told it when he was deep in his cups, that he had longed to just dance with. Not even marry. Not even kiss. Just a dance. That would have been good enough for him. But then an ambush had happened to her party on the way to some feast and she had been killed. And though while everyone had claimed it was simply bandits Bowen had held as the iron truth that it was the widlings that had killed her. The story seemed to grow every year; he remembered when he’d first heard it they had captured her and raped her. Just the week before it had been they not only raped her but forced her to carry her child which they then slaughtered in front of her. He imagined that in a year’s time it would be that she had been held prisoner for years and had no arms and legs and produced seven babies that were bled to complete a Wildling Ritual.

‘As for Alliser… the man just needs something to hate,’ he thought to himself.

He didn’t say any of that out loud, of course. Instead he ignored Alliser’s comment which he knew annoyed the man far more than any mocking insult ever could.

“Another issue has arisen within the Stewards,” Bowen said. While he agreed with Alliser and hated the Wildlings the man was, at his heart, a coward. Or perhaps better said that he was too emotionally fragile to stand up to Jeor. And if he did it would be with tears in his eyes. “They question the recruits that will soon be arriving.”

“What do you mean?” Jeor asked.

“As you know, a lord-“

Jeor cut him off. “If I know it then there is no need to repeat it. Get on with it.”

Bowen swallowed at that. “Lords send recruits, as does the King. But there are two Kings in Westeros. Is there not a risk of accepting recruits from Lord Stark? Do we not run the risk that King Tommen will retaliate?”

“King Eddard,” Mance said with a smile that had Jeor groaning internally. “Unless we are calling King Tommen by something other than his royal name.”

“You think that because you declared yourself King Beyond the Wall you understand kings?” Thorne said with a low growl.

“Merely that it is respectful. After all… the Night’s Watch is neutral. One could argue that the First Steward is breaking that neutrality by selecting one King to support.” That caused Bowen to begin to stammer, his red face growing more crimson as he tried to justify his comments.

Jeor shot Mance a look only to receive a challenging eyebrow raise in return. That made the old man sigh; Mance had the right of it. ‘Bowen, despite being of the North, has always had his dreams be in the South. He follows the Seven, the only of his family to ever do so in their long line and a point of contention between him and his nephew, the current Lord Marsh who refused to acknowledge his uncle. He tends to gravitate to Southern recruits and when I was submitted by Benjen to become the new Lord Commander Bowen had instead spoken of them selecting Thorne instead, even as Thorne protested.’ Jeor sighed. ‘Of course he’d side with the Lannister bastard.’

“It does not matter who is king,” Maester Aemon said, his old and gnarled voice at once causing all to grow quiet. No one envied Aemon and wished to swap fates with him… but all admitted how he could command a room without raising his voice. “It never has. The Night’s Watch accepted recruits from the Kings of the Rock, the Gardner Kings, and even at times the Princes of Dorne while the Starks were Kings in the North. We even have reports that once a Pentosi Lord sent us recruits. The coming of my ancestor, Aegon the Conqueror, did nothing to change that. During the Dance of the Dragons the Watch accepted men from both sides. Same for the Blackfyre rebellion. The actions of the Seven Kingdoms do not matter to us. Our eyes must always be to the North.”

All of them murmured at that even though they knew the old man was wrong. Even Maester Aemon knew he was speaking lies. The Night’s Watch always had to keep one eye to the South because their actions affected them greatly. A weak Lord Stark meant that they would be lacking in supplies and aid. War meant the possibility of a boost in recruits… but also in men that were sent to them that would cause trouble; the rebellion of Rimegate was well remembered even 200 years past.

“But in the name of neutrality we must be careful,” Bowen pointed out. “That is what worries some of my stewards-“ And Jeor knew he actually meant himself, “-and causes them to glance not to the North but the South. Tywin Lannister is not a man known for taking slights easily. I am merely suggesting that, perhaps, we do not accept prisoners from the North for now… or if we must we do not make them take their vows. It would not be good if we took a Westerlander’s son as a member of the Night’s Watch and angered Lord Tywin. You would not want to have the Rains of the Wall to play in every hall, now would you?”

Before Jeor could answer though… Maester Aemon began to chuckle.

It was such an odd sound to hear from the blind Maester. He was a friendly enough man but he didn’t laugh often. He was comforting, steady. Not one to tittering and giggling. And yet there he was, giving a soft dry laugh to what the First Steward had just said.

“I don’t think we need to worry about that,” Maester Aemon finally said. “I just received the raven this evening, before this meeting began.” From the folds of his robes (and Jeor would forever wonder just HOW many pockets the old Maester had hidden in his garments) he pulled a slip of paper out. “Lord Tywin Lannister is dead.”

Jeor leaned back in his chair.

He had been there when Robert Baratheon had battled Rhaegar Targaryen at the Trident. He had been one of the few able to watch the battle; in the greatest of ironies not many actually saw much of the fight, for most of the soldiers on both sides had been busy staring in wonder as Eddard Stark, the Quiet Wolf, had taken out the four sons of Lord Oswald Brune, all by himself. All had known that Brandon Stark was a skilled warrior but the punishment that Eddard had given those four strong lads, especially after the youngest had made the mistake of saying Brandon deserved to die…

But Jeor had seen Robert fighting Rhaegar and moved his horse to intercept the Prince should he bring Robert down. Others might have thought their cause doomed if Robert fell but Jeor remembered they weren’t fighting for his crown… they were fighting for Lady Lyanna.

Sometimes he wondered what life had been like if Ned…

He had been there though. He had seen the blow Robert gave Rhaegar that ended the fight. A savage blast that caved in his breastplate and sent his rubies flying into the ford, forever giving it the name it would bear til the end of time.

That blow… seemed now in Jeor’s eyes to be a love tap compared to the mental blow of learning Tywin Lannister was dead.

‘The Old Lion… it always felt like he would live forever. That he would somehow surpass Walder Frey and manage to live through heirs and the heirs of his heirs and the heirs of heirs of heirs. That he wouldn’t die through sheer force of will.’

He looked about the table and saw the others were just as shocked by the news. Several of the men opened their mouths only to snap them shut. Others were just so pole-axed by what they had heard that they couldn’t even move, not even blinking as they took in the smiling maester.

“He… what?” Jeor finally managed to get out.

“He is dead,” Maester Aemon stated. “According to the raven he died a few weeks ago when he threw himself from the Tower of the Hand.”

Jeor’s world was spinning even worse now. “Tywin Lannister… killed himself?”

“That is what the message says.” Aemon seemed please. “It also-“

Bowen though cut in. “There must be a mistake. Or this is a forgery. Perhaps the Starks sent you a false raven!”

Aemon twisted in the First Steward’s direction, a glower on his features. “It is no mistake. I know the ravens well and know which ones come from the Capital.”

“You can’t even see-“ Bowen began.

“Hold your tongue,” Alliser of all people snapped in annoyance.

Others might have been shocked by the surly man defending the blind maester. But… Aemon was the last Targaryen and Alliser had been a loyalist. More than once Jeor had found the two deep in conversation in Maester Aemon’s chambers; it was possible Aemon was the closest thing to a friend that the Master-At-Arms had.

“Why are you pleased about this?” Bowen asked, leaning forward, eyes narrowed. “This is a great upheaval in Westeros. A good man is dead.”

Jeor looked about and for the first time realized that without Benjen around he’d found himself surrounded by Southerners. Only Mance could truly be counted as of the North, as even Bowen, being a Northman, was in love with all things Sothern.

‘No wonder we struggle,’ he found himself thinking. ‘We’ve brought the damn Southern Politics to the North!’ It was fine when it was the matters of the Wall and the Wildlings and all that. But now that they found themselves discussing matters beyond their chilly little spot in the world the old loyalties returned and reminded them all just who they were.

“A good man?” Aemon asked with a fire that, even with age, reminded everyone he was Blood of the Dragon. “The man who decided to murder women and children, including babes still at their mothers’ breasts, by drowning them in a mine for the sins of their husbands and fathers? When said men offered to surrender and take the sword if he would only spare their wives and daughters? The man who lingered before Duskendale, allowing my nephew Aerys to go mad in a cell? The man who refused the call to arms my great-nephew Rhaegar gave for him to honor his oath to the crown… and was too craven to stand with the North until the last moment? Who refused men like Ser Alliser, allowing them to suffer, or your family Bowen? The man who ordered the Mountain to bash in the skull of my great-great nephew Aegon and his other creature to RAPE my great-great niece? You sit there and ask me to honor THAT MAN as someone who was good?” He snarled suddenly and Jeor had the quick, irrational fear that Aemon would suddenly rip off his skin and from the wrinkles and liverspots would come a young powerful dragon that would burn them all.

“Yet… yet you say nothing of Ned Stark-“ Thoren Smallgood began only for Aegon to growl low in his throat.

“Eddard Stark was enraged by the deaths of those children. He would have had them fostered and allowed to grow up. Perhaps in exile or perhaps in the North, taught to honor Robert. Of all the men in that throne room that day the only one to speak for the children was Eddard Stark. To that I owe him a debt.”

Bowen, who had been handed the Raven Message, looking up in sudden surprise. “The man who issued this…”

Aemon smiled slightly again. His anger was still there, which made the smile far more sharp, but it was better than the snarl he had been wearing. “Yes, I was getting to that. King Tommen the First has named as his new Hand and Regent Jon Stark.”

“…Stark?” Alliser said, tongue lingering on each letter.

Thoren turned to Jeor and whispered, “Contact the Citadel. If our Maester is falling for such a clear trick-“

“It is my EYES that do not work, Ser Thoren, not my ears!” The old man slapped at the table with a gnarled hand. “That came from a Raven of King’s Landing and is written in Grand Maester Pycelle’s own hand.”

“Stark,” Alliser repeated.

“His bastard son was sent to Iron Pointe and was legitimized and made its heir by Lord Antony Stark. Lord Antony is a loyalist,” Aemon stated.

“A clear error-“

Jeor raised his hand. “I think we need to take a break. Tempers are running a bit too hot.”

“But we just-“ Bowen began.

“Aye,” Alliser stated, rising from his chair as Jeor did. “A good thought.” He went to Maester Aemon, speaking softly to him and after a moment the Maester gave a choppy nod and allowed Alliser to guide him away.

It was only when Mance walked up to him that Jeor realized that the others had left, leaving the two of them alone.

“Do you ever find it amusing that the two of us only feel truly comfortable in each other’s presence?” Mance asked lightly. “I can’t be around many of the Free Folk I once sat in council with, as they fear now that this is a great trap. And you…”

“Aye,” Jeor muttered. “That wasn’t the best display of our unity.”

“I don’t know,” Mance said with a smile, “I found it a comfort.” Jeor glanced at him. “The Free Folk think the Night’s Watch is just a bunch of mindless slaves, doing whatever you command without a thought in their head. They aren’t joking when they claim that the cold has frozen your balls off and shrunk your brains… they truly believe you do things like that to them in order to get them to obey you. I think if they could have seen all of you arguing and feuding with each other they’d remember that you are just… people.”

“Hmmm… maybe,” Jeor grunted, moving towards the door. “But I have been hoping that seeing all of your people pass through the tunnels and realizing that there are women, children, and innocent men who just want to keep their families safe would make all the Black Borthers remember that we are only supposed to stand against the true monsters among your numbers and not all. And that hasn’t happened yet.”

“And that hasn’t happened yet,” Mance echoed.

Jeor paused, snagging two bottles of ale that had been brought with the latest delivery of supplies. A rare treat and one he knew he was going to need. “Come… I want to clear my head and I know the perfect spot.”

~MC~MC~MC~

“Whenever I looked upon the Wall these last few years I always saw it as some terrible obstacle that I had to overcome.” Mance took a sip of his ale. “I’d forgotten that it can be beautiful up here.”

The two of them were seated at one of the watch shacks that broke up the great expanse of the Wall, seated on a bench looking down at the Haunted Forest. The air was cold and crisp and certainly had a bite to it but it remained one of Jeor’s favorite spots.

“When I close my eyes and the wind blows just right I can believe I’m back on Bear Island,” he said. “Even from the highest window of the castle you could feel the seaspray on your face.”

“Do you miss it?” Mance asked.

“Aye,” Jeor admitted. “I know it is in good hands and I would never abandon my post… but aye, I miss it greatly.” He shook his head at that. “Tis why I have never made a move to go back, to see my family. I am afraid that I wouldn’t be able to leave. I long to be here but I long to be there as well now. I am a man split in two. I honestly don’t know how Benjen is able to return to Winterfell as he does.”

Mance merely nodded at that. “I am sure he is fine. At minimum Steve will protect him.”

“Steve is heading towards a land he has never been too… and is lacking thousands of years of knowledge. And he has one of the most black-humored Brothers of the watch, the Giantsbane, and a just transformed female Other to deal with. All he has is Benjen and Wolfsbane to help him.” He shook his head. “Bugger, they are all doomed.”

Mance could only laugh at that and soon Jeor found himself joining in.

“So… here we are,” Mance finally said. “Sitting on the top of the world with an ancient enemy in front of us, war behind us, and our own groups unable to get the sticks out of their asses and trust each other right down below.” He let out a scoff. “If I wasn’t worried about the length of the fall I’d say we should jump.”

“Maybe me,” Jeor said with a huffing laugh. “You at least have a wife waiting for you.”

“Aye, there is that,” Mance said. “She would find some way to catch me just so she could yell.”

Jeor took another sip of his ale. “Mine would be waiting on the other side-“

A growl filled the air and the two started when a massive saber cat clawed its way over the edge and landed on the Wall.

Time seemed to freeze for Jeor. He sat there, bottle halfway to his lips, eyes unable to even blink as he stared at the beast. It was as large as a horse and black as pitch with flames running along its body. Even an entire party of Black Brothers could never hope to bring down such a thing and that wasn’t getting into it being ON FIRE.

And, of course, there was the matter of its rider.

THAT caused Jeor to go for his sword.

The… man… on the sabercat’s back was tall and strongly built, wearing black burnt leathers. But there was no flesh on his head, nor muscle either. Instead his head was wreathed in flames and burned wildly around the pale white skull where his face should have been.

“Fuck!” Jeor startled, readying his blade to attack.

“…shit,” the rider said, staring at the two of them. Jeor wasn’t sure HOW he had done it but somehow the rider managed to make his skull look… concerned. “I told you that we should have gone up a mile right of here!” He waved his hand in said direction and his massive sabercat mount... shrugged.

“Merooow.”

“Oh, don’t give me that,” the rider snapped. “Just admit you were wrong!”

“Merooow.”

“You’re worse than Winter, you know that?”

Jeor didn’t let his sword drop, even as he stared at the strange creature that was arguing with his mount. He didn’t know if he’d be able to hold off this new terror the Others were unleashing upon them but he had to try… perhaps buy Mance enough time to send word down to the men below to prepare for battle. They had found that Valyrian Steel worked on Wights and Steve had mentioned that Longclaw made his body ache just by being near it so it was possible the blade would defeat this thing of fire…

…but he just didn’t know.

‘Night falls…’ Jeor thought, ‘and so my Watch begins.’ He swallowed. “I don’t know who you are, demon, but I-“

Mance instantly clapped his hand over Jeor’s mouth and forced his head down, much to his shock.

“We have sinned,” Mance said even as he forced Jeor to look down at the sabercat’s paws, unable to see the rider anymore. His other hand moved to press on Jeor’s wrists, guiding him to lower the point of his sword towards the ice below them. “We have sinned,” Mance repeated, “but our sins were made with the best of intents. And those that were not… we work to correct. To make right.”

The rider was silent for several moments.

“Then you may continue on,” he said, his voice solemn and grave. Only, in the next instant, for him to say in a more befuddled tone. “That was different…”

And then Jeor saw the saber cat leap forward and by the time he looked up the rider and his mount were gone.

Mance nearly collapsed back onto the bench they had been sitting on, body lax and boneless as he looked out at nothing, eyes unseeing and uncomprehending.

“…what the fuck was that?” Jeor demanded, knowing his companion knew EXACTLY what they’d just encountered.

“The Free Folk speak of a legend,” Mance got out. “Never saw it myself… though that doesn’t matter because what we saw was… well, it had to be fucking it.” He shook his head, trying to use the motion to clear his thoughts. Jeor sat down next to him, resting Longclaw against the bench before he grabbed an unopened bottle of Northern Ale and popped off the cap against the bench before passing it to the former King Beyond The Wall. Mance accepted it with a silent nod and took a long pull from it before passing it back to Jeor; he barely wiped it off with his glove before he took his own deep swig.

“Did we just let a creature of the Others pass?” he asked. He needed to know if warnings had to be given-

But Mance shook his head hard at that. “The opposite,” he said. “Or if it once was with the Others it no longer is. Or is like Steve…” Mance looked up at the night sky. “Fuck, give me a moment to get my head on straight.”

Jeor remained silent.

“The Legends state that in times of danger and strife, when men forget the Old Ways and behave like beasts, the Old Gods will choose a champion. One who had sinned as well, who had committed crimes against the living… and against himself. And they will turn him into their Champion, who will travel the world seeking out evil and punishing it while saving the innocent and sparing the repentant.”

Jeor nodded at that.

“I suppose,” the Lord Commander stated, “considering we’ve heard two Others having sex we can’t argue with phantom men working for the Old Gods.”

“No,” Mance said, for the first time since the skull-headed figure had appeared managing a smile, “no we can not.”

“…does he have a name? That Champion?”

Mance nodded.

“The Ghost Rider.”

~MC~MC~MC~

OMAKE

Myrcella stood next to the cold body of Jon Arryn. Not many knew it but Myrcella had loved the old man greatly, seeing him as another father.

“I swear I won’t rest until all of Westeros knows the name of Jon Arryn!” she declared.

Off to the side Cersei and Robert watched on, the King saying, “And I won’t rest until I’ve gotten a hot dog.”

“Robert, this is a funeral-“

“Hot dogs, get your hot dogs here!” a vendor said, rolling his cart up.

“WOOHOO!” Robert cheered, accepting the Hog Dog.

Cersei just narrowed her eyes. “What do you do, follow my husband around?”

“Lady, he’s putting my kids through college.”

Chapter Text

Ned

He frowned as he looked over the papers that were scattered over his desk. It felt like the papers were growing every day… or perhaps multiplying. Ned suddenly had a vision of his papers lying in little matrimonial beds, producing baby papers that would grow up and found houses of their own, creating an entire kingdom of their own. One that would topple down and crush him if he grabbed the wrong sheet.

‘I can see now why Robert thought of giving up his crown,’ Ned thought to himself as he selected another paper, reading it over. It was a report from Reedmen, who had been passing by on their journey back to the Neck after searching for the missing Jojen and Meera, that Lady Dustin was still refusing the fly the flags of Winterfell over Barrowton. His Small Council had decided that, in order to show their loyalty, all should fly the Direwolf upon its white field over all major cities within the North. He had thought it quite foolish and a waste of money but he had begun to see that sometimes such gestures were needed not for a king but the people. ‘If he had to deal with all of this over Seven Kingdoms I would want to leave for Essos as well.’

“Your grace?” Maester Luwin asked, looking over at Ned which caused him to run his fingers through his hair when he realized how concerned the older man was.

“Sorry, Luwin just… “ He waved the paper weakly. “Lady Dustin continues to be a problem.”

Barbrey Dustin had long been a problem for Ned, ever since the Rebellion. Willam Dustin had ridden with Ned to retrieve Lyanna and died fighting against the Kingsguard that had stood in their path. In cruelest of ironies had he lived he would have been Ned’s greatest ally, one of the few to know the secret concerning Jon… but his death had turned his wife into Ned’s fiercest foe. Barbrey blamed Ned for Willam’s death and for never bringing his bones back for proper burial and thus shown only the barest of respects for him.

‘Of course there may be… other reasons…’ Ned thought, glancing at the window where he knew Drax was practicing in the yard. Barbrey, it was rumored, had lost her maidenhead to Brandon and had held that she was destined to be the next Lady of Winterfell. But when Ned’s father had passed her over and Brandon had later died she had cursed all the Starks for their actions against her. She refused to even talk to Cat and had never come to any of the celebrations held for the children. When the Greyjoys had rebelled she had sent only a small amount of men, claiming that a Summer Flu was keeping the bulk of her forces in bed. When he called for meetings with her she always had an excuse. She was an irksome woman and a growing frustration.

And… with Ned finding his temper fraying more and more thanks to the Lannisters…

“She continues to give excuses why she can not send proper forces to help enforce our boarders in the Riverlands?”

“No,” Ned said. “That would require her to actually give an excuse. Now she simply refuses, ignoring the commands. I have given her as many chances as I can to change her mind. I have allowed others to speak with her. But she continues to show her disrespect to me and my family.” He looked over at the map of the North, rising and running his hand along it. “But I’m afraid we’ve reached the end of it all.”

“You mean to remove her?”

Ned sighed. “I wish not to… but truth be told… Barbrey has no true claim to Barrowton. She is not a Dustin… she married Lord Dustin but she is not of his line. She bore him no children. I have been kind and allowed her to rule but she has named no heir and made no attempt to prepare for a time after her. My shame drove me to show her kindness and my feeling that I was not the true Warden of the North but rather a thief stealing Brandon’s seat caused me to allow her to continually push past the line.”

He swallowed, shutting his eyes and feeling the air blast through his nose.

When he turned his eyes were hard, ice coating his heart.

“We will march on Barrowton in three week time.”

“Will you treat with her?”

Ned frowned. “No. No… I think not. I have given her far too many chances… if I allow her to believe that she can push this far and be given no punishment, or that she can use this as a tactic in order to allow herself to have a better deal… well, I will never be able to hold the North. I will ride out and I will deal with her. She will be removed and a proper steward will be placed in command of Barrowton.” He rubbed his chin. “I will need to determine who will be made its new lord…”

“You will not name Bran or Rickon as Lord?”

Ned shook his head at that. “Even with my father stating that Bran is alive I can not name him as Lord of Barrowton. They must see that he is there, ready to learn of them… if he should perish it would be far too cruel to have them deal with that upheaval again. As for Rickon…” Ned sighed. “Rickon is no longer of the North. He is too wild and strange to be given such a place.”

Ned loved all his children. He truly did. They were the lights of his life. After the war, when he’d returned to his childhood home to find that the halls that had once been filled with Brandon’s laughter, Lyanna’s war cries, and Benjen’s baby giggles, it had only been Robb and Jon that had gotten him through those dark days. More than once he’d gone and collected the two babes, bringing them to his father’s solar so he could listen to their coos and gurgles and not feel like he was trapped in a tomb. That had continued on with the rest of his children. Sansa had often sat on his lap while he went over the reports of the harvest, trying to snag papers so she might drool on them. Arya would only sleep when he allowed her to run around his desk, screeching so loudly that servants would come in convinced that a goose had somehow snuck in. Bran would start at his feet, playing with a wooden ball, only to climb up onto his lap and then try and get over his shoulders. And Rickon loved, for some reason, to suck on his fingers, resulting in many papers ended up with odd wet spots.

He loved his children. They made his entire time as the Lord of the North bearable.

…but he wasn’t blind to their faults.

‘Rickon is too wild now,’ he thought. ‘Too strange. He sounds nothing like us. His focus is all over the place. He would hate being the Lord of Barrowton and they would hate him.’ He shook his head. “I will see that Rickon is provided for. Perhaps a new village, one he can shape on his own… but Barrowton is ancient. They were Kings of Winter before even the Starks. Respect must be shown to them.”

“It will be a valuable piece to use,” Luwin reminded him.

“Aye… Barbrey hasn’t been seeing to them properly either. Their harvests are low and I have received reports that the Barrow Woods haven’t been cared for like it should. In the proper hands it will serve the North well.” He rubbed his chin in thought. “I will need to give it to someone… but who?” He began to pace about his solar, a habit he had picked up again after the long rides across the North. It had been the same after both Robert’s and the Greyjoy’s Rebellions: the need to move. It had taken him years to break the habit and sit still and yet it had returned. “It is a reward… one I must give to one who deserves it. Roose only has a single son and he is a babe… while I know of the bad blood between our families he has been loyal due to the succession being so unstable. But I can’t give a babe Barrowton when he will also have the Dreadfort. I would suggest the Mormonts but Jeor Mormont’s actions have tainted their family… the people of Barrowton would worry about anyone of their House ruling them.” He shook his head. “That would have been a good choice…

“That leaves the three of my most powerful allies: the Umbers, the Karstarks, and the Manderlys. All have spares who would make for good lords. The Umbers have been the most loyal of all so I feel I should reward them…”

Luwin spoke up. “But doing so removes a way to build greater loyalty among the others?”

“Aye. Rickard is a prickly bastard but letting him build up the Snowcloaks has mellowed his greatly. And he still have a second son… but I risk giving him too much and creating another Greystark situation. As for the Manderlys they are allies, yes… but too many of them keep the Seven. They would do the best with Barrowton but I risk the same alienation I caused by building the sept…”

“Perhaps it would be best to hold onto this question for a time, your grace,” Luwin stated. “After all, many things might change. There might be no need…”

But Ned shook his head. “No, Luwin… no, Barbrey will not remain the Lady of Barrowton a second more. And I will not allow her to select one of her brothers to be her heir. I gave her nearly 2 decades to set things right and instead she still wanders about in her widow garb, flashing her fangs at me if I get too close. I have shown kindness… but now I must show her that I can back that kindness with steel.”

“What… will you do with her?” Luwin asked tentatively.

That was the question. And it depended on Barbrey herself. In a perfect world she would allow herself to step down and go return to her father or perhaps go to the Dreadfort, since Roose was her goodbrother through his first wife. But Ned doubted she would do such a thing.

‘She will cling to Barrowton like a spinster clings to her shawl in a stiff breeze,’ Ned thought. ‘And I will need to dig her out. She is like an old tree stump, with roots going deep… it will not be clean.’

“And your grace might find more than he suspected,” Fury stated as he entered the room, his long black leather coat swishing behind him. “Reasons why Barbrey Dustin should be removed… along with her father.”

“Lord Rodrik?” Ned asked. ‘If there was any question of why Barbrey is the way she is… Lord Rodrik is the answer.’ The man was a scheming greedy fool who had earned the name ‘Tywin of the North’ and not for any good reason. He treated his children as pawns, marrying off his eldest to Roose and attempting to get Barbrey married to Brandon and then to Willam. He spat in the face of house tradition by choosing a personal coat of arms, changing the black stallion of house Ryswell to a golden one. His sons he moved to marry about throughout the North but had been met with difficulty because they were utterly quarrelsome… some claimed he was less Tywin and more Walder Frey for that. He was brutal with prisoners he captured, showing no mercy; more than once he had told the tale of the Seventy Nine Watchers as if it were a joke rather than a tragic tale.

“Yes, your grace,” Fury said, motioning towards a chair and when Ned nodded he sat down, folding his hands on his lap. Ned took back his chair and listened as his dark skinned Master of Whispers spoke. “Lord Rodrik had spoken to more than one Lord concerning the need for… changes… when it comes to your rule.”

“Namely that it not exist?” Ned asked.

But that caused Fury to shake his head. “Not quite. He feels that Lord Bolton should be removed from his post.”

“Remove Roose?” Ned asked, surprised. “Roose has done a fine job.” He had been made Ned’s Lord of War and had managed the Southern Borders well. “And he is Lord Rodrik’s goodson!”

“He WAS Lord Rodrik’s good son. But now Lord Bolton is married to a Frey and it will be her child who is Lord of the Dreadfort. Lady Barbrey keeps contact with him but Gretin Bolton does not seek her out as a friend.”

“Aye, that is true,” Ned muttered. “Despite their different natures Gretin is far closer to Roslin.” It wasn’t merely their blood or the desire to have a better connection to the future Queen of the North that drove Gretin to write to her sister; Ned could tell from how Roslin spoke of her that the two did care for one another, in their own ways.

Fury nodded. “And there is the matter of Roslin herself. He also has made clear that he believes that it was foolish of you to honor the agreement your wife made with Walder Frey.”

“It was a ill-thought arrangement,” Ned admitted. “But it has worked out well.” Roslin had won over many in the North. She was beautiful, yes, but also strong and determined. When the Greatjon had made a comment about her blowing over in the slightest breeze she had merely replied that she ‘wouldn’t stand behind him then’, causing Lord Umber to laugh so hard Ned thought he might piss himself. She knew how to command the castle staff but not in a way that brought about anger. And of course the tales of her journeying North with the Guardians was well known, with the Smalljon swearing fealty to her after their journey. ‘She earned her title of the Stone Wolf.’

“It does not matter to Lord Rodrik.” Fury paused. “It is a rare disagreement between father and daughter… Lord Rodrik whispers Robb should set Roslin aside and marry a true Northern Girl. He has gone to several of the more prickly houses in the North, ones with daughters of age, and whispered that it should be their child who is the future queen.”

“And Lady Barbrey?”

Fury paused.

“What did she say?” Ned demanded.

“She stated that it is a tragedy that only Bran fell from that tower.”

Ned jaw clenched. “She… did what?”

Luwin paled. “She would not have. To make such a comment is to risk calls of treason.”

“There is no risk of calls when you’ve already done it,” Fury said finally, pulling out Raven Message. “This was intercepted by my spies. It is her own handwriting.”

Ned slowly unfurled the message.

‘Barrowton remembers its oaths, unlike the traitors in the North. Give the word and Rebellion will come against Ned Stark. We will finally finish what you started and take his head.’

“Who?” Ned rumbled.

“The raven was meant for King’s Landing.”

“Your grace,” Luwin said at once but already Ned was rising.

The Lannisters.

Barbrey Dustin was plotting with the Lannisters.

The ones that had killed Robert. Who had forced Sansa into Lady’s body. Who had caused Arya to flee Westeros. Who now held Jon in a gilded cage.

“JORY!” he roared and at once the door opened and the captain of his guard hurried in.

“Your grace,” he said, moving to kneel or bow or… do something… Ned didn’t care.

“Enough of that,” he snapped dismissively. “Bring me my armor. All of it, and for all the Lords in attendance. We ride tomorrow and we take Lady Barbrey Dustin’s head!”

“A moment!” Fury called out just before Jory could leave and Ned snapped his head in the other man’s direction. “A moment…” Fury repeated. Ned narrowed his eyes and the Master of Whispers approached him. “You are angry, your grace… I understand-“

“You will NEVER understand how angry I am!” Ned thundered. “I have allowed Barbrey her little tantrums and she has rewarded my kindness by plotting with our sworn enemies. I will drag her from Barrowton and throw her into the dungeons to rot until I am ready to take her fucking head!” He slammed his palm against the desk. “If you think you can talk me out of this-“

“Of course not,” Fury informed him. “She must die. That much is clear. I only suggest you… think things through.”

Ned could feel his upper lip trembling at that. “Consider very carefully your next words, Fury… I already have one traitor whose had will meet Ice.”

Fury, to his credit, did not bluster not did he quiver in terror at the threat. “I understand. I merely preach that we be smart about this.” He held out his hand. “I can assure you that there are no spies in Winterfell.”

“I might not be good at Southern Politics…” Ned hissed, “but I learned during my time as Hand of the King that no keep is free of spies.”

“True,” Fury admitted. “But I can assure you that what spies are here I control fully. Even if they do not realize it. The easiest way to deal with a spy is to control the spymasters they report to.” Ned remained silent; it was an interesting theory but he doubted Fury would be able to practice it in full. Trust was as fickle as the weather it seemed. “Right now Lady Dustin-“

“Barbrey,” Ned snapped. “She has dishonored Willam with her actions. As of this moment she is Barbrey Ryswell once more… and that house might not survive for long either.”

He had little doubt that Barbrey’s father was aware of her actions with the Lannisters; the man was controlling and Barbrey for all her posturing always ran to hide behind him when she pressed too far. It had been him that had protected her from Robert’s wrath when he’d learned that Barbrey had not sent the proper forces to help put down Balon Greyjoy, pleading on her behalf and in the end sending more of his own men to assist in taking Pyke. And Lord Ryswell was far too much of a rat to not want to know what his daughter was doing.

‘He knows,’ Ned thought darkly. ‘He heard how Joffrey broke his word and would have had me killed… how he caused Sansa’s death. How he ordered Bran killed by that assassin!’ That little bit of news had been delivered by his father and sister and it had only been Drax restraining him that had kept him from marching on King’s Landing. ‘And he ignores that all in the foolish hope that he might once more hold a bit of power in the North.’

Though not as well known as the Barrow Kings, the Marsh Kings, and of course Red Kings, the Ryswells had a direction connection to a royal Northern House, The Horse Kings. House Ryswell however had been founded by a bastard of the Horse Kings, House Ryder, and only been given dominion of the Rills when the Starks had put down a final rebellion by the Ryders, slaughtering all but a single son who was said to have disappeared North of the Wall, taking the name Rayder. He knew that it burned Rodrik that he could not truly claim that his family was once of noble blood like the Dustins, Boltons, Reeds, and Starks.

‘It is why he sought to marry his daughters first to House Bolton and Stark and then House Dustin. And Howland sent me word even before Robert came North that Rodrik had been sending many ravens hoping to wed his son to Meera Reed. He thirsts to be closer to a throne… any throne… and does not care if that means sacrificing the last of his honor.’ Ned grit his teeth. ‘The Rills will need a new Lord too, so perhaps the debate about if the Karstarks, Manderlys, or Umbers will be given Barrowton will be easily solved.’

“Of course,” Fury said, drawing Ned from his thoughts. “Barbrey Ryswell doesn’t know that we have intercepted the message. In fact only the four of us,” he gestured at himself, Ned, Luwin, and Jory, “have learned the truth. This plays to our advantage.

“But I assure you now, your grace, if you march into your throne room and tell all the lords that you are going to take her head… she will know before you get into your saddle the next day. Someone will talk… perhaps out of a desire to forge an alliance with her. Perhaps merely out of a sense of compassion to give her time to flee. But they will warn her. And at best she will leave for Essos and you and your son will spend the rest of your days wondering if she might return. At worst she will dig into Barrowton and force you to slaughter all in the city… and disgrace yourself fully.”

“What do you suggest then?” Ned asked. “Because allowing her to live after these actions is out of the question.”

“Of course,” Fury said with a quick nod of his head. “I’m not suggesting otherwise. But…” He suddenly looked to, of all people, Maester Luwin. “Tell me… what is better to carve into a man’s belly, if there is a need to remove an arrow head? A hatchet or a small knife?”

“Why, a small knife, of course.”

“That is what I suggest,” Fury said, looking once more at Ned. “You will get your justice… but you are no longer a Lord… and no longer a boy. You are a King and a man… and you must behave as such. You can’t go charging out in a full gallop anymore… you must put your faith in others.”

Ned worked his jaw back and forth, trying to find something, anything, to refute Fury’s claims… before letting out a huff of frustration. “Fine,” he ground out. “Fine. You are right… I can’t have her escaping.”

“Give the word, my lord, and I will bring you the traitor,” Jory said.

Fury nodded. “Jory would be a good choice… but might I recommend Prince Robb?”

“Robb?” Ned asked. “You wish to risk my son-“

“You were going to risk yourself,” Fury pointed out.

“That is different.”

“It is,” he said in agreement. “You don’t have some black goo from another world that can absorb sword swings and arrows.”

Ned turned and looked out the window. ‘I hate to admit it but he’s right. Robb and Venom… that would be able to counter anything that Barbrey might send at them, should she get word that I have learned of her deceit.’

Luwin spoke up. “She may be far more… open… to his arrival than yours, your grace.”

“She will see him as a boy that she can cast aside… while tales have spread throughout the North of Venom most believe it to be merely mummur farces,” Jory added. “Even some of the guards still think it’s a lie… and he hasn’t been exactly subtle in his new form.”

Ned nodded at that. It was true that Robb had done nothing to hide his partner. Many meals had seen Venom pop his head out from Robb’s neck; it still was odd to Ned to have the gooey black mass suddenly ask him to pass the mutton.

“If he is subtle about it,” Fury continued, “he can enter and take her without breaking guest rights. After all, even if Robb accepts bread and salt Venom doesn’t have too.”

It was underhanded and sneaky and normally Ned would have been disgusted with such talk… but the more he thought about Barbrey and what she was trying to achieve the more he was willing to push his honor aside.

‘After all… how can one lose their honor when dealing with an honorless creature?’

Maester Luwin cleared his throat. “I quite agree, your grace. And if he wanted young Robb could simply declare his intentions at the gate. Barrowton wouldn’t have time to call for reinforcements. It would be good for young Robb to show what kind of commander he is.”

“People are already forgetting his actions in the Whispering Woods,” Jory stated. “They need to remember that the Young Wolf has teeth.”

Ned finally nodded. “Very well. Where is Robb?”

“He stated he wished to patrol the Wolf’s Woods,” Luwin told him.

“Did he take any guards with him?” Ned asked.

Luwin though shook his head. “He said that it would be a waste.”

“Damn it all,” Ned muttered. Even with all Venom could do Ned still worried about his son and wanted to keep him safe. Such recklessness… “Very well. Jory, I want you to get word to the men at the gate. The moment Robb returns I wish to see him.”

“At once, your grace,” Jory said and with a quick bow he hurried off to deliver the new orders.

That left Ned with Fury and Luwin.

“There are other matters I wish to discuss with you, your grace,” Fury said.

“Of course.”

But before Fury could say a word there was a knock at the door. “Your grace,” Rossel, another of his house guards, said from beyond the doorway, “Princess Jane Seaworth and Queen Shireen Baratheon are here to see you.”

“It appears it will need to wait,” Ned said only for Fury to smirk. “…or not. You sent for them?”

“I did, your grace.” He then went silent and, after a few moments, Ned let out a grunt and called for the women to enter.

Shireen and Jane were so utterly different from each other. The former was Stannis’ daughter; none could mistake her for anyone else. If Ser Brienne of Tarth did not exist she would have been the tallest woman Ned had ever seen. Her face was stern and strong, like a statue’s, and the grayscale that had once made her the subject of pity now made people step back in shock, adding to her fierceness. Jane, on the other hand, looked nothing like Ser Davos Seaworth. She was short and lithe, an utter beauty that would have easily been at home in the South. Though that wasn’t to say that Jane struggled in the North… far from it. She had blended in well, joining Shireen in the training yard often. He remembered how Robert had said she was known as “The Stranger’s Daughter” and he believed it having seen how quickly she could wield her knives. Of course just as impressive was Shireen with Thunderstrike, her massive war ax-hammer.

Even though the two appeared to be the same age he knew that Shireen saw Jane as her mother and honored her by offering her the right to sit first, even though Jane was only the Princess of Asgard while Shireen was the Queen of the Valkyrie. Of course they had explained to Ned that the Valkyrie Queen served the Asgardian Royal House and thus she was belowJane’s station… but they had lost him when they’d admitted that they were both gods, Jane through birth and Shireen through the rituals she’d used to become Queen.

Catelyn, realizing that Jane was the daughter of the Stranger and married to the Smith/Warrior, had fainted three times, forcing Maester Luwin to constantly revive her. Even after the last few weeks she still became tongue-tied around the two of them.

“What might we do for you, King Eddard?” Jane asked with a smile.

Ned turned to Fury. “I suppose I should tell them to direct their questions to you? You’re the one that summoned them here.”

His Master of Whispers merely smirked at that. “The thing is… we haven’t had a chance to talk since either of you arrived.”

“Is this where you ask us our intentions, spymaster?” Shireen said, as blunt and to the point as her father had always been.

“It is a question that needs to be asked,” Fury commented.

“I would have thought that my aiding Yondu and Rickon in dealing with Euron Greyjoy and the rescue of Robb Stark would have been enough to show you that I am an ally.” She paused. “Or the fact that I have not driven a blade into Rickon’s scrotum after his repeated, and rather pathetic, attempts to woo me.”

Ned let out a quiet groan at that. He honestly needed to have a talk with his son about how one was to court a woman. Rickon was utterly helpless, all the grace and skill he had in the training yard not translating at all when it came to talking to Shireen. He could charm others easily; many of the guards had stated they weren’t sure about him only to spend a day in his company and see him as a good and trustworthy ally who would fight side by side with them. But Shireen? Any ability to make nice with her seemed to disappear, left with the desperate fumblings of a lad who had no idea how to show a woman that he was interested… or, rather, that she should be interested in him.

“The Asgardians live long lives,” Fury said. “And they have been part of many wars. I’m sure you,” he looked to Jane, “were told about them by your father?”

Jane raised an eyebrow. “A few.”

“And you know that an ally one moment can become an enemy the next. And Westeros is far worse at that. The Rebellion shows how quickly an enemy can suddenly turn their cloaks… and then turn it again. The Lannisters have made it into an art form, after all, as have the Tyrells. So it isn’t unreasonable for me to want to know exactly where you stand.” He kept his gaze fully locked on Jane. “The Baratheon forces didn’t fully commit to taking on Euron Greyjoy. They were sent off to deal with other matters. I’d like to know what matters those are, where they are currently at, and what they will do now.”

“Then perhaps,” Jane said with a cold little smile, “you should bother to address Shireen, seeing as she is a Baratheon and I am not.”

Fury side-eyed Shireen and Ned had the sudden feeling that it hadn’t been an error that had caused Fury to dismiss Shireen. Rather an attempt to learn just how much sway Jane’s arrival had had on the woman.

“Well?” Fury stated.

Shireen merely stared at him for a long moment. “It would seem to me that King Eddard would still have a Master of Whispers even if he was blind.”

Ned felt himself stiffen as Shireen’s shadow, cast against the front wall of his solar thanks to the weak sunlight coming in through his window, suddenly grew darker and larger… and shifted towards Fury. Rickon had told him how Shireen had been able to call forth her father’s spirit in the form of a shadow and he had a sensation of growing dread that what he was seeing now wasn’t a mere trick of the light.

Fury though merely remained calm. “I would think all of you would know that there is more to gathering information than listening.”

“I would think you would know that it is unwise to taunt a woman who leads the warriors that ferry the dead.”

“Enough,” Ned finally said. “I won’t have bloodshed here.” He turned to Fury. “Leave.”

Fury didn’t protest. He merely rose up and bowed his head. “Of course.”

But as he passed he suddenly lurched, letting out a grunt as he nearly went down to one knee. He shot Jane a dark look and Ned wondered just WHAT the woman had done… but she didn’t even react, instead continuing to look right at Ned. After a moment Fury continued on, though it was with a limp.

“You realize,” Shireen said the moment the door was closed, “that he only did that because now he thinks we’ll talk like dear sweet friends, bonding over how much we dislike him.”

Ned pressed his lips together before letting out a huff. “Aye, I realize it now.” He rolled his head back. “Damn it all, I hate these games.”

“I have long bemoaned myself how people must make things far too complex,” Shireen stated.

“Is that a jab at me?” Jane asked.

“If I were seeking to insult you, mama, you’d know it,” Shireen stated, flashing her a teasing smile that showed while she might act much like her father Shireen was her own person. “King Eddard-“

“Ned,” he said, raising his hand. “It will make this conversation take twice as long if we use everyone’s titles.”

Shireen nodded, it clear from her relaxed features she was pleased with that request. “Ned. I want you to understand that while to the rest of Westeros I am a little girl who suddenly returned a woman I have lived all my years. I have earned my adulthood. Fury wishes to play his games like I am a child… I am not. I am a woman grown.”

“Of course,” Ned said. “It is… I suppose easier with you than it is with Rickon, who I admit I struggle with.”

“Not helped he is an immature buffoon,” Shireen muttered before shaking her head. “While I would enjoy greatly disappointing Fury by having us reveal nothing… you should know of my plans.” She rose and walked over to a map Westeros that hung on the wall. It was dotted with pins, the tops of each dabbed with a bit of paint to represent the different armies and forces that Ned had to deal with; both his own and of his many enemies.

Ned rose and began to point out the different forces of interest. “The Lannisters hold the Westerlands, of course, and through the Tyrells the Reach. They also hold the Crownlands.”

Jane rose and shook her head. “They don’t truly hold them. They are merely not seeing them rebel. There is a difference. A stronger, more palatable regent calls for them to side with them and they will turn.”

“I just don’t know if they will side with me,” Ned stated. “The Crownlands are loyal to the Targeryens and will not forget easily that I led to their fall.”

Shireen glanced at him. “If… you presented a lost Targaryen-“ Ned snapped his head in her direction but Shireen merely raised an eyebrow. “It wasn’t Gamora, if that is your concern. I deal with the dead, Ned. I speak with them.” She paused. “Ser Arthur Dayne wishes you to know… he holds no anger for your part in his death. It was honorable battle. His only regret is that you met as enemies rather than allies.”

Ned squeezed his eyes shut, the echo of swords clashing against one another and Ser Arthur’s cry when Howland stabbed him from behind filling his mind.

He forced the visions away. He couldn’t deal with any of that.

“No,” he said. “I won’t do that to Jon. He is a prisoner of the Lannisters… if word gets out he will be killed on the spot.”

“And after?” Shireen pressed. “When he is free? Will you truly deny him his birthright?”

Ned opened his mouth to give word to the excuses he’d made countless times over the years, when he had thought about Jon and how he was the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms… and found at once that they had shriveled up and died. Robert was dead, so he was no threat to Jon. And he certainly hadn’t been a better king that Jon would be. Westeros was already in a war so Jon’s claims wouldn’t be throwing it into turmoil. And could he honestly say that he was doing it for Jon’s own good… when he himself wore a crown?

Shireen, seeing that he had no answer for her, turned back to the map. “Dorne remains isolated, for the moment. The Vale too, due to the actions of your goodsister. The Riverlands and the North firmly belong to you.”

She paused.

“And I hold the Stormlands in full.”

“…in full?” Ned asked.

It was Jane’s turn to smirk at him. “She’s been oh so busy.”

Shireen chuckled at that before looking at Ned. “I have sent my most trusted generals to alert all that I have returned. They will remain silent for now but they are preparing. In secret ways.” She glanced over at Jane.

“Wars are not always won on the battlefield,” she stated. “Dorne proved that with the Conqueror. The Stormlands are quietly sealing up their borders, placing patrols at important roads and bridges, gathering food for the Winter to come. Boys are training in the yards through all the villages and Keeps and castles, learning how to wield swords and shields. Envoys have been sent to mine dragonglass from Dragonstone and ship it to us. When Thanos arrives, we-“

She was cut off by the door slamming open, startling them all.

“Your grace… you must come at once.”

“What is it, Jory?” Ned asked, startled by his friend’s pale features. Jory looked like a green boy after his first battle, rattled by the blood that coated the fields. “What has happened?”

“A wagon from Wolf Bend, your grace. It…” He swallowed. “You need to see it.”

At once Ned was rising; Jory was not one to become shaken easily. Whatever the wagon contained must have been truly terrible if it was bothering him as it was. He grabbed his sword, considering for a moment asking for Ice to be brought to him before deciding against it, reasoning that it would be paranoia to take the Valyrian Steel blade with him. Maester Luwin was hurrying behind him and after a moment Jane and Shireen were following as well.

“What is Wolf Bend?” Jane asked.

“A walled village on the opposite side of the Wolf Woods,” Ned stated. “A large one, though usually it only has a small population. Its like Wintertown, designed to hold a great many people when Winter comes. Farmers and such will come there and live in communal halls when the snows begin to truly come down, working together to survive.”

The passed through a doorway and down a flight of stairs before finally coming to the main yard of the castle, where the wagon was waiting. He looked at the guards, seeing that while they were still at attention they were looking just as pale as Jory was. He understood why when the wind shifted and the foul stench reached his nose.

“Rot,” Shireen murmured and at once her wings flared out and her hand went to her weapon. “That is a death wagon.”

Her claims were proven all the more true when Ned finally made it to the back and saw two bodies lying on the ground, covered in tarps. Standing near them was the wagon driver, a Snowcloak with his face bundled up in scarves to try and help against the smell, and an old man sitting on the ground, curled up on himself as he stared blankly at his boots.

“What happened?” he asked.

“I was riding a patrol when I happened upon it, your grace. Wolf Bend… empty save for this old man… and the bodies.”

“Someone… killed all of Wolf Bend?” Ned asked, aghast.

“It is far worse than that, your grace,” the Snowcloak said.

Maester Luwin chimed in. “King Eddard?” he motioned for him to come closer and Ned fought against his gag reflex as he approached the Maester, who had been looking over one of the shrouded bodies. “Look at this.” He pulled up the tarp and Ned nearly vomited up his breakfast.

The chest cavity had been completely hollowed out. Ribs snapped and broken, skin shredded, muscle torn to bits. The organs were completely gone, leaving only blood and bile and other fluids that sloshed in the cavity when Luwin shifted the body to examine the sides and the neck where three long deep gashes had cut into the flesh. That was the only kindness, that whatever had torn the man apart had at least killed them quickly with the slashes on the neck before digging into their chest.

“Ned?” Drax said, far softer and gentler than Ned had ever heard him, both as Drax and Brandon, and Ned blinked when he realized that his legs had fallen asleep due to how long he’d been lost in his thoughts. “Brother, are you with us?”

After a moment he nodded. “Aye.” He shook his head and glanced down at the body once more. “Do you remember that Theon’s Night before I went to the Vale? You had gotten back from spending a few months in Barrowton- focus.” He snapped, glancing at his brother.

Drax though merely narrowed his eyes. “I can focus on things other than women, Ned.”

He didn’t say a word. He wasn’t in the mood to discuss Barbrey Ryswell at the moment.

“And aye, I remember,” Drax stated. “We went down to find Theon the Hungry Wolf’s tomb and touch it. We never did find it, thanks to Lyanna.”

“We were never going to find it, you know that,” Ned said with a huff. His brother was just mad that Lyanna had scared them with Benjen, who she’d ‘borrowed’ from the nursery; the babe had cried and made the two of them jump. “The crypts go too deep. We’re lucky we got as far as we did.” He shook his head. “But you remember what we found down there? The journal?”

Drax nodded. “Bran the Shipwright’s writings. Of the attack on his vessel.” It was the one thing Ned knew his brother had never discussed. Even though Brandon hadn’t believed what was written in there, he had never said a word. Drax looked down at the body and grimaced. “Reminding you of that.”

Ned nodded. “See the scraps and cuts on the bones? I’ve seen this on deer carcasses that the wolves get to. Something merely didn’t dig out the organs… it ate them.” He slowly got up and turned his attention to the Snowcloak. “You gathered up the others?”

“No, your grace,” the man said and before Ned to question him about that he continued, “that is the worst part.”

“What do you mean, the worst part?”

“Whatever did this… it stacked the bodies for me.” He gestured at the still covered wagon. “It took the time to do that.”

Ned swallowed.

“Your grace,” Luwin said gently, softly, rising to his own feet as he finished with his examination. “A word?”

Ned nodded and Drax followed after him, calling out over his shoulder, “Have them prepared for burial. And see to the old man! Full comforts of Winterfell.” Servants scurried to do as they were commanded and Ned looked at his brother, a slightly bemused smile tugging on his lips. “What?”

“That is the most lordly I’ve ever seen you.”

“I know… I hate it.” He shook his head. “I would have given up being Lord of Winterfell in a single year, Ned. I’m not built for it.”

It was a strange thing to think about… that in another world Brandon might have lived yet Ned would have still ended up as the Lord of Winterfell, with his brother going off to fight with sellswords in Essos or explore parts of the North that hadn’t been trodded by the boots of civilized men for centuries. A strange thing to consider.

When they were far enough away from the others Maester Luwin turned to Ned and sighed. “I have looked over the bodies and heard what you have said to your brother and agree with the assessment: those people were butchered and then fed upon. It was something larger, perhaps a head taller than you, your grace. The wounds weren’t made with any blade though.”

“What do you mean?” Ned asked. “They were cut open.”

“They didn’t show signs of a sword or a knife. The cuts on the neck all bled at the same rate… they were made at once.”

“Maester Luwin… what are you suggesting?”

“I am suggesting… that they were made by a single being. A single person.” The Maester swallowed. “Your grace… I have served Winterfell for three decades now. I helped bring all but one of your children into the world and have cared for you.” The old man took a steadying breath. “It is known that… since his travels with Rickon… Prince Robb has changed.”

Drax instantly spoke up. “Robb didn’t kill those people.”

Ned though… wasn’t as convinced.

‘Venom speaks often of desiring flesh. Talks about eating organs. I know the cooks provide him with raw hearts and livers to feast upon.’ It was something Ned had never seen, for Robb and Venom were very careful to do it in private, away from Catelyn lest he upset her… but it was still something he had done.

“Your children… the wolf’s blood is hot in their veins,” Luwin continued. “And we know little of Venom and what he is doing to Robb. He disappears often, seeking to be on his own. Without guards many times.”

Ned’s jaw worked. “Robb… is in the Wolfs Woods today.”

“Brother…” Drax argued.

But he held up a hand, looking to the green man. “Quietly gather a few men. Ride out and find Robb. Return him to me. We need to talk.”

Chapter Text

Natasha

“I hope this is to your liking, Ser Kevan,” Natasha said with a smile as she led him and his wife, Dorna, towards the small chamber she had selected for the evening. It was one of the more private feasting areas, set up to allow young princes to hold parties amongst good friends, back when the Red Keep had been filled with Royal Family members. In those days it wouldn’t have been uncommon for four different feasts to be occurring at the same time, with brothers and sisters throwing competing meals to see who could impress their friends with the most rich and decadent food available. Now, however, it was rarely used and Natasha had needed to get several maids to see it cleaned of dust and debris in order to make use of it. Thankfully being the wife of the Hand of the King and having a sweet little relationship with the King ensured that the servants didn’t stand around grumbling when she issues such orders. No, they instead snapped right to work and now the room was ready for what she had planned.

It wasn’t at all like one of the large family dining hall, or the Great Dining Hall. Rather it was just a small place where one might have a more intimate meal. A round table, rather than the standard long ones; one that gave one a perfect view of every member of the party. A few paintings of great moments in Westeros history that, thankfully, wouldn’t offend a soul. No images of Lannisters being marched out to the headsman or the North rampaging through the field of battle or anything of the like. It was all designed to be comfortable and cozy, just as Natasha wanted.

“We thought, with our three pairings being the only married couples part of the Small Council, that it would be nice for all of us to dine together. We after all view things a bit different from everyone else.”

“Of course,” Ser Kevan said with a soft smile, holding his wife’s hand. “It is a wonderful gesture.”

“And far better than one of those large drafty halls,” Dorna said softly. Natasha knew that the woman was out of her depths in King’s Landing; her spies told her that she far preferred her household in Lannisport to Casterly Rock… and certainly more than King’s Landing. She wasn’t one to ever draw attention at parties, easily overshadowed by her niece Cersei and her goodsister Genma; both of them could command a room with a few words and some well chosen looks but Dorna Lannister would never be able to have that power. Life had blessed her with a weak chin and a plain face. Had she not been born into a family that the Lannisters needed to keep happy she would have most likely have ended up with a reluctant knight as her husband. She was smart enough, Natasha supposed, but not someone overly clever either. All of which meant that the Capital was a poor place for her, unless she was kept in a single room and with the people of her choosing that she wanted to spend time with.

But with Ser Kevan staying far longer in the Capital than any had imagined it had been decided by the couple that she would give life in the Red Keep a chance.

‘Something I will take advantage of,’ Natasha thought. ‘It would pay to have a friend amongst the Lannisters.’ Even with Jon having secured the loyalty of Tommen through, the admittedly sad, act of actually showing the boy a touch of attention she knew that there were plenty in the family that would want to try and convince the boy king to listen to them rather than Jon and would see the best way to achieve that as getting rid of her husband.

That wasn’t something Natasha was going to allow and making deeper connections to the Lannisters would only serve to protect him all the more.

‘Tyrion will be the Lord of Casterly Rock… with Tommen as King and Tywin having not named another heir it must fall to him. Had Joffrey lived he would have denied Tyrion such an honor but Tommen loves his uncle and he will not move to stripe Tyrion of the Rock. Thanks to Tony that means that Tyrion will have Jon’s side and with Ser Kevan that will give him another ally should things become… messy.’

“I very much agree,” Natasha said. She had dressed very conservatively for dinner, thankful that a fall wind had lowered the temperatures in King’s Landing so she could get away with some thin furs. Jon had been shocked by the numerous outfits she had, not used to having that many garments to his name and even more not used to just how many dresses a woman could have.

Natasha was glad she had selected such an outfit, as the last thing she wanted to do was shock Ser Kevan’s ladywife. Dorna was very religious, again according to her spies. It was known that she prayed seven times a day, as it wasn’t a secret, but what wasn’t known was that she also made it a project to make copies of the Seven Pointed Star, the holy text of the Faith. Such a woman wouldn’t have taken kindly to a plunging neckline and a hem that showed off much of Natasha’s legs and thighs. She also knew that she was already working with one black mark against her by being a bastard… and another for being married into Antony Stark’s family. “I have found that I much prefer small gatherings… the clatter of large feasts is so distracting.”

“I quite agree,” Dorna said. “It is why I asked Cersei not to throw a feast welcoming us.”

‘And I doubt she was going to do so anyway,’ Natasha thought. ‘She seems far more occupied with other things nowadays.’ She was still trying to figure out what was going on with the Queen Mother, as Cersei wasn’t acting like herself. She wasn’t attending Small Council meetings as she used to, nor was she haunting the throne room as she had with Joffrey. Natasha had assumed that Cersei would begin to gravitate towards Tommen much as she had Joffrey and been rather surprised when Cersei hadn’t, ignoring him as she always had. If it weren’t for the fact that the Queen Mother seemed forever distant and quiet she would have just assumed it was still grief over Joffrey’s death. But no… Cersei wasn’t acting like herself… and Natasha hated that. She wanted her enemies to be predictable. While there was something to be said to challenges, spicing up life as it were, when they were threats to her husband she wanted them to always act as she expected so she might make them suffer the moment she needed them to.

“You did make a mistake though,” Ser Kevan said as they arrived at the small chamber, the doors already open and two servants waiting to greet them “Lord Tyrell is married.”

“Yes and I did want him to come but I am afraid he has had other matters to attend to. He sends his apologizes.” In actuality Mace was having dinner with a Braavosi merchant interested in setting up a deal with the Reach for some trade… all arranged by Natasha, of course. Nothing would come of the deal but it would distract the Tyrells and keep them from attending her dinner. Even with the power they had gained by marrying Margaery to Tommen they still craved more wealth and influence and such a deal would provide that… assuming, again, that it was real. The merchant owed Natasha a favor and he was getting a free meal out of it so all were happy. Especially Natasha as she wanted the Tyrells far away from the evening she had planned. “And Jiffsum Davus is doing inspections of the evening patrols but promised he and Rio would attend the next dinner…should we all decide to have another one.” Again, that one had been by choice though more because of a lack of knowledge…

“That is too bad,” Dorna said. “Rio Davus brought me a lovely basket of fruits when I arrived. Such a pleasant woman.”

…and Natasha now knew that Dorna Lannister was no bigot who would have become flustered by a dark skinned man and his dornish wife sitting at the same table as her.

But with them gone that just left her and Jon, Kevan and Dorna, and the final part of their group-

“One does have to wonder how she got into the North. If she did so while pregnant with your direwolf and his siblings then it must have happened when they were still quite small. Because the swim would have been hard on her otherwise.”

-Lord Otto Octavius and his wife Rosalie.

Jon was already seated at the table, giving the new Master of Coin his full focus. And Otto was being quite animated in their discussion, much to the amusement of his wife who had to keep moving his wine glass to keep it from being hit by his hands.

“You believe that she swam?” Jon asked.

“Well, I certainly doubt she scaled the Wall!” Otto joked, shaking his head at the thought. “I suppose there may be a tunnel or two… one hears about such things from time to time but usually it is because of wildlings being rather ambitious. No… I think your direwolf’s poor mother did as most wildlings do: took to the sea.” He shrugged. “It is the obvious weakness of the Wall, after all: you can’t have it across the ocean.”

Jon nodded. “Do you believe she swam or that she was brought down by a wildling?”

“That is an interesting question. And I think it depends on when she mated with your direwolf’s father.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well-“

“Otto,” Rosalie said, placing a hand on his shoulder. She nodded towards Natasha and the Lannisters and at once Otto leapt to his feet.

“Ser Kevan! My apologizes, I didn’t realize you had arrived.”

Ser Kevan waved him off. “It is perfectly alright. It was an interesting conversation. I certainly have never discussed the travel movements of animals thought ancient.”

Introductions were quickly made and everyone settled down as the servants brought out the first courses. Natasha had been careful in selecting the food that would be served. People who knew of the training her father had put her through thought all she had learned was how to fight. But her instructors had taught her every method of warfare. How to kill with any weapon, yes, but also how to seduce. How to use her body to milk a man or a woman of their secrets and leave them willing to betray all they cared for if it meant they pleased her. How to research and discover things that were hidden within the annals of history. How to create spy networks. And just as important as all that was how to use the most common of things to achieve her end goals… including meals.

Enough courses that people would need to stay but not so many that they would grow tired. Filling enough that it made people want to return but not so much that it lay heavy on their stomachs. And they needed to be tasty enough to keep people in a good mood but not so much they became distracted by the dishes. She had been to feasts where the meals were so disgusting that it led to revolts and had seen people become so obsessed with what was on their plate that they refused to speak to anyone seated next to them. Natasha wished to avoid all that.

‘And there is the matter of the seasoning,’ she thought. ‘Just salty and spicy enough that everyone eating needs to drink the watered down wine I am providing… something to loosen tongues.’

Natasha had decided to stick with Westerland dishes, to make everyone feel comfortable. But she had gotten the cooks to try a few unique things, to make the meal a bit more interesting.

“How are you liking the capital, Lady Octavius?” Ser Kevan asked as he selected one of the small bread loaves from the basket on the table. He looked it over carefully, not used to his bread being so small. It was coated in butter and garlic and inside had fresh garlic-infused cheese. “I imagine it is quite different from what you are used it.”

“It is,” Rosalie stated, thankfully not taking any offense to what could have been seen as an insulting question. “Far different from Oldtown.”

“Oh,” Ser Kevan said, suddenly looking bashful. “I wasn’t-“

She waved him off with a pleasant smile. “Its fine. People assume because of where our lands are that I must have come from some settled little piece of Westeros where there are more sheep and cattle than people. Where when you look out all you see is endless plain, perhaps a mountain or two in the far distance. Where the biggest body of water is a stream that you can’t quite jump over and seeing another person who isn’t a blood relative is alarming.”

“So the North,” Jon japed and that got chuckles out of everyone, helping to ease the mood even more. Natasha was so utterly proud of him for that and planned to give him a nice mouth hug later for his work.

“But I spent my youth in Oldtown,” Rosalia commented. “That’s actually how I came to meet Otto.” She took her husband’s hand and the Master of Coin at once turned to her, a soft smile on his lips.

‘You make it sound like you were just some common girl who spent her days idly within the city,’ Natasha thought to herself, hiding her smirk.

Rosalia Octavius had once been Rosalia Smalltower, part of an offshoot of the Hightower Line; in fact there were many who had come to believe that had Oldtown not bent the knee to Aegon the Conqueror he would have wiped out the Hightowers as he had the Gardner Kings and placed the Smalltowers as the rulers of Oldtown much as he had placed the Tyrells in charge of the Reach. While only a 3rd cousin to the Hightowers Rosalia had still led a charmed life… and her disappearance 25 years prior had been a source of terror for Oldtown.

When it had been discovered that she was gone, with only a quickly jotted note stating she was okay and would return soon, that should have been the end of it. While not common plenty of highborn girls disappeared from home. Sometimes it was innocent… going off to see family or, if one believed in fairytales, to be with the love of their lives and they would return home Princesses. More often than not they returned with bastards… or left them behind, having been sent off by their parents to have their sinful child under the guise of running away. It wasn’t openly discussed but it happened.

But Rosalia was known for not being that kind of girl and the fact that there had been no reports of her leaving the city, even in the gossip groups that all cities had, sent the entire city into a worrying frenzy. Had the Ironborn snuck in and taken her? Was it Dornish invaders seeking Sand Brides? Could she have been killed and the note a fake? The Tyrells had called for investigations (and that just so happened to allow them to replace the head of the City Watch with one of their own…), the Faith had claimed it was yet more proof that the seat of their religion should be in Oldtown once more (no one… quite understood how that logic worked), and the highborn girls of the city all were given guards to watch over them.

When she had returned several years later on the arm of Otto Octavius, now the Lord of Sunflash after the death of his elder brother during the Defiance of Duskendale, all had been relieved and seen it as something out of a fairytale. She had claimed that she had no memory of what had happened and that had been accepted as the truth of the matter. Everyone was just happy that she was alive… not because they honestly cared but because the people of Westeros hated mysteries that were never solved.

‘If only they knew the truth,’ Natasha thought as Rosalia and Dorna discussed the goods and bads of King’s Landing. ‘She never left Oldtown… she was in the Citadel, pretending to be a bastard boy named Robar Flowers.’ It had been Otto who had discovered the truth about her and rather than reveal the truth to the Archmaesters had helped her in her deception. That had led to a friendship and later love. ‘The true fairytale, though none would admit it. A young woman daring to enter the Citadel and learning their ways would be horrifying to far too many…’

The only other to know the truth, though neither Otto or Rosalia knew it, was Natasha’s own father. Oberyn had been interested in both of them, gone to seduce them both, and discovered the truth and decided it was more fun to remain silent.

The first course came and went and then the second. The conversations continued to be light and fresh, much to Natasha’s pleasure. While she was a spy (among many other things) the dinner hadn’t been set up with any true goal in mind when it came to secret knowledge she wished to gain. Rather it was all about building alliances. Jon was Hand of the King and from the way Tommen was…

“Tommen… his grace…” Kevan made a face.

“He is your nephew,” Jon said. “I doubt he’ll mind if you wave away the honorifics.”

“It isn’t proper,” Kevan said before letting out a sigh. “But… I suppose you are right.”

“I won’t mention it to him,” Jon said and Natasha knew if it were anyone else in King’s Landing that would have been a mocking threat. A challenge to get Ser Kevan to offer Jon up something to stay his tongue. But her husband was just a ‘frank and straight to the point Northerner’ and people had come to understand that when he said something… well, he meant it.

“Tommen told me that you are showing him how to use his left hand when swinging a sword.”

Jon nodded. “I have my suspicions…” He paused.

“Oh, you can’t keep quiet now,” Otto said. “Not when you told Ser Kevan to speak frankly.”

Jon nodded at that, accepting the gentle rebuke for what it was. “Aye. I don’t want to speak ill of those that have taught him but I believe that Tommen might be left handed.”

“Are you sure?” Ser Kevan said. “At meals he eats with his right…”

“But that is to be expected,” Dorna commented, surprising Natasha that she had spoken up at all. “Everything at a feast is set up with the idea that you will be using your right hand. Even conversation is supposed to be with someone on a particular side, based on the right hand.”

“Exactly,” Jon said. “I think someone began to force it into Tommen’s head that he must use his right hand.”

Ser Kevan frowned at that. “It would explain his clumsiness. Robert was a skilled warrior and Jaime was as well… and even Tyrion has shown skill with an axe. Tywin was quite well versed in how to use a blade.” He leaned forward. “You truly believe that Tommen is left handed?”

“I do. I had him swing two swords today and every strike with his left was far more true than the ones with his right, despite the practice we’ve put in.” Jon took a moment to dip his spoon into his soup, sampling a bit before continuing. “They weren’t as strong as they should be but that is because he hasn’t been using the arm the way he should.”

Kevan nodded at that. “Then you must see to it he is trained. It is a crime that we didn’t notice.”

“One would have thought Cersei would have seen him moving towards his left and said something…” Dorna said.

Natasha fought the urge to roll her eyes at that. She couldn’t determine what was more likely: that Cersei had seen Tommen using his left hand and demanded he stopped out of some misguided belief that it was ‘wrong’ or ‘evil’ or ‘unbefitting a prince’… or that she just hadn’t noticed because seeing Tommen use his left hand would have required her to actually pay attention to her son for more than twenty seconds.

“It is good that you noticed,” Otto stated. “The boy doesn’t deserve to be hobbled just because someone is utterly foolish about such things.” He shook his head, looking at Rosalia. “I sometimes wonder if things will ever get better…”

“Oh hush, none of that talk here.”

“What talk?” Natasha asked, intrigued. Servants moved about to take their bowls, Nat sure that at least three of them with spies of Olenna Tyrell, one a spy of Cersei, and all of them already brought into HER services, and the smell of braised beef filled the air as the next course was brought into the room.

Rosalia looked at Otto and shook her head. “Oh no… don’t you dare.”

“But she asked,” he said with a smirk. “It would be rude not to answer.”

“And what is this all about?” Kevan asked and Rosalia, clearing seeing she wasn’t going to win the argument now that the couple had everyone’s attention, let out a bemused sigh and motioned for Otto to continue.

“One of the links I managed to forge at the Citadel-“

“Managed, my husband says,” Rosalia said, cutting him off. “As if you weren’t one of the greatest minds there. You could have been an archmasester, master of the Citadel, had you completed your studies.”

“I merely wished to be humble.”

“The only reason you never forged a full chain was that you couldn’t decide which links to connect to each other.”

Otto merely smiled at that, taking her hand and kissing the back of it before he began to speak once more. “One of the links I forged at the Citadel concerned the studies of history. A rather common one, as I am sure you can understand. Every maester should know the history of Westeros, after all.”

“Of course,” Kevan stated. “Tywin was fond of saying that only by understand history are we able to see how it affects the present.”

Natasha wasn’t for sure if ‘fond’ was a word she would ever use to describe Tywin and how he lived his life but she kept that quip to herself.

“I have found that the world tends to move in cycles of roughly 43 years. You have a time of great upheaval and war. This is followed by a time of great prosperity and development. We then have the stagnation which ends the cycle. There are other parts to it-“

“But those three are the only ones you need to know,” Rosalia said, cutting him off.

“Oh, but they can’t understand the full flavor and complexity of the cycle if they don’t…” he trailed off as his wife shot a look at him and he finally nodded. “Of course you are right that some times are better left for deeper examinations. Now then… there is some variation in the length of the cycle, as sometimes it runs a bit long and other times a bit short but the fact remains that it does exist. In fact it has existed for thousands of years. I actually wrote an entire book about it…”

“Explain more about the cycle,” Jon said, interested in what Otto was getting at. “You said it starts with upheaval…”

“Indeed,” Otto said, clearly growing excited that he had an audience interested in his passion project. “Now, while it would be rather easy to use the rule of the Targaryens that is rather… well, to be honest I think that too many maesters overuse the House of the Dragon when it comes to explaining things. They represent such a small fraction of the history of Westeros, after all. Let’s go with the rule of the Lannisters when they were kings, shall we?

“We’ll use the timeframe of 872 BC to 731 BC. That gives us three runs of the cycles. We have the Coal Wars, the Scarred Lion Rebellion, and the Iron Born attack of 777. Moments each of great upheaval that changed the rule of the Westerlands forever. This was then followed by periods of great advancement. The Reigns of King Tykek II, King Henrik and then his son King Harvik, and finally the reign of King Melgin.” He paused. “Though of course everyone knows that Queen Seara, Melgin’s wife, was the true power behind the throne. In fact I have reason to believe that Melgin was dead ten years before the maesters put his death but that Queen Seara…” He waved off whatever he was going to say. “I suppose it doesn’t matter. What does is that the Westerlands in those times saw not merely peace but also advancement.” Otto began to tick off the points. “The development of better mining bracers for the tunnels, which of course allowed for deeper and safer mining. The Fair Isle Method for cleansing crabs, which at once solved the hunger issues, especially during winter. And of course we can’t forget the development of the Lannister Method for producing more durable scrolls.”

“Of course,” Natasha said, only following about a tenth of what Otto was talking about.

“But all good things must come to an end. Summer gives way to fall which gives way to Winter, after all. These periods of growth begin to slow until, finally, there is the stagnation. Sometimes it is a case of the nobles becoming to fat and lazy to properly rule. Other times it is a simple matter of peace allowing problems to bubble up… after all, it is easy to unite a house against a common foe but when there is nothing to battle you will only have the annoyances of your siblings that begin to fester into feuds. Eventually though the stagnation comes to a head and, well…” he pressing his hands together before suddenly jerking them apart, splaying his fingers out wide.

“I admit that is interesting,” Ser Kevan said and Natasha almost believed the man. Almost. “But I’m not quite sure what brought this on.

“It must be clear to you though where we are, currently,” Otto said. When Ser Kevan merely stared at him, confused, the Master of Coin sighed. “We have seen our great upheaval. Robert’s Rebellion brought about great change. The House of the Dragon is no more, the last embers of it in Essos.”

‘And sitting at this table cutting into his meat,’ Natasha thought.

“Robert’s reign should have been the start of the Great Progress.” Otto sighed. “And yet… nothing. Worse than nothing. It feels as if we skipped past our chance to see improvements in the way we live our lives and moved right into the stagnation.

“I do not wish to speak ill of the dead but… King Robert had such a grand opportunity to take Westeros into a new age. To push us forward to our next evolution. We could have explored unknown lands!” Otto threw his arm out wide. “The Sunset Sea has been ignored for over a century because Alyssa Farman tried to sail it and never returned. But we have learned so much when it comes to mastering the waves… why not try again? Seek out House Velyrion and give them a chance to make a place for themselves once more in Westeros after they fell from power thanks to Aerys. Or the Iron Born… not the Greyjoys but there surely are those on the Iron Islands who would love to put their names in the history books.

“And then there is the North.” And there he turned to Jon. “Robert was friends with your father, to the point that they were nearly brothers. Robert could have commanded an army to begin marching beyond the Wall and discover what lays in the Lands of Always Winter. What secrets do they hold?”

“Somehow I don’t see Robert as an explorer,” Kevan commented.

Otto dismissed that with a wave of his hand. “Then there are other things he could have done. Sought ways to aid the smallfolk to raise them up, so that they might in turn help improve Westeros. Or seek to improve our laws… such a task has not been done since Jaehaerys the Wise.” And then Otto’s smile fell. “But no. Robert decided to hold countless feasts and tourneys and do nothing of importance. His name will be remembered for winning one rebellion and stopping another. A waste!” He slammed his fist onto the table, causing the dishes to rattle. “The might of the Baratheons and the genius of the Lannisters! Your two families, merged together? It should have meant something! And then there were his allies. Lord Stark might not be the most daring man but there are others in the North with strong minds… why did Robert not select one of them for his Small Council?”

“He probably believed that Ned would take offense to it,” Natasha commented. “And he didn’t want to be part of the Court… Robert had to drag him to the Capital.”

“Jon Arryn did offer,” Kevan said, causing Natasha to nearly pull a muscle whipping her head in his direction. “And my brother agreed. Jon Arryn suggested Master of Laws while my brother felt that a new position could have been created, one focused on the very smallfolk you spoke of, Otto.”

That left Natasha utterly floored and she could tell Jon was just as shocked. ‘I doubt he is making it up. Ser Kevan has no need to try and please Jon with such words… he has been quite clear on his loyalty to the crown, or believed loyalty I suppose I should say. So… Jon Arryn and Tywn MUST have considered that.’ Master of Laws would have been… interesting… with Ned in that position, as she knew that he would have been rather like Cregan Stark in seeking justice after the Rebellion. Many in the South saw him as seeking blood for blood but Natasha knew the Maesters (or at least the ones with an open mind) saw that Cregan’s actions did allow for peace to return to Westeros, far stronger than it had been before the Dance. Ned would have done the same thing, putting to the block many and truly removing the overgrowth and dead brush that had gathered in the Kingdom.

But… that was why Tywin would have never allowed it. He would have lost half his commanders to Ned’s justice.

‘But a Master of Smallfolk…’ she thought, ‘that might have worked out well…’

“What could have been!” Otto bemoaned. “And with the Tullys as well… oh, the Age we could be living in right now had Robert simply had the same and drive and ambition that he had during the Rebellion. But instead… instead we skipped right through the Age of Evolution and went right into sloth. And with the War of the Five Crowns we move right into upheaval again.” Otto shook his head. “We should have been on the cusp of greatness and instead nothing has changed.”

“I don’t know about that,” Jon stated. “Perhaps you are just looking in the wrong spots.”

“Oh?” Otto said, raising an eyebrow. “And what do you mean by that?”

“We live in an era where men can fly,” Jon pointed out with a small smile.

Rosalia chuckled at that, shooting her husband a victorious little smile. “I keep bringing up the Iron Man and the Centurion but Otto always dismisses me.”

Otto folded his arms over his chest like a petulant child told it was time to go to bed. “Because it is supposed to be great development and change for all of humanity, not a single person.”

“Who is to say though that the Iron Man won’t lead to improvements for all?” Jon asked. He glanced at Ser Kevan. “Of course it is terrible that he targeted Joffrey-“

The knight though held up a hand. “It is fine, Jon, it’s fine. I understand what you were trying to get across.” He let out a sigh. “It is too bad that the Iron Man is against us… even if he would refuse to fight for us he has won over many of the smallfolk. Joffrey’s reign was affected by his words against him… I suppose the fact that he only set his anger upon him, rather than our family, is a blessing.”

“He could still return,” Dorna said in a worried tone. “Poor Tommen… I hope that he can avoid that.”

“I won’t let any harm come to him,” Jon said and Natasha rubbed her mouth so she might hide the smirk that was threatening to blossom on her lips; oh, how she loved it when Jon said one thing and meant another. Him being cunning was such a treat.

“There may not be any need to worry,” Rosalia spoke up. “After all, the Iron Man hasn’t inserted himself into the War of the Five Crowns, has he?”

“You are right, Lady Octavius,” Kevan stated. “I suppose we can be grateful that he hasn’t actually turned his attention towards King’s Landing. Many of us feared when he rescued Ned Stark that the North would be fighting with a man could fly and send out beams of magic that would reduce their foes to atoms. But honestly the Iron Man had done more to defend the Westerlands than he has the North… I sometimes wonder if it had been Tommen there that day, rather than Joffrey, if things might have been different.”

“Come now,” Dorna said, patting Ser Kevan on the arm, “Joffrey was but a boy-“

“Who was also a king,” Kevan stated firmly. “One who broke his word and plunged us into war.” He let out a huff of annoyance. “The Maesters will not be kind Joffrey when his history is written, we must all accept that. He did nothing in his reign that brought glory to Westeros, his family, or even himself. Stannis was driven back by Tyrion and Tywin. The Tyrells were brought into the fold by Tywin as well. When battle came to King’s Landing he fled. He never attempted to win his spurs and did not compete in a single tournament.”

“One could argue that Natasha here bathed herself in more glory than our king,” Otto said causing Natasha to smile… even as she mentally wondered if she could get away with slicing the new Master of Coin’s tongue out of his mouth before he revealed more than she desired. Even if it was a jest she didn’t need people looking into her history.

“But Joffrey’s errors were great and one could say that much of the problems that we have faced during his reign can be traced back to him.” Ser Kevan rubbed his forehead at that, as if he were trying to pluck the thoughts out of his head concerning his great nephew. “I’m sorry, this is the proper conversation to have.”

“Well…” Otto said slowly, clearing trying to think of something he could say that would clear the air after what Ser Kevan had just said to all of them, “I suppose then we can at least drink to King Tommen’s health.”

“Yes, I believe we can,” Dorna said quickly and she waved for a servant to bring more wine.

‘So, there are some Lannisters that see through the rosy picture Cersei tried to paint of Joffrey and understand just how badly she failed to bring up a proper king.’ She lifted her glass so a servant could fill it up. ‘Now the question becomes if they will be able to learn from their mistakes.’

Because for the good of all of Westeros… she prayed that they did.

‘Because Thanos will not care about our petty squabbles. He will not pause his march upon us all just because we are feuding and fighting amongst each other. If we wish to survive the Long Night that is coming for us all we must unite… or we will die.’

Chapter Text

Gwen

Grand Maester Pycelle puttered through the Great Library of the Red Keep, occasionally stopped to look at a shelf of books or a collection of scrolls. The old man sometimes didn’t do more than glance at them. Other times he murmured to himself, muttering about what he was seeing. Once he stopped and actually removed a book, flipping through its pages before letting out a huff of annoyance over something he had found before placing the book right back where he’d found it. At a small section of cubby holes that held scrolls that were kept in tin tubes with bronze caps he paused to check to ensure that they had been dusted properly before nodding to himself, pleased with what he found. All was in order in the library. Everything was being properly cared for.

The Great Library of the Red Keep was the second greatest collection of knowledge in all of Westeros. Only the Citadel of Oldtown was able to beat it, being so large that if a man, from the moment of his birth, began to read just the titles of every book that had been collected by the Citadel they would be long dead before a quarter of the tomes had been looked upon. But while the Citadel was able to brag about such knowledge they weren’t able to claim that they made the Red Keep useless. No… within the castle completed by Maegor the Cruel were texts that were the sole copies left in existence.

It was whispered by the servants that there was a lost copy of A Wanton’s Tale, put under the title of A Thousand Cocks For Three holes, that was so perverse that it would make a man spill his seed just reading it. The Testimony of Aemond, a diary kept by Aemond One-Eye concerning the Dance of the Dragons; while it was known to have existed and was required reading for many Targaryen Spares so they might understand that a Dragon could hold power and serve the Realm without being king, no one knew if it had survived Robert’s wrath. More recently there was The Teaching of The Foot, brought to the Red Keep just after the Greyjoy Rebellion by a Yi Ti monk who had disappeared along with, of all things, four baby turtles that had been gifted to Princess Myrcella; the book was said to detail the secrets of an ancient band of assassins.

All of these, and many more, were kept in the Red Keep and only the Red Keep. Tomes that were the last of their kind or the only ones found West of the Narrow Sea. Gifts from friends to the Court and spoils of war taken from enemies. All placed in the Halls of the Dragon and protected by the Grand Maesters sent by the Citadel to watch over the castle. It was rumored that many Grand Maesters were asked to smuggle back a few rarer books but never did… because they knew they held knowledge no other tome did and if they gave them up to the Citadel they would never see them again. Like a parent that clung to their child even though they had reached the age of fostering the Grand Maesters refused to release the tomes and books and scrolls to Oldtown and their brothers that lived there.

The same was true of Grand Maester Pycelle. In fact it was a barely kept secret that he in fact had saved many books from Robert’s purging, hiding them in other books so that when he died it would take his replacement a lifetime to discover them all.

That was why the Grand Maester was so protective of his books. Couldn’t have someone come in, looking for a simple scroll, and accidently take one that detailed the last confessions of Aegon the Unworthy and the truth of why he had legitimized all his bastards, just as an example. He guarded his books, for he saw them as HIS even if they belonged to the Crown, and no one took a book without his permission. And he always wanted to know why someone was interested in a book.

It was said that he had driven Lord Tyrion to madness and the first thing the Little Lion had done when he had imprisoned Pycelle in a Black Cell was go through the library and claim some rare books to read. Pycelle had stood firm against Lord Tywin… oh, the Old Lion got every book he desired but he HAD to return each of them. He had been happy that Robert was a drunk with no interest in reading, nor his wife and his children. It allowed him to remain with the tomes.

The bent-back maester continued on to the next set of rows, never bothering to look up… and if he had he would have seen Gwen clinging to the ceiling, watching the old man turn a corner before she lowered herself down on a web line, looking over the shelves herself before selecting a book. She shoved it into her rump sack before pulling herself back up, making her way to another section to grab a few more scrolls as well as an engraving. She frowned as she looked over Petyr’s ‘shopping list’, making sure she had selected each piece he had asked for, before finally hurrying to a small vent that allowed some air into the room, crawling into it and wiggling her way down a tight tunnel before finally popping out in one of the main barely-used rooms in the Red Keep that the Spiders had claimed as their own.

“By the Old Gods and the New!” Petyr exclaimed as she landed on the ground, rushing over to her. “What are you doing?”

“Coming… in?” Gwen asked, looking about to make sure that no one was around. But it was just Petyr, Miles, and May. “Like we discussed.”

“You can’t just leap around like that! Do you know how fragile these books are!” He grabbed her rump sack and carried it over to the table like it was a jar of wildfire.

“Why do I get the feeling that he wouldn’t carry his own baby as carefully as he is those books?” Miles joked.

“Babies can heal, books can’t!” Petyr declared, setting the sack down gently on the table.

May shot her nephew a dark look, causing him to freeze up.

“Uh… I will be careful carrying around babies?” he said weakly.

“I don’t like how you made that sound like a question, Petyr,” May said firmly.

“I… I swear Aunt May-“

“And considering how you and Gwen are going at it babies are going to be something you’ll need to learn how to deal with sooner, rather than later.”

“MAY!” Petyr exclaimed in horror.

“I mean, considering how her hips nearly got her stuck I’d say-“ Mile began only to be cut off.

“We’re careful, May,” Gwen said, blushing with utter embarrassment. While she knew that everyone had learned that her and Petyr were sleeping together it was still terribly awkward that they were talking about it all the time. “We take precautions.”

That made Miles frown. “He sticks it up your butt?”

Gwen smacked Miles upside the head.

“OW!”

“Well?” May asked.

“What?” Gwen said.

May shot her a look. “Is he right?”

Petyr let out a groan, slamming his forehead against the table.

“…moon tea,” Gwen muttered. “I’ve been snatching Moon Tea from Pycelle’s storeroom.” She paused, face twisting up as she remembered what she’d seen. “He had an unusually large amount of it, come to think about it.”

“I’d prefer it if you went with Miles’ option.”

“MAY!” Petyr screamed.

But his Aunt May merely glowered at him. “No maid ever became heavy with child taking it in the rear.”

“You know,” Miles said, “Moon Tea only works like 80% of the time. And with how much you and Petyr screw…”

“Shut up Miles,” Gwen said, the black youth laughing as he went off to grab something to eat (far, far away from the books, lest Petyr go on a screaming rampage about him threatening the precious things), leaving Gwen with the others.

“You know… mathematically speaking,” Petyr said, suddenly nervous, glancing at her belly.

“…stop that,” she said with a dark glare, Petyr finally turning to look over the books. But Gwen did pause to look at May who glanced at Miles and then nodded. ‘80%...’ Gwen thought to herself nervously. ‘And we have no idea how our powers might affect the Moon Tea. Petyr can heal really quickly. What if his seed can too? Or what if I can teleport all of that…’ She shook her head violently, trying to dislodge the thoughts. ‘Its fine… its fine. Just dial back how much we have sex.’ She glanced at Petyr, bent over the table, rear sticking up for her to see, and found herself nibbling on her lower lip.

“Gwen, I will pour this wine over your head,” May said simply, causing the girl to yelp. “Now Petyr, do we have everything you asked for?”

“Oh yeah, these are perfect.” He grinned as he breezed his hands over the books and scrolls. “The collective writing of all Maesters of the Citadel who studied the Deeper Secrets. Otherwise known as magic, mystics, and anything else without a proper label in the regular world.”

“And you think the secrets to the Octopus Man are in these books?” Miles said casually, biting into an apple.

“He had tentacles, Miles,” Petyr said. “That doesn’t happen unless there is magic involved.”

“You don’t know that. Maybe some Iron Born… I don’t know…” He made a ring with his thumb and forefinger and began to plunge the index and middle finger of his other hand into it repeatedly.

“MILES!” Petyr exclaimed.

“What? It could happen.”

“No, It couldn’t.” Gwen paused, thinking that over. “Okay, so maybe it COULD happen… the sex thing, not the ‘give birth to an octopus thing’.”

“We are NOT talking about that in front of my Aunt!” Petyr snapped at Miles.

“Why not? We discussed you and Gwen fucking-“

“MILES!” all three of them roared.

“Fine, fine, making sweet fairytale love.” He rolled his eyes. “You didn’t mind that but an Iron Born sticking it in an octopus is a step too far?”

“YES!” Petyr screamed.

“It should honestly be a step too far for everyone,” Gwen muttered. “Though Miles does have a point. I mean, the Iron Born are known to do a lot of crazy and sick things-“

“Not just the Iron Born,” May stated as she set about sorting through the books. “I hate to break it to you but such acts aren’t limited to the Iron Islands. Right now there is a man who is seeing a hole and his first thought is “can I stick my dick in it?”“

“By the Seven,” Petyr moaned, looking a bit green.

Gwen snickered at that. “I have noticed that men tend to think with their dicks.”

“Yes,” May said with a smile… that turned just a bit sharper when she side-eyed Gwen. “And there are plenty of women that have seen something long and thought “can I shove that up my snatch?”.” Gwen winced at that.

“…I am missing something here,” Miles said.

“Nothing,” Gwen said quickly, not in the mood to let Miles know about an… incident… from a few months back. “So, the books Petyr?”

“Right,” Petyr said quickly. “So he wasn’t a human and an octopus’ bastard. That isn’t possible. There would have been more… octopus-like qualities. He just had the tentacles so that tells me there must have been magic involved. Something that allowed him to grow them or to cause them to come into being. A summoning spell or a way to transform part of his body into it.”

“Could it be another creature?” Miles asked. “Like… maybe he found some animal that has tentacles and he lets it right on his back?”

“Possibly,” Petyr muttered to himself. “Damn it, I should have had you bring me a book about rare and exotic animals!”

“I can get it right now,” Gwen offered.

“Or we can finish with what we have right now,” May said, looking over the books. She gestured at the books they had laid out before them. “Petyr, how do we do this?”

Petyr smiled at that and Gwen did too; May knew that this was Petyr’s element. He was a genius in so many things. She felt almost bad that the Seven Kingdoms would never get the amazing Grand Maester that Petyr could have been… almost. Because in exchange she knew any children she and Petyr had would raise the collective intelligence of Westeros by leaps and bounds.

“Okay, so Maester Grenn studied summoning. The idea that one could make something appearing out of thin air. Or, from what I gathered about what I read about him, gain something by offering something else. Miles, take that.” He smacked the other teen’s hands as soon as he reached for the book. “Gloves,” Petyr said, pulling out a pair of silk gloves.

“Oh, come on Petyr,” Miles whined.

“Everyone is wearing them,” Petyr said, donning some himself.

“This is stupid.”

“Sweat, dirt, grim… apple juice.” He gestured at Miles’ hands and the boy quickly ran them over his trousers. “These books are centuries old so we are going to protect them at all costs. So everyone wears gloves while they are looking through things.”

“I’m going to look like a girl!” Miles whined.

Gwen and May instantly snapped their gaze on Miles, causing the boy to lean back in shock.

“Which I would love to do,” he said quickly slipping on the gloves. “Nothing wrong with looking like a girl. In fact it is… very nice. So, something for something?”

“Correct,” Petyr said, gently sliding the book over to Miles. “Look to see about small rituals or ones that can be performed before the actual summoning. Doc Ock didn’t call out any spells or do any hand gestures… and he certainly wasn’t sacrificing bunny rabbits in order to create tentacles.”

“Who would sacrifice bunnies?” Miles said, eyes wide in horror.

“Evil people,” Petyr said before looking skyward, pandering what he’d just said. “Hmm… actually, now that I think about it, perhaps it is a sacrifice that involves octopi. Look that up too. Gwen.” He handed her another book, her gloves already firmly on. “Look for transformation spells. Things that would allow him to make parts of his body into tentacles. I’m trying to remember if he ever actually attacked us with his arms… those could have been false arms and the real ones were tentacles. Maybe his legs too. Damn it all, I wish there was a way for us to replay what happened in a fight, in order for us to review it. Like a painting but instantaneous. Maybe… if a fire flashes it can leave marks on the wall, creating an outline of a person. And certain minerals can create colors… if I could duplicate that and combine the two I could create a way to create instant paintings. Set up a rig-“

“Maybe focus on Doc Ock first, Petyr?” May said gently.

“Right,” Petyr said though Gwen had a feeling that he wouldn’t be abandoning that idea that had just popped into his head anytime soon. “So, May and I are going to take illusions. Perhaps-“

“Perhaps you should focus on being a bit more secretive… especially in the Red Keep.”

Gwen turned, as did the rest of her group, to see Natasha standing in the doorway, a bemused smirk on her lips.

And Jon right behind her, NOT looking happy.

“Uh…” Gwen said slowly. “We are planning your nameday party, Lord Jon!”

Miles quickly nodded. “You are ruining the surprise!”

“Its magic themed!” Petyr added.

May looked at her nephew. “You are smarter than that…”

Natasha just shook her head, entering and taking a seat. “You are lucky you have friends in high places… and that there is another Spider watching your back.”

“Huh?” Petyr said only to leap out of his chair in shock when Lord Varys entered with another gentlemen dressed all in purples and blacks, the former staring at them all in bemusement. “Lord Varys! Uh… uh… we are planning a party-“

“Petyr Parker,” Lord Varys said with a shake of his head. “Come now, from everything I’ve heard about you your aunt is correct: you are smarter than that. What with your… nightly activities…”

“You know,” Gwen said softly. ‘Natasha said to be careful around him… that he was someone that might be able to help us but someone to be cautious working with. But she hadn’t ever thought he would actually know our secrets!’

“That you three are the illustrious Spiders that have been helping the poor and downtrodden of King’s Landing? But of course. You are clever and rather sneaky, I will give you all that. But I am afraid that young spiders can still learn things from an Old Spider.”

“What he means to say,” the man in purple replied, “is that we’ve all been in the spy game far longer than you three have been in the heroics game.” He held out his hand to May. “Clynt Barton.”

“May Parker,” Petyr’s aunt said, allowing Clynt to kiss her hand. Despite the surprise and the shock at their arrival May held herself like a queen. In fact Gwen thought she looked more regal than Cersei did. “Now then, how exactly did you learn that we were doing all of this?”

Lord Varys smiled. “Oh, a Spider must have his secrets.”

“You know, when I first married my Benjen the first home we got in King’s Landing wasn’t the best. Oh, far better than Flea Bottom but nothing any of us would want to live in. There were spiders all over, which I suppose is good, because spiders at least eat the more troublesome pests, keeping the rest away.”

“Something I have said myself many times,” Lord Varys commented.

“There was this one spider that lived where we kept the chamber pot. Right in the lower corner. I could see it whenever I… well, you know.” She smiled, waving her had dismissively. “The point is that I would see it every day. I didn’t mind. I knew what to expect.” May paused before leaning forward. “There were other spiders though that loved to hide in dark little spots. In cupboards and drawers and the like. And every single one of those were crushed. Because they didn’t understand the rules: I like to know where my spiders are.”

And with that she lightly thumped the table.

“So… Lord Varys… how did you learn we were here?”

Gwen had heard much about Lord Varys. One didn’t live in King’s Landing without knowing of The Spider. For the poor folk he was a lifeline, the only chance many of them would have to make a bit of coin and hopefully survive another year. If you weren’t working for him you knew someone who was. If you didn’t know someone who was working for him then you were either dead or in league with the Queen, Baelish, or someone else on the Small Council… and most likely still worked for him. While Gwen herself had never been approached she was under no illusion that the people she had known, who had claimed to be her friends and who cared for her, were in league with Lord Varys. That at least a quarter of the people who had given her their sympathies when her father had died defending the city were his spies, curious to see what would happen to her. She wondered how much of May getting payments from the crown were a result of Lord Varys.

He was a powerful man. A cunning man. A Spider in his web, sitting in the center plucking the strands to see what he had caught.

But Spiders could be crushed if they didn’t play by the rules of the homes they dwelled in.

Lord Varys, Master of Whispers, had just realized what Gwen had come to understand after spending time under the guardianship of May Parker: King’s Landing didn’t belong to the King. Or the Queen. Or the Small Council.

It belonged to the people.

‘And gods help those that forget that.’

Lord Varys merely tilted his head slightly to the right. That seemed to be enough for May who merely nodded her head before looking at Jon and Natasha.

“How much did he tell you?”

“That you four have stolen books from the Great Library,” Natasha stated. “And that you are researching something. I’d like to hear from you what exactly it is.”

And Petyr… told them.

Every detail. From the moment they had spotted the break in at the blacksmith to the man emerging with the Valyrian daggers to him sending out his tentacles.

He told it all in his normal rambling cadence that Gwen loved so much because it just was… Petyr.

Jon… didn’t look like he was enjoying it all that much.

“I thought Lord Jameson was lying about that part,” he muttered. “And how long has it been since you fought this… octopus man?”

Petyr smiled. “He’s not really an octopus man. I mean, he only had tentacles, nothing else octopus-like. Though I guess he might have something under his clothes… we didn’t strip him naked, of course. Not that we strip any of the criminals we fight naked except for that one time and that was his fault for wearing just pants that had bad stitching! But I suppose that he could have had octopus things under his clothes.”

“Like being able to spray ink,” Miles said.

“That’s squids,” Clynt stated. “Not octopuses.”

“Are you sure?”

“Also,” Petyr chimed in, “while they can be called octopuses the better term is octopi. I mean, it sounds weird but it rolls off the tongue better-“

“Petyr!” Jon thundered, slamming his hands against the table, making the boy jump a bit in surprise. “The octopus-man-“

“Doc Ock,” Gwen stated only for Jon to switch his glare to her. At once she cringed, wincing at the intensity of his stare. “He, uh, called himself Doc Ock.”

“-Doc Ock. When exactly did you fight him?”

“About two weeks ago?”

Jon raised an eyebrow at that. “And when you say ‘about two weeks’ do you mean that you are rounding down or rounding up?”

Petyr shifted in his chair. “Well… does it really matter?” Jon though leaned in and Gwen’s partner blurted out. “Rounding down… from three weeks. But… but to be fair that is technically ‘about two weeks’ and-“

Jon pushed away from the table.

“I’m… I’m going to be quiet now.”

“That is the first smart thing you’ve said since I came into this room,” Jon snarled.

“Jon…” Natasha began.

“No,” he snapped, cutting her off. “No… don’t you dare try and justify this or play this off as not being a big deal.” He ran his fingers through his hair, tension clearly written about his face. “By the Old Gods Petyr how can someone so smart be so DUMB!?!”

“Hey!” Petyr exclaimed only to remember that it was wise to stay quiet.

Jon shook his head. “What was our agreement? Do you remember? What did we agree upon?” Petyr opened his mouth only for Jon to cut him off. “Natasha and I don’t shut all of this down and allow you to continue patrolling but you come to us, talk with us, and let us know what is going on! So why am I only hearing about this now from YOU… why is it I have been dealing with these rumors from Lord Jameson and denying them when you could have told me the truth!?!”

“We… we wanted to figure out what was going on,” Miles said softly. “Do the research and come to you with all the answers.”

Jon though let out a bitter laugh at that. “By the Gods Old, New, and Day Old, is this what my father and Tony had to put up with? Did I sound like this with all my excuses?” He looked skyward. “I owe them both apologizes, don’t I. No wonder father looks like he is a man of 50 instead of 30.” He walked over to the table that had all the food laid out and uncorked a wine bottle May had brought for herself. “Tony drinks even though he can’t get drunk… maybe its to pickle himself so no one can tell how having stupid youths ages him.”

“Uh…” Petyr said only for May to shake her head.

“So instead of coming to me, the Hand of the King who would have been able to GET YOU those books that you desperately needed you decided to risk stealing them. What if Varys wasn’t on our side, hmmm? Or if it had been the Queen’s spies that saw you with those books. They would have taken your hands as you snuck out of the library!”

“They’d have never caught me,” Gwen stated, unable to stop the bit of smugness that was pushing past her lips.

But that smugness died when Jon turned his ire towards her.

“You got it,” he said slowly. “And did you walk through the door when you stole these books?”

“… well, isn’t every opening-“

“By the Gods,”

“-a door when you really think about it? The point is I didn’t get caught!”

“WE CAUGHT YOU!” Jon exclaimed, gesturing at his group. Clynt gave a cheeky little wave at that while Varys just smiled. “You didn’t even send Miles! He can turn invisible.”

“He can what now?” Clynt asked.

Varys looked at the dark-skinned young man in surprise. “THAT I hadn’t been made aware of.”

“Thanks Jon. That secrets out,” Miles griped.

Jon jabbed a finger at him. “YOU don’t get to complain about secrets!” He looked back at Gwen. “This. This is why I told you three that you had to talk with me! Keep me informed!”

“We wanted to get more answers before we bothered you,” Petyr complained.

May nodded. “They didn’t want to burden you. They know you are a busy man.”

“And yet they make things even more chaotic for me,” Jon muttered, moving towards the table once more. But rather than sit down Jon merely placed his palms down on the hard surface, leaning forward to look at the three Spiders. “Why do you make things harder than they need to be? Just… just answer me that.”

“They’re young,” Natasha said. “We all made things hard on our parents.”

“I didn’t,” Varys commented. “Of course I never knew my parents. So one could argue I made things very easy on mine.” He paused. “Well, until I finally find them and ‘thanked’ then for all they did for me… then things wouldn’t be easy on them at all.”

“Fine,” Natasha said with a roll of her eyes even as Gwen stared at Lord Varys in horror, “the rest of us did that. It comes with youth.”

“I didn’t fight a tentacle man back in Winterfell,” Jon hissed. “And if I did I would have been smart enough to go to the man who offered me help and actually talk with him!”

“Oh?” Miles asked, Gwen wincing at how defensive he sounded. She knew why that was; while he had grown up in King’s Landing and was, as far as she was concerned, Westerosi, people looked at his dark skin and curly hair and thought he was a foreigner who was a fool or an idiot who didn’t know how to do anything. More than one servant in the Red Keep had tried to direct him to basins to wash his hands before eating or explained what a ‘fork’ was. It was insulting and degrading and Gwen and Petyr, and to a lesser extent May, Jiffsum, Jon, and Nat, had jumped to his defense but it had still left Miles with a rather big chip on his shoulder. “And what would you have done? Flied in there with your magical boots. Sorry, did I ruin that secret?”

“No, I knew that Lord Jon is the Centurion,” Varys said with a titter. “And I believe he was referring to the fact that Natasha is the best infiltrator in the world, Clynt is in the Top Five, I myself have three little birds who work in the Great Library, and Jon himself is Hand of the King and thus able to order Pycelle to provide any book you need.”

“…oh,” Miles said softly.

But Petyr wasn’t deterred. “Okay, maybe that’s all true… but we still got the books! And we are going to figure out who this Doc Ock is so then all of us-“ he spun his hand around the table like he was mixing some giant vat of oatmeal, “-can figure it out together.”

Natasha placed a hand over Jon’s own. “They do have the books and we are here… and there is nothing planned for the rest of the night.”

“And Varys here got rid of his little birds,” Clynt added.

“…fine,” Jon muttered.

“Wonderful!” May said happily. “More eyes will make it go by all the quicker. Now then,” she passed out more of the silk gloves Petyr had brought for all of them, “Lord Varys, what can you tell us about Doc Ock?”

“Nothing.”

Gwen blinked at that.

“…you’re the Spider.”

“I am,” Varys said with a soft little smile, one that would have been more proper on a baby’s feature’s than the grown man before her. “Or, rather, I was THE Spider. Now merely one of many since you three have claimed the titles.”

“The Lord of Whispers,” Gwen stated.

“Yes. Part of the Small Council. Some call me the Eunuch but I find that terribly insulting even if it is true. Are we going to keep listing all the cute little names and titles people give me because we might be here all night, especially if any of you are Pentoshi.”

“How… how do you not know about Doc Ock?” Gwen stammered out.

“Because I do not know about him. As much as I wish I was able to peer through the mists of the world and know all that happens I do not. I am beholden to my little birds and trust me when I state that not a single one of them have mentioned a man with tentacles for arms.”

“They grew out of his back,” Petyr stated.

“Ah, that changes things.”

“Really?” Petyr asked.

“No,” Varys said dryly. “Again, I am sorry but I know nothing of this man you speak of.”

“He attacked us after robbing a blacksmith!” Miles exclaimed.

“I know of the robbery, of course. It is all that many on the Street of Steel can speak of. Rather brazen and giving your own father many headaches, Young Miles. And as Jon stated Lord Jameson is blaring out to all about the theft… and that you are to blame.” Petyr, Gwen, and Miles opened their mouths to counter that but Varys continued on. “But other than that… well, there hasn’t been much to draw my attention.”

“A man… with tentacles,” Miles said slowly.

“It does NOW,” Varys corrected. “But until you informed me of this it was just another robbery. Yes, one of Valyrian Steel, a touch daring, but nothing where I was actively going to study it and try and determine who was the culprit. I put out notice that I was interested, of course, as I will do with more elaborate thefts-“

“It was Valyrian Steel,” May said slowly. “How could you not be interested in that?”

“My dear lady… while it is true that Valyrian Steel is rare it isn’t something that no one can find. And the theft of it is quite common. It is only the swords of great houses that are able to stay with their holders for more than a few years… it is quite common for daggers to appear and disappear often.” He paused, a slight smile forming on his lips. “Why, I happen to have a particular Valyrian Steel Dagger currently in my chambers… the one that was given to a catspaw as payment to murder Lord Jon’s little brother, Bran Stark. It came to Catelyn Stark, who gave it to her husband Eddard, who foolishly lost it to Lord Baelish. And I claimed it for myself, seeing as he is dead.”

“Except it isn’t in your room anymore,” Natasha said with a smirk. “You really should lock that secret chest of yours better… I do admit the hidden drawer was a bit tough to open but once I found the finger hole it was easy enough.”

Clynt chimed in. “You are one to talk, what with your secret cubby in the ceiling. I discovered that in 4 minutes and it only took another three to add that dagger to my collection.”

“Which I already raided,” Varys stated, causing both Natasha and Clynt to stare at him in shock. “Come now, you think I would be so foolish as to use a simple secret chest? No no no… but I do thank you for allowing me to learn where you both hide your prized possessions.”

Gwen just stared at the three of them, sensing that she and her friends were in the middle of a very ancient game that they didn’t know the rules of.

“The point,” Varys continued, “is that Valyrian daggers disappear all the time. Tywin Lannister was responsible for the theft of seven of them.”

“Wait…” Petyr said, brow furrowing, “but he’s always trying to buy Valyrian swords… why not-“

“Make a new Brightroar?” Varys asked. He tutted. “Come now… everyone knows that a sword is valuable because of its history. There is a reason why Aegon the Conqueror was seen as ‘fair’ and ‘just’ for only asking for the nameless castle-forged steel of his foes, rather than their Family Blades. A sword that has tasted the blood of a king will always be worth far more than a sword that is simply pretty.”

“We’ve gotten off topic,” Jon said. “Doc Ock.”

“Yes,” Varys said, looking at Gwen and then her friends. “As I stated there have been no reports of a man with octopus tentacles roaming about King’s Landing.” He held up his hand as Petyr opened his mouth to speak. “That isn’t to say that there isn’t one. Merely that if there is they are VERY good at hiding. Even a Spider can miss a few flies. But I will spread the word amongst my little birds, let them know that I am searching for a rather brazen thief. One that seems to want to take the theatrics of the Vulture King and apply them within the city, rather than outside.”

Clynt nodded. “I’ll keep an ear out in the taverns… most likely whoever this is won’t be bragging unless they are on the job. Might be all showy to you three but when trying to go about his day to day life he’s probably very non-descript. But sometimes people can’t help but drop hints… considering no one other than you three know about him he might be getting hungry for some attention.”

“And before that,” Natasha said, “we’ll do research. Because based on the books you selected you realized that this probably isn’t natural.”

Petyr bobbed his head quickly. “Yeah! Illusion or maybe a ritual or transformation spell…”

“Spells?”

All of them turned as one, Gwen staring in shock at the figure that was in the doorway. The one they had all failed to lock, much to their chagrin. But Gwen was focused not on that but the intruder.

It was Doc Ock.

Oh, he wasn’t wearing the long coat she’d seen him in last, nor did he have tentacles bursting from his back seeking to try and grab him. But she remembered his face well, as well as his voice, and at once Gwen was tense and ready. She could see Petyr moving to push May behind him while Miles had coiled up, just waiting for the right moment to spring into action.

“Lord Otto,” Jon said quickly, Natasha subtly grabbing a book and shoving it at Clynt. “How are you?”

“I am intrigued,” the man said as he took another step into the room. “I didn’t take you as someone who believed in things such as magic.”

“Magic is real,” Natasha said. “Or rather it was. It is fading from the world but that doesn’t mean one can’t learn about it. Petyr and his friends had some questions and we decided to explain some things to them. Give them a better understanding of the history of magic and what it once was like.”

“Well… splendid!” Lord Otto declared with a wide grin. “I studied a bit of the Deeper Secrets at the Citadel… I never got to forge that link, as that was right when I became Lord of Sunflare, but it always interested me. Do you mind if I join you? I have some books in my room that I think the young ones might enjoy!” Before any of them could answer Lord Otto hurried off.

“Well… this will be interesting,” Clynt muttered.

Gwen just stared at the doorway.

“Who… who was that?” Miles stammered out.

“Its fine,” Varys said quickly. “He’s the new Master of Coin but he seems trustworthy enough. At least as trustworthy as anyone in this city can appear. There is no need to worry. We can hide most of these books easily enough.”

Gwen though was utterly still.

“Gwen?” Natasha said, touching her arm.

“Oh… fuck,” Gwen murmured.

Chapter Text

Cersei

Cersei Lannister remembered each of her ‘first times’ at the Red Keep.

When her father had first brought her there the people of the court had noticed her at once, all wanting to speak with her. Women had paused what they were doing to welcome her to the Red Keep and invite her to join them for tea. Men had stopped and complimented her dress and her hair. All had suggested she befriend their daughters and spend time with their sons. Even the Mad King, who back then hadn’t been that mad at all, had said that she was a pretty little thing who was ‘a credit to her beautiful mother’. She didn’t quite understand, even after all these years, why her father had gripped her shoulder before she could say a word and forced her to continue moving on. The King of the Seven Kingdoms had complimented her!

But what she also remembered was Rhaegar. She had been hoping that she might spend some time with him, for it was only proper that they get to know each other, seeing as they would be wed once she flowered. Her father had claimed though that she was tired from the journey when the Queen had brought up giving them a tour, which was foolish! She hadn’t been tired at all… he perhaps had been tired but it wasn’t right that his weak constitution had kept her from viewing the castle that would become her home. The Queen had been going to show her about her home, Cersei’s future home. It was an event like out of the old stories, the passing of the torch. But her father had denied her that and pushed her along.

Yet she had managed to spot Rhaegar.

He had looked utterly beautiful. Not handsome as so many claimed; he was beautiful. She had briefly thought that he wasn’t a person at all but a statue, for he had been seated in the godswood of the Red Keep, silent and still as he looked up at the trees with a serene smile on his lips. A monument crafted to honor the Targaryens, made of marble and silver, to show that they were truly beyond mortals.

And then he had moved, causing her to gasp in wonder, and taken out his harp and begun to play.

The music had stayed with her for decades. The sad yet touching notes that Cersei had instantly understood the meaning of. The smallfolk had loved to claim that no one could understand why Prince Rhaegar played what he did, that his choices in music followed reasoning only he could understand. It was said how at a wedding for Lord Velyreon’s niece he had played such a sad song that all had wept yet at a Theon’s Night celebration, a time of terrors and frights, he had chosen a song so cheerful that even the dead that had haunted the halls had laughed and sang along with the rest of the crowd. But when she had heard his song that day in the godswood she had known that he was playing a lament that he had no one to stand beside him and Cersei had been driven to cry out that she was there and his lonely days had come and gone.

He would have been her gentle soul… and Jaime her strong flesh.

But… her father had taken her away. And what few times she’d been able to see Prince Rhaegar had been far too short.

(She dimly remembered that it hadn’t been the godswood where she had first met him but at the Tourney to celebrate the birth of his brother, Viserys. But that simply couldn’t be right… Cersei knew her own life and knew what had come to pass! She had dreamed of him often but she knew what was real…)

When she’d been forced to leave the Red Keep because of the foolishness of King Aerys and what she realized now was the utter failure of her father to do what should have been done to claim her birthright she had thought she would never return again. That she had been denied what was her’s and the world would never make sense again. Her Prince was forced to marry that ugly little creature from Dorne and Cersei had wept for him. How could he ever hope to be happy with her, with her dark skin and ebony locks and grating accent when he knew that Cersei lived? For months every time she’d heard a rider enter Casterly Rock’s main courtyard she had looked up anxiously, believing it to be Rhaegar proclaiming that he had come for her and they could begin their lives that would be filled with happiness. And when Ellia had born him a daughter Cersei had cursed out her father and Aerys in the privacy of her room, knowing that had they done the right thing and married him to her she would have provided the kingdom with strong sons that would bring about a new golden age. Silver and Gold. Rhaegar and Her. The world had made no sense.

But then the world had made even less sense.

Rhaegar came not to Casterly Rock but the Riverlands and abducted that northern whore Lyanna Stark. When Cersei had first heard the news she had thought it to be lies. NEVER would Rhaegar sully himself with the likes of her. ‘But he crowned her the Queen of Love and Beauty’ people whispered, to which Cersei would answer that it was the same way a knight would humor an ugly child and accept the flowers the tossed to them. It had meant nothing. She herself had been crowned the Queen of Love and Beauty at many Lannisport tourneys, after all! ‘But Lyanna is the Winter Rose’ they replied. A piffle! Roses died in the winter!

And then her Silver Prince had fallen to the Demon of the Trident and Cersei had been given another chance to claim nearly all she desired. Yes, she would never know Rhaegar’s touch but she would be queen and that was all that mattered.

When she had entered the Red Keep that time it had been as its future Queen and all had shown her the respect she deserved. Servants bowed and wept. Ladies flocked to her like birds. Men stared at her with open desire and despair, wishing to claim her and yet knowing they would never be able to do so.

All had been right in the world.

As Cersei moved through the halls of the Red Keep that morning a sense of wrongness filler her. She thought of those previous times and was struck by how much had changed, how different things had been rendered… and felt herself growing furious.

Servants moved past her, barely even nodding to acknowledge her, let alone bow. Knights did not drop to one knee or offer her tokens of devotion. Chambermaids went about their business, acting as if she weren’t even there.

It didn’t help that her head was killing her, skull throbbing as she fought off the affects of the night before. Because she refused to touch a drop of Reach wine or Dornish she had gotten bottles imported from Essos and the latest ones, while rather delicious, were far stronger than what she was used to and had left her head swimming the night before… and her body aching now.

Cersei stormed into one of the dining halls only to find it utterly empty. She looked about, a scowl on her features, as she stared at the empty table, the closed shutters, and the vacant seats.

Poking her head back out of the room she glowered when she spotted a maid walking by and waved her over. “You! Where is everyone?”

“What do you mean, your grace?” the woman said and Cersei’s jaw clenched at how the woman asked the question. No tremble as she spoke. No whimpering. No rush to answer the question. Just questioning what Cersei had said. The maid had coal black hair and dark eyes that at once reminded Cersei of Robert and if it weren’t for the fact that she was at least 5 years older than Cersei she would have thought she was one of his bastards. She had been VERY careful to make sure not a single one of his children got near the Red Keep, always fearful that if they were seen with Joffrey, Myrcella, or Tommen someone would realize the truth. It was why she had done all she could to keep Robert from visiting Storm’s End, lest he see Edric Storm. It was bad enough he sent him gifts, same as he did with that little bitch Myra Stone in the Vale. But no, the woman could not have been Robert’s and he had tended to prefer more exotic lasses after their marriage; something that bothered Cersei to no end but ESPECIALLY when he bedded blonde women. It was a slap in her face, a mockery of her.

“I mean,” she bit out, temper growing worse as she thought of her thankfully dead husband, “where is everyone? I came here to break my fast and I see no one. Where is my son? Where is my uncle? My aunt?”

The maid frowned, utterly confused by her question and Cersei wondered if she shouldn’t just shove the brainless dolt in a Black Cell. “His grace is at his lessons along with your uncle and his new instructor.”

“New instructor…” Cersei murmured before remembering that, yes, Tommen did have a new instructor that her uncle had found him. He had mentioned that he wished for someone other than Pycelle to instruct the boy and Cersei had agreed with him; though not for the reason her uncle had suggested. Kevan was concerned that Pycelle was too old and already was struggling to complete what tasks were given him. Cersei knew him to be a traitorous creature and with her father dead she did not trust at all that his loyalties had been transferred to her.

No… far better Tommen learn under the newly arrived Maester, in this case Maester Loptr, than under Pycelle.

‘I will need to seek him out soon and ensure he becomes my ally in full,’ Cersei though, mind considering the young red-headed maester.

“ I am not for sure about your aunt but I can find her if you wish,” the maid continued.

“Lessons?” Cersei though suddenly asked, realizing just what the maid had said. “Why is he having lessons before he has eaten?”

“Eaten?” the maid repeated.

“Eaten, you dolt!” Cersei thundered. “Food! Are you so addled in your head that you don’t understand such a basic concept?”

“I understood, your grace,” the woman said and Cersei was rendered silent by the fact that the woman was still TALKING BACK TO HER. “But your family has long eaten. His grace has been up for hours; he trained in the yard with Lord Jon and then broke his fast with him and Ser Kevan before going to his lessons with Maester Loptr.”

“Hours?” Cersei demanded. “My son has been up for hours? Who dared allow that!? He is a little boy and they are waking him during the Hour of the Wolf!?!”

“Hour of the Wolf?” the maid said. “No, your grace. Your son awoke at dawn.”

“Dawn?”

The maid nodded, face softening in a look of pity that made Cersei want to rip her heart out and crush it between her fingers. “Yes, your grace. It is now past noon.”

“Impossible,” Cersei declared but even as she said the word she thought back to the night before. She’d become angry that Uncle Kevan had gone to a dinner hosted by the Stark Bastard… one she wasn’t invited too. Never mind that she would never want to dine with him or his dornish whore but her being the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms should have meant that she was given an invitation. But she had been ignored and been forced to dine with several of the ladies of the court… a tiresome thing to do even on the best days. But her anger at the disrespect she had been shown… the only way she’d gotten through the meal was by drowning herself in wine to try and numb the pain that came from their shrill voices and annoying complains about their lives and their desires.

And afterwards she had retreated to her room to have a nightcap… and another… and another…

Cersei frowned. She had thought that the light she’d seen out her window was the full moon but she also remembered it raining that night, blocking out the moonlight and the stars…

“And no one thought to find me when I did not show up to break my fast?” she complained.

The maid though did not show an ounce of worry at the scolding she was receiving. “You have not come to any of the morning meals since before his grace King Robert passed, your grace.”

“That… that does not matter!” Cersei exclaimed. “I am hungry and you will see that I am fed!”

“Of course, your grace,” the maid said. “If you will come with me.”

But Cersei remained rooted in place. “I wish to eat here. Why do you not have this room prepared?”

“Your grace, we have not used the Ruby Room for meals since I came to the Red Keep.”

She found that impossible to believe. She remembered well eating in that room with her father, sometimes joined by the other ladies in waiting… “And when was that? 10 minutes ago?” she said snidely.

“I served first as a coal girl in 275 AC, your grace.”

Cersei felt her brow flex at that.

‘275… how long ago was that? Only a few years, surely. I came to the Red Keep for the first time when I was but a girl of Seven and I am… I am…’

She couldn’t even remember how old she was.

Cersei found herself glancing at one of the polished mirror shields that hung on the wall. They had been designed, according to Maester Pycelle, to bounce the light around the halls when the winter months came, to brighten up the Red Keep. That way a million candles weren’t needed. Cersei didn’t know if that was true, as she couldn’t remember spending a winter in King’s Landing. At that moment though her greater fear was what she would see in its reflection.

For one terrible moment she had a vision of looking into the metal and seeing an old crone looking back at her. One with only a few teeth in her mouth, gums pocked with holes and a tongue that was rough and dry. A leathery face that was hung down all over, obscuring her misty white eyes. Thin gray-white hair that fell in greasy strands. A skeletal body that looked half decomposed already.

But what she found was her own face staring back at her. Perhaps a touch more… bloated… than she was used to, but she figured that was merely the shield distorting everything.

“Your grace?” the maid said softly. “They are serving a late meal in the Ivory Room.”

“What?” Cersei said before shaking her head. “Yes… yes that will be… hurry along.” The maid nodded and Cersei found herself being led through the halls of the Red Keep once more, trying to regain some sense of order. ‘This is more than the wine,’ she thought. ‘This is someone working against me. Trying to rip away my power. Telling the servants to disobey me. Show me disrespect. Lie to me and try and make me think I am a fool!’

She was suddenly convinced that the Ruby Room had been used for ALL the smaller meals. That it was by the orders of someone else that they had been closed and the maids forced to claim that it had never been used in years.

‘I should demand her to be taken to a Black Cell at once,’ Cersei suddenly though. ‘Order the dungeon master to torture her until she gives up the names! Reveal who her masters are and why they have done this!’ She narrowed her eyes as they continued on, studying the woman’s features. ‘A Northerner? She has the tongue of one… no, she isn’t brutish enough to from North of the Neck. Not Dornish either. Perhaps a Stormlander? Yes… one of the last remaining ladies brought by Stannis or Renly to try and gain a foothold in the Red Keep. A follower of those usurpers, looking to take advantage of my sweet Joffrey’s passing to try and make way for Stannis to return! Well, I won’t let her!’ She raised her false hand, ready to dash it against the woman’s skull-

“Your grace,” the maid said and Cersei blinked to find that her thoughts had blinded her to their journey and they were now at the Ivory Room…

…which was flanked by men wearing the gold and green of House Tyrell.

Men that weren’t loyal to her. Who didn’t know their place. Who might still hold it in their head to defend the innocent.

“Of course…” Cersei whispered, quickly dropped her hand back down to her side.

The maid opened her mouth to speak but Cersei breezed past her, entering the Ivory Room to find the table loaded down with all sorts of dishes. There was a duck that was cooked to a deep brown color, rich sauce drizzled over the top. Platters of mashed vegetables topped with butter. A half of a fish, deboned and descaled, with cherry tomatoes in place of its eyes. Large crabs brought in from the far north waters of the Sunset Sea. Meat pies with golden crusts that looked ready to burst, they were so overfilled. Dozens of scents wafted up into Cersei’s nose, making her headache at once disappear and her stomach growl in an unladylike manner as she suddenly found herself utterly ravenous.

But she wasn’t alone in the Ivory Room.

“Ah, your grace!” Lord Mace Tyrell said from where he sat, a wide smile on his lips as he waved to her. “Please sit! I have been abandoned by my family and would love for the company.”

Cersei narrowed her eyes, her mind solidifying at once upon the Fat Flower. All thoughts that the maid might have been a creature of Stannis or Renly disappeared. No… she knew the truth now: she belonged to the Tyrells. The greedy, clawing, vain, sinister Tyrells. The ones that had filled the Red Keep with their men and who had bound themselves to the throne through marriage and fill the Kingsguard with their family members and allies. It was a pathetic attempt to do as Cersei herself had done during Robert’s rule and she felt her anger growing as she stared at the Lord of the Reach.

And yet just as quickly as the anger came… it faded as a new plan entered into her mind.

‘Lord Tyrell is the weak link of his family. Margaery is a conniving little snake. While her brother is a swordswallower through and through he has learned how to hide those aspects of himself… and that makes him a dangerous foe. And their grandmother is poison given physical form. But Mace Tyrell? He is a fat fool who is focused only on his own pleasures. I can work with this… twist him towards the direction I desire. His family will not dare speak out against him…’

Plastering on her best smile, the one she had used at feasts and parties where it simply wouldn’t do for her to reveal her darker thoughts, Cersei took a seat near Lord Tyrell, ignoring the small twinge of disgust that she had to allow him the seat of honor that should have been her’s by right. “Quite a meal, Lord Tyrell.”

“Ah, I wish to sample a bit of everything,” he said with a jovial chuckle. “I imagine the rest of my family will be slowly coming in, soon enough. They are all quite busy, after all, while I have found myself with a bit of a day of leisure.” He chuckled at that and Cersei gave a nod though she didn’t know what she was agreeing to; sometimes one had to nod just to show they had heard a fool’s poor joke. “Of course, life is never slow for any of us, is it? So many things we need to handle…”

Cersei, seeing her opening, did her best to look utterly casual as she selected some of the already cut apart duck and placed it on her plate. While she hungered for some food that was more fitting for breaking her fast she didn’t want to risk causing any other distractions by calling for a servant to fetch her more food and then having to explain to her bloated companion why the request was made. “I can only imagine,” she told him as she added some yams to her plate. Lord Tyrell poured her some wine and she gave another nod, picking it up and giving it a swirl. “It must be so hard for you, dealing with all you have on your plate.”

“And you don’t mean the food!” Mace said with a chuckle and Cersei once more forced her lips not to slip from the smile she was plastering upon them.

“Quite,” she said. “You have a seat on the Small Council, of course, and that is rather important… but we are in the midst of Autumn. The last chances to get crops grown and harvested have arrived. I have heard plenty of people worry about how it is all being managed… oh, I try and assure them that you have it all well in hand but they still worry, of course. Your eldest is handling the day-to-day business of the Reach, is he not?”

“Willas?” Mace asked, as if he weren’t for sure himself and that made Cersei at once cringe at such stupidity and delighted in how unsure and unsteady her foe was. “Yes yes, he is running things. A bright boy.”

“Oh, very bright, I am sure,” Cersei stated quickly. “But… it is his first time ruling on his own and children are never quite ready their first time.”

“I agree,” Mace said, going for some honey rolls. “That was the issue with Joffrey, was it not? He thought he knew how to rule but still had so much to learn.”

Cersei felt her smile slip. “That is… a bit different.”

“Oh?” Mace asked with a smile as he began to tear apart his roll. He didn’t seem offended, which was a good sign for Cersei.

‘The dimwit doesn’t even realize he’s being insulted,’ she thought in delight. A part of her wanted to push a bit more, to get in some verbal stabs at the Tyrells… ‘No,’ she thought hastily. ‘A few barbs only heard by a fool who doesn’t even understand them isn’t worth the deliciousness of finally ridding myself of these traitorous fools. I must show restraint… it is no different from how Jaime spoke of swordsplay. A few feints yes but it is all about waiting for the correct moment to make one’s strike…’

Outloud she said, “Well, Joffrey had his family with him. Myself, my father, my Uncle Kevan. People who knew how to rule and could guide him. All your son has is himself.”

“His brother Garlan is there,” Mace said, not taking her bait. “A smart boy… a charmer too. He was originally going to settle into his own Keep, we hadn’t decided which one yet, but when the War came and then the need for my household to come to King’s Landing-“

‘As if it were my fault you had to arrive,’ Cersei thought bitterly. ‘Had father just listened to me…’

“-staying until everything is sorted,” Mace finished, Cersei having missed quite a bit of his statement. “He will be fine.”

“I am happy you have such faith in him,” Cersei said, deciding to go about with a different approach. “It can be so hard to trust your children when it comes to such things; the worry about them, sometimes it is… crippling.” She paused, letting the word hang in the air. “It won’t be too much on him, though?” She said slyly. “It is a lot of work that will need to be done. I imagine he will need to tour the fields, visit the farms, oversee where all the crops are kept… tiring work, even for someone in the prime of life.”

But Mace didn’t even react to her veiled comments about his heir and his condition. She wondered if he even realized she was hinting at Willas’ bad leg.

‘Very possible the fool has completely forgotten about it,’ she thought before continuing on. “Many are worried you won’t be there to oversee things,” she told him with all the sweetness of honey. Of course, people forgot honey was so sweet because the bees that made it were so dangerous. “You are a steadying force. One that calms people’s fears and ensures that all keeps moving as it always has. I have heard so many praise your skills and your ability to lead… and they wonder if your son is ready. Please don’t think it a slight against him… we both know that any son of yours will prove your equal one day.” She paused. “But… is today that day? This has been the longest summer in over 500 years, according to the Citadel.” Actually she had no clue if it was but it sounded good to say. “And the winter will need to match it. The Reach is the heart of Westeros… all know that. And now your son finds himself, as his first task leading your lands, dealing with what might very well be the last harvest in a generation. Is it truly wise to trust him with this task? All on his own?”

She paused.

“That is what the smallfolk say, of course. I trust your judgment.” She knew it was important to make the threat not be her. People were so foolish when told the truth and wanted to lash out at anyone they deemed as the cause of their own incompetence. It was better to have them lash out at some ‘other’, rather than the one that was speaking plainly. “You know your son well. You raised him after all… understand his strengths and, of course, his weaknesses.” She stabbed at some of her duck and popped it into her mouth, allowing Mace to chew on that bit of information while she chewed on her meal. “You do know what is best for all… that is what the smallfolk say.”

Mace stared at him with his big dumb eyes, his flabby face never losing even an ounce of its cheerfulness as he began to use his honey roll to sop up some of the juices on his plate. He brought the damp roll to his mouth, practically sucking it in as he stared right at her. It honestly made Cersei squirm in disgust at the sight of it.

Finally he spoke. “it is a hard thing to determine… when to trust your children. You want to protect them. You remember when they were small and helpless. Little squirming things that would cry if their swaddling wasn’t just right and didn’t have the strength to pull it over their shivering little forms.” He reached over and selected a hardboiled egg, cutting into it with his knife before using a spoon to spread some yellow cream upon it. “You spend so much of their lives preparing for them to go out on their own that when the time comes for you to see the fruits of your labor you can’t help but wish that they would wait a bit longer. The greatest irony of life, I suppose. When a child is born everyone talks about what kind of man or woman they will be. Who they will marry, what victories they will achieve, how they will bring glory to their family. Yet when that time comes we long for them to be babes once again. Your father did the same thing for you and your brothers, I am sure. Even with his hatred for Lord Tyrion he considered what fate would bring.

“My mother did that for me too. Looked down upon me and gauged just what kind of man I would become. Oh, everyone likes to say that she at once saw me as a fool. I’ve heard tell that her first words, upon being given me by the maester, was to declare “We must have another, this one is an idiot”. An amusing tale… I enjoyed crafting it.”

Cersei frowned. This was… well, not the most she’d ever heard Mace Tyrell speak. He loved to ramble on and on, almost making it an art form how he could say so many words yet not actually SAY anything. But the way he was talking now? It was very off-putting, especially since he kept his tone the same light bluster he always did.

“But… one has to trust their children. Because it means trusting ourselves. That we did a good job in raising them.” He smiled as his lifted up his wine glass. “That is something the two of us have in common, isn’t it? That we’ve had to raise children. No one gives people like us credit for that. How hard it is, with all we have to do, to be able to raise our children.” Cersei found herself struck dumb and silent by that.

‘How is it that the Fat Flower of Highgarden is the only one to truly understand?’ she found herself wondering. ‘So many women do not understand… they look upon me and think I have done nothing for my children. That I am little more than an opening that shoots out heirs and spares. How can it be that a man who has never known what it is like to carry a child understands the burden and the pain that comes from having to let them go?’

“I trust my son,” Mace continued, Cersei captivated by what he was saying. “I have to. I can not keep him close to me forever… he will grow to hate me otherwise.”

She thought of her own father. How the oh so mighty Lord Tywin Lannister had shown her so little faith and trust. How he had belittled her and mocked her and seen everything she did as foolish. And how she had hated him for it; all love she might have felt for him, as small as it was, disappearing due to how he treated her.

“So I give him things I know he can handle. The running of the Reach and the Harvests… those are simple tasks. I have spent many years making sure that everything was set up so that our entire line could disappear for a year and all would go on as it always has. I certainly wouldn’t give him control of my important duties. Perhaps one day… but not yet.”

And with that he raised his hand and Cersei turned in time to see the Tyrell guards closing the doors, the clang that came after they were shut alerting her that they had been locked in place with some kind of beam or board. She snapped her gaze back towards Mace and suddenly he didn’t appear as jovial as he had moments ago.

“I have raised my son as my mother raised me. My eldest… he is a smart lad. Everyone knows it. They all talk about how he will be a far more cunning ruler than I have ever been. That he is lucky my mother is around to rule for she has ensured I don’t lead the Reach into utter ruin.” He smiled and though nothing had changed in HOW he smiled… there was still something about the way he twitched his lips upwards that had Cersei’s stomach drop. “He is handsome too… gallant like his brother. Oh the ladies loved to watch him when he was younger, riding on his horse. I explained all of this too him, of course. How he was known to be smart and handsome and charming.”

He paused.

“He was known… to be smart and charming. Known to be a good leader. And… that simply wouldn’t do. If he had taken after me things would have been easier. My mother had seen early on that I favored my simple father in looks and people would assume I was much the same. That would be my armor… this bulk on me.” He patted his stomach and chuckled; in Cersei’s ears the belly laugh was the cackle of a demon. “Just as her gender was her armor. Everyone looks past us… dismisses us. She for being an old woman and I a fat happy man. We can’t be smart or cunning. Even when we prove that we are.”

He leaned back in his chair and let out a wistful smile.

“I have never been more proud of my boy, after his fall from that horse, than when he asked for that hammer and shattered his own leg.”

Cersei pushed away from the table.

“I’m going to have to ask you to sit down, your grace,” Mace said, his tone still light and friendly. No dark edge. No malicious tint to his words.

That made matters all the worse.

“We both understand the burden of ruling,” he told her even as Cersei remained rooted to the floor, unable to budge. He reached over and selected a fish steak, adding it to his plate before adding a dollop of sauce to it. “You are the Queen of Westeros. I am a king, in my own way. Not of lands, of course… honestly I’d rather not rule lands. A forest does not listen to you when you give it a command. A stream does not obey when you explain what will happen if it does not do as it is told. You can’t torture a mountain for failing you.” He looked up at her, eyes still bright and playful. “People… I will always prefer being a king of people. A certain kind of people.”

She remained utterly silent.

“I set up the Reach to manage its harvests and its governance so I could focus on what truly matters. Westeros is not a peaceful place, your grace. You know that. Even without all the wars there are plenty of dangers. What is needed is a strong hand to make sure things are run properly.

“There will always be those that break the laws of the land. The thieves, the killers, the rapists. They will always exist. They can’t be gotten rid of; to believe otherwise is to be a fool. Our society is BUILT around them! If there were no thieves there would be no need for guards and suddenly you have a bunch of men with anger issues and a need to feel powerful and mighty with nothing to do. The jailers, the headsmen… even kings and queens. If all the people of Westeros got along what purpose would you have, your grace? Why would anyone care about you if they didn’t NEED you. So let’s be clear that the people we so love to scorn and hate serve a purpose. One could argue they are the underpinnings of our society.

“Now… if allowed to run rampant they can cause all manner of problems. We can’t have them breaking down doors and raping highborn girls before making off with every bit of coin in the castle can we? But that isn’t to say that they all must be torn from the ground root and stem. If carefully monitored… well, then they serve a purpose. Your maids steal from you. My servants do too. But so long as they know just how far they can go then I see no harm in it.” He chuckled. “Frankly it’s a blessing many times. We have so much that without them taking their bits and pieces I’d wager we’d drown.

“So how to strike that balance? How to ensure that society is able to function? That is where those little pins need someone to tell them what to do. What the lines are. To monitor all crime in Westeros and ensure that it fits into the great plans. A… Kingpin, if you will.”

“And… and you are saying you are that man?” Cersei got out.

“Very much yes,” Mace replied. “Surprised?” He said it in such a teasing tone. “I told you… I have worked hard to cultivate my image. To make people see me how I wished them to see me. It would do no good if all the highborn lords and ladies realized that all the cutthroats, pickpockets, and break-in experts answered to me! Would be such a scandal!” He paused, sipping his wine. “And prevent me from collecting some good coin. I don’t do this out of the kindness of my heart, after all!”

Cersei stared at him with growing horror. Either he was telling the truth… or he was quite mad.

“Why are you telling me this?” she spat out. “Do you believe that I am going to work with you? Become your partner-“

Mace broke out into deep laughter that had his entire body jiggling. “No no no. I’m sorry but you aren’t suited for this kind of work. It requires a bit of humility, something you utterly lack. Though I do admit you have created your own armor but not on purpose. People dismiss you because you are an idiot… not because you make them believe you are. No… I am telling you this because I know how you have tried to muddle things up for my family and this is me informing you that it ends now.”

And even then… he didn’t lose his light tone or jovial smile.

“I have plans for Westeros. So do my allies. Ones that would frankly leave you utterly stunned. Now, rest assure there are places for your son and daughter. Good little ones, both of them. There may even be a place for you… but I doubt it. I think you could never accept that. But others want me to at least try and make you accept. So… this is me offering you the chance to enjoy your days in power in peace, accept that they will be coming to an end, and then allow yourself to drift off to a comfortable time of peace.”

Cersei narrowed her eyes at that. “So it comes to this, then? You wish to steal what is mine and believe I will stand by idly?”

“I believe nothing. As I said I know you won’t accept. But I agreed to at least try.” He held up his hand. “And before you make the many threats that are currently bouncing upon your tongue… I ask you to think of how the Red Keep is now. Truly think about it. The Small Council is nearly empty of all your creatures. Your Uncle holds no loyalty you, save for family but even then he will always support his own sons and daughters over the niece that causes him problems. The Hand of the King will never forget that you and your son killed his trueborn sister. The head of the Goldcloaks is far friendlier with Jon Stark thanks to him taking his son as a squire. Lord Octavius will never side with you and it has nothing to do with his connections to me. Rather he respects intelligence, of which you have little. The Kingsguard is being filled by men that owe me much. The guards you have long cultivated died fighting for the city and were replaced not just by my men but Lannister men who owe money to people in my employ. Simply put, your grace… if you try to stand against me you will find yourself in the Maiden Vault.”

Cersei considered him for a long moment before she reached over and began to undo the straps of her false hand. She knew what must be going through the man’s mind: that this was some show of weakness. Of submission.

‘He spoke of cultivating his image. Making it his armor. The loss of my hand is mine.’

Before he could even have a chance to react Cersei called forth the purple energy that seemed to always be crackling just under the surface of her skin. The gift she had gained when Stannis had tried to take the throne from her. As always it formed into a purple blade and Cersei rushed forward, counting on the man’s shock to allow her to gut him like a fish or slice his neck so deeply his head would flop right off-

Her entire body came to such a sudden stop that it felt like her heart had slammed right into her breast bone. Her arms froze in place and she found herself being yanked back, neck snapping so hard it made her entire back and shoulders scream in outrage.

“Now that is interesting,” Margaery Tyrell said, emerging from the shadows. Cersei wondered how in the Seven Hells she had missed her… but then she became utterly focused on the crackling red bands of energy that were wrapped around her arms. They reminded her of when one of the fish mongers in Lannisport had brought slithering eels to Casterly Rock for a party, kept in a great wooden trough, that would spark and glow. One of the dinner guests had stupidly reached inside the water and ended up screaming in pain when the eels had shocked him. The bands were just like the eels… except they held onto Cersei tight, like serpents. “I assumed if anyone would have become a mutant it would have been Tyrion Lannister. He seemed far more likely.”

“And perhaps easier to deal with,” Mace said in consideration, rubbing his chin as he rose up.

“What-“ Cersei began only for Margaery to wave her hand and the Queen to gasp as a red band appeared around her throat, glowing slightly before she felt it tighten, cutting off anything she was about to say.

“Shhhh,” Margaery said with a dark and playful smirk, “none of that.” She began to stalk towards Cersei and despite all her struggles she couldn’t free herself. “None of that at all. I have had to listen to you at so many feasts whine about a thousand different meaningless things and quite frankly I am tired of hearing your voice.” She raised her hand up, Cersei noticing the red glow upon them as well, and squeezed her fingers slowly towards her palm. The action caused the band around her throat to tighten at Cersei’s vision began to swim. “Or… perhaps not…”

The pressure gave way and Cersei sucked in mouthfuls of blessed air. But her relief was short-lived as Margaery pointed with her index and middle finger and Cersei, to her own horror, watched as her arm lifted and the purple energy blade began to slowly move towards her temple.

It took her far too long to realize she could simply stop channeling the blade. The moment it disappeared she smirked in defiance and victory but Margaery merely smiled before she suddenly spread her hands away from one another.

Cersei screamed as her arms snapped out in opposite directions, twin pops filling her ears as her shoulders dislocated.

“Margaery,” Mace said gently, placing a hand on her shoulder. “That is enough. We aren’t ready to be rid of her yet.”

“Of course,” Margaery replied with a false sweet smile and Cersei screamed when her arms were forced back into their sockets. She fell to her knees, moaning pitifully.

“As for why I have told you all this?” Mace asked, looking down at her. “No one will believe you.”

“Assuming we allowed you to say a word,” Margaery said and like a viper she struck out, grabbing Cersei’s head, thumbs pressing against her temples. Her vision went crimson and she screamed so loudly and for so long her voice finally gave out. It was only the strain she felt in her mouth that let her know-

“Your grace, are you okay?”

Cersei looked up, startled to find herself lying on the floor with several of the Red Keep guards hovering over her. All of them wore the colors of House Lannister and as they helped her up she saw Mace Tyrell seated in his chair, looking rather concerned.

“She had a terrible fall,” he said. “I think a lack of sleep.”

‘You are a liar and I want your head! Guards, kill him now!’

That is what she wanted to say.

“Yes, I need sleep,” she found herself saying it a weak voice.

‘Kill him! And his whore daughter! She is a witch!’

“Shall we ring for your maid to see to you?” a guard asked.

“Yes,” Cersei said instantly kindly.

She tried again and again. To scream. To demand. To beg.

Nothing.

She could say nothing.

Except, she came to realized in the days to come and her mouth gave voice to words that were not her own, exactly WHAT Margaery Tyrell wanted her to say…

Chapter Text

Tony

A shrill wail ripped through the camp and Tony forced himself not to flinch. No matter how many times he’d heard the sound it still set his teeth on edge. Did for everyone. Even Magneto had jolted when the mournful wail had blasted through the caravan or the camp or whatever they were when their group was settled down for the day. He’d tried to hide it but had failed miserably and Tony had delighted in watching the Blackfyre leader try and appear dignified after starting like a frightened child. Not that anyone would have said a word, as it scared them all when it suddenly happened, but Magneto had it in his head that a King was “above such things” and thus hated it when he showed he was human.

“Oh its okay!” Toad said, reaching over and stroking Lockheed. “I know you miss them but we’ll see them soon.” The amethyst colored dragon though merely turned towards the West, staring out back across the waters. There was little doubt who he was crying out for as, after a moment, the dragon thumped his head down and began to chew on a large coil of rope that had been given to him by Arya. “Such a brave boy…” Toad whispered.

“Toad,” Magneto said coolly, walking over to them, cape snapping in the breeze, “need I remind you that Lockheed is a dragon… not a dog.”

“I know but… just look at him!” Toad gestured at the dragon who continued to sadly gnaw on the heavy rope, toying with one of the knots Gendry had put in it. “He misses his mommy.”

“Shadowcat is not his mother,” Magneto stated.

Sabertooth, seated on the ground and using a pair of knitting needles to work on a scarf (much to Tony’s amazement though he wouldn’t say a word because he wasn’t foolish enough to die THAT way), let out a huff. “Daenerys Targaryen has taken to calling herself ‘The Mother of Dragons’.”

“Which is all the more reason why not to refer to Shadowcat at such,” Magneto answered. “Targaryens tend to be… possessive… of what they believe is theirs and theirs alone. It will be difficult enough for my dear cousin to learn that her hold on the rebirth of the dragons has been loosened… no need to taunt her any more.” He paused, looking down at Lockheed. “Besides… our dear dragon knows we care for him.” He reached down to stroke Lockheed’s head only for the dragon to turn away and slump down upon the ground with a sigh.

“He misses her so much,” Toad purred, scratching the dragon on the side of his neck, causing Lockheed to untense slightly but otherwise remain melancholy. It didn’t matter that his growth had spiked after the Manderian’s attack on Braavos, so that where before he had been gaining an inch per week he now gained a foot and was thus the size of a small horse. No… Toad cuddled with him like he was a simple puppy that needed a few hugs.

“I will never get over watching someone coo at a dragon,” Pepper said, walking over to Tony and joining him on the crate he was sitting on.

“Ugh, please don’t.”

“Please don’t what?”

“Say he is ‘cooing’.” Tony shuddered. “Bad memories.”

“I don’t follow.”

Tony closed his eyes. “A few years back Lord Robin Kristoff held that festival… you remember the one? Where the dancing bear got drunk on honey wine and became stuck in that hole?”

“It really didn’t like people coming up and kicking its butt,” Pepper commented, remembering how the bear’s trainer had decided to still make some money off the incident by charging people a star to be able to drive their foot into the bear’s hindquarters.

“Right, that one,” Tony confirmed. “Well there was this writer, a pretentious sort who claimed they had no name, who did a reading of their latest work. A fictional account of Florian and Jonquil because that is SO original.” He rolled his eyes and Pepper merely reached over and patted him on the arm. “Anyway, author is reading his work and literally EVERY time he has Jonquil talk to Florian she ‘cooed’.”

“You mean-“

“Every. Single. Time.” Tony shuddered once more. “I was scarred for life.”

“Poor baby,” Pepper teased.

Tony merely huffed at that and looked about the camp. “Finally be able to see Daenerys soon,” he commented as he watched the servants hurry to get everything ready. “Maybe tomorrow… at most a week.”

“What are the chances we are allowed to actually stay in Meereen?” Pepper asked.

“Not good, from what I’m hearing.”

When their ship had gotten near Meereen they had been informed by the dockmaster and his assistance that they would not be allowed to use the bay. With so many representatives coming to Meereen to see Daenerys and claim the Juggernaut (something Tony was still trying to wrap his head around; a man that literally couldn’t be stopped) they simply couldn’t use the harbor for all the arrivals as the city would become overrun. Instead they were being asked to use the new docks that had been built outside of the city, half a day’s ride from the new capital of Dragon’s Bay. There they were asked to set up camp and wait till they were summoned by Daenerys to meet with her, where she would hear out their requests before giving them further instructions concerning later meetings. Of course the distance made sense when it seemed like Meereen had doubled in size thanks to the encampments that had sprung up.

“All we can do is be patient then,” Pepper stated. They had at least come somewhat prepared, with tents and the like for the Brotherhood and their servants, though those mostly were cooks. Charlus had insisted on it and Tony wondered if the man could do more than read minds and actually predict the future. Most likely not… he was just paranoid. Which was a good thing, considering what they were dealing with now.

Tony suddenly chuckled. “The Firestar has proven that she won’t be pushed around or bullied. She does thing on her time.”

“What makes you say that?” Toad asked, looking up at Tony even as he continued to comfort Lockheed.

“The owner of several powerful brothels in Volantis, who claims to be connected to Daenerys through the line of Saera Targaryen, tried to use that connection to skip the line. Thought he could just march in and tell her that as ‘the only male of the line of Aegor the Conqueror’ he was ordering her to turn over the Juggernaut.”

“…Aegor?”

“Yeah,” Tony said with a shake of his head. “Apparently Daenerys let him out of the pyramid… the fast way.”

Pepper at once grimaced at that before she truly thought about what Tony had said. “Wait… why would a Volanti brothel owner want the Juggernaut?”

Toad chuckled. “Big muscles, big dick?”

“Please,” Pepper complained. But Tony looked away from her and he heard her suck in a mouthful of air. “Please no…”

“He argued, apparently, that they could chisel away enough of the gold to expose his cock. There are supposed to be herbs one can eat that leaves them erect and he said that with milk of the poppy-“

“WHY?!?!” Pepper screamed. “Why would ANYONE think that was a good idea? At all?”

Tony grimaced, throwing his hands up to ward off Pepper in case she decided to attack him.

It was Sabertooth who answered. “In Pentos there is a brothel where they don’t have whores. Just different holes and shafts for whatever you want. Supposed to be warmed with sun-boiled water and special lotions.”

“And you just happen to know this?” Toad teased.

Sabertooth merely narrowed his eyes at that. “When I fuck something I want to feel it move.”

“It,” Tony whispered to Pepper only to gulp when Sabertooth shot him a dark look.

“This is all… well, I was going to say interesting but that would be a lie,” Magneto declared as he began to walk away, calling out over his shoulder, “I want everyone ready to meet with Daenerys tomorrow, should she agreed to see us. It is important that we make a good impression.”

‘Need to lure her into a false sense of security, right?’ Tony thought to himself. It was clear to him that Magneto wasn’t interested in making friendly with his distant cousin. No… he wanted to weigh her up, see how powerful she was, and what he could do in order to destroy her. ‘We know that she can control fire. That’s about the worst kept secret in all of Essos. And its said she has at least two people that can heal from any wound.’

He paused.

‘And then there are the claims about the Hulk.’

Those had been the most concerning bits of gossip. The claims that Daenerys had under her command a giant green man that could shatter towers simply by clapping his hands together, the shockwave being powerful enough to crack the stone. He had thought that the group Magneto had assembled was powerful but if the Hulk were as powerful as everyone was claiming…

‘I need to get back to work on my suit,’ he thought to himself, getting up.

“And where are you going?” Sabertooth asked.

“For a walk. I need to get a few things.”

“Out of the camp?” Sabertooth asked.

“You know Magneto wants us to stay put!” Toad shouted even as he got up. Sabertooth too, setting aside the yarn he’d been working on, carefully placing it in his bag along with his knitting needles before he followed after Tony. He heard boards creek and glanced back to see Pepper joining him. Rhodey was off… somewhere… Tony wasn’t for sure where. He debating going to find him but in the end decided against it, reasoning that it would be too big of a risk. He was only given so much of a leash, after all, and even this little rebellion wasn’t much when he knew that with a word Magneto would have him wearing metal bracelets again, only without Arya around to remove them.

Going to get Rhodey and leaving the camp? Magneto would see that as him trying to flee. Or running the risk of it. Either way Tony had noticed that whenever he tried to go off on his own (which wasn’t that often and even now he had brotherhood members tailing after him) something would come up that would keep Pepper or Rhodey from leaving.

He never did that with Tony though, holding him back. Probably because he realized that Tony would want nothing more than his wife and best friend to escape the Brotherhood, even if it meant leaving him behind.

“Sure he does!” Tony said with a laugh that almost sounded real even to him. “That’s why he let Sabertooth over there go get his colorful string. Seriously, is that like a cat thing? I mean you have the claws and the teeth and the eyes but is it? Its hard to tell with you. Should work on that so I can read you better, you know?”

Sabertooth didn’t answer and Tony merely smiled as he continued on out of their camp and towards the massive sprawling tent city that had sprung up around Meereen. Magneto had managed to buy them a bit of space and Charlus’ presence had also aided in that; few wanted to worry about the full might of Braavos coming down upon them and thus kept away so there was no chance of insult. But the rest of the camps, while starting out with some clear divides, had slowly ended up merging together to create a great tent city. The coloring and the flags were the only way to tell where one ended and the other began but even then it was less like camps and more like city districts.

And all of them were taking advantage of the vast array of people all there to plead their case for the Juggernaut.

They passed first the Myrish district where great kilns had been constructed so that the glassblowers could work their craft. He spotted oil lamps and large mugs that had been shaped to look like dragon heads or great ale casks or even the Juggernaut’s head, oddly enough. Not just clear glass either but green and blue and red. Yellow and purple and orange. Black glass in the shape of a great dragon and pink that looked like two lovers embracing.

Then there were the Lorathi who proclaimed that they brought exotic fish and mammal wares. Not just meat, which was kept in great ice chests, wrapped in canvas and then caked in sawdust, but things of bone and flesh. Walrus tusk bone blades. Narwal spears. Necklaces made of shark’s teeth and white bear calls. Leathers made up ‘supple seal skin, softer than anything you have ever felt’ and boots crafted from whale flesh. They were also peddling whale oil but, much to Tony’s amusement, many ignored that with comments they had sunstone lamps. He couldn’t wait to see what his coffers were like when he got home.

The Lysini had, of course, erected an entire stretch of tents where one could wander about and find any sort of partner they desired. Women who were tall and fair had their tents next to plump stout women with great big tits that bounced even as they breathed. Midgets who were pleased to declare they had no gag reflex so they could deep throat any cock and women who twisted themselves into pretzels. Men too. Those that flexed their muscles and flashed winning smiles. Others who offered, to man or woman, to simply sit with them and listen. Giant brutes who roared that any woman that wished to feel the fantasy of rape with none of the danger should come to them; much to Tony’s shock he had seen them get glances from some of the women that walked by and they wasn’t painted with scorn.

Of course they were quick to claim that every one of them was free and willing; none bought and none forced. A wise move, Tony thought, considering how enraged the Dragon Queen was said to have become when Slavers from a small town two days ride from Meereen had shown up with their slaves, thinking that Daenerys, now that she sat the throne, would suddenly change her mind and allow the selling of men and women and children. They had even tried to barter with them, it was said, suggesting that instead of capturing people they merely make slaves of babies, so that all they knew was the life of chains.

Tony had seen the heads of those Slavers on the docks their boat had come to rest on, Magneto giving a quiet murmur of respect that his cousin was willing to show such brutality in the name of justice.

‘Despite how Essosi they have become they have not forgotten their Westerosi roots… they will never take slaves.’

“Hmmm...” Sabertooth murmured, looking over at the entrance to the Norvoshi camp. They were weaving great tapestries depicting the Battle of Meereen, where it was said that Daenerys had discovered how to become pure flames and had fought alongside her dragons against the Juggernaut. Clearly the Norvoshi were trying to win favor with the Dragon Queen but Tony wasn’t for sure how well that was going to work; he had a feeling Daenerys Targaryen was one used to dealing with false friends.

“We can check out what they have, if you want,” Tony offered. “I actually don’t need anything pressing. I’m just trying to stretch my legs and keep away from Hank… I think he’s shedding more than normal.” He reached down and pulled a strand of blue fur from his overcoat, holding it up for Sabertooth to see. The large man stared at him for a long moment and just when Tony was beginning to worry that he might have actually offended the brute enough to find himself in trouble Sabertooth threw back his head and laughed.

“The bastard does shed a ton! I swear we could make pillows out of his fur without him even ending up with a bald spot!” He flashed a smile that was far too sharp to put Tony at ease. “But sure… if you don’t want to tell me what you are really playing at I might as well get something out of this.”

“I-“

But Sabertooth huffed, striding towards the Norvoshi camp. “Do you know why I’m one of the deadliest fighters in all the world?”

“Big, strong, claws that can cut through walls?” Tony suggested.

“Its because people look at me and think I’m just a big dumb brute. That I just go around getting drunk and punching things and that I only see a few inches in front of my face. Never seeing the big picture. And hey… I have no problem with people thinking that. Everyone thinks Toad here is just a scrawny little ugly thing that is only good at putting bits and pieces together and can’t do much else. Magneto is just an old man… all courtly and kind. Like the grandfather you might have had but wished was better. But Toad cleans up real good… and I don’t know why he bothers but he can charm women. We’ve had more people offer us help after speaking with him than being threatened by me. Magneto has killed… you ever see the little Kitty Cat again you ask her about Harrenhal and what he did there. And me?”

He slowly looked over his shoulder at Tony.

“I’m smart. Smart enough to know how to hide how smart I am. So don’t EVER try and act like I am some idiot… not because it will offend me but because it makes my opinion of you drop down into nothing.”

“…right,” Tony said.

Sabertooth nodded. “You want to escape us… I can see that plain as day. Might like a few of us but you won’t ever be one of us.” He paused. “Pepper might be… Magneto certainly is considering it. Plenty of people here that we could use for the ritual… wonder what your powers might be, Red.”

Pepper raised an eyebrow at that but, to Tony’s eternal concern, didn’t leap to proclaim she wasn’t interested. Another reminder that for all he loved his wife… she was a Blackfyre supporter. Her family had always been.

“So I don’t know what you are up to or what you are trying to snag as we walk about but I know its to help you escape. But honestly I don’t care. Go ahead and try.” Sabertooth turned back and began to walk. “I’ve been itching to try myself against that armor you and Magneto made for a while, Stark.”

‘And if I have my way you won’t,’ Tony thought.

The armor was amazing. Magneto was a master of magnetism, yes, but he was also a master of metals and he understood it in ways that Tony did not. It was rather like comparing a man that had read every book that had ever been written on love making with one who had actually slept with a dozen different women. The former might have all sorts of knowledge but there were simply things that one couldn’t learn from a book. It had to be felt. Experienced. Understood the goods and the pleasurable and the horrible all at once. Plenty of tantalizing tales had been written of men bringing women to screaming pleasure but only one who had done the deed knew what a mess it created afterwards or how it left one aching all over.

The same was true of metal. Tony understood metal and understood the secrets of the sunstones but Magneto… well, he felt it. The first time Tony had shown him how the sunstones reacted with the metal Magneto had been utterly startled… and then delighted. He’d looked like a child being given a new toy and had fiddled with the gauntlet for hours.

And then he’d shown Tony how to make it BETTER.

The armor that had been created had been wondrous. Flexible. Light weight. Strong.

He never wanted to wear it again.

It would have been like Robert or Ned accepting the finest sword from Aerys. It would not matter how nice it was or how easily it could cut through anything. It would be tainted. Same with the armor.

Tony needed to craft his own set in secret. Quietly remove piece by piece the one Magneto had made for him.

‘I have little doubt he’s memorized every line and curve in that armor so that he knows exactly what it feels like even miles away,’ he thought as they moved through the stalls, looking at the different tapestries and embroidery and, yes, knitted pieces. ‘If I tried to fly off he would feel it at once and that would be that. If he did let me go he’d know wherever I was going. There would be no escaping him. No… I need to make my own armor.’

That started with getting an idea where he could get metal from. He was sure there were plenty of sellers who were trying to pawn off swords and shields to those that were gathered, convincing them that they absolutely needed something shiny to win over Daenerys Targaryen. Even from a distance he could tell that while most were of shit quality there were some sellers that were offering the genuine article. And those would be what he went after.

‘I don’t have any money of my own… but it will be easy enough to make some. Even in Essos I’m known for my craft and skill… Magneto will be dealing with his negotiations along with Charlus… and plotting how to kill the Dragon Queen. The others will grow lax, thinking that I am no threat at all. And when they do it will be a simple matter to begin offering my services to blacksmiths. Perhaps not the swordsmiths or the shieldmakers but those looking to craft horseshoes and the like. Odd jobs to build up some coin while I also squirrel away some of the extra metal…’

“Tony, come look at this!” Pepper called out and he frowned, broken from his thoughts to see Pepper looking over a robe that had been stitched to show off a great sky battle between eagles and hideous demon creatures. There were a few other people near that stall, looking over what the seller had to offer; mostly men who either were looking for a gift for themselves or something for their lovers to keep them from being upset about their other purchases. Sabertooth took one glance and huffed, moving off to look at some knitting supplies while Toad, yawning, began to amble about with his hands in his pockets, glancing in the direction of the ringing of anvils; he had clearly assumed that they would be checking out the blacksmiths but with Sabertooth around couldn’t suggest that. Not with the larger man clearly assuming that was where Tony wanted to go.

“Looks lovely, Pepper,” Tony said with a smile. “Really brings out your eyes. Should let Magneto know about it, maybe he’ll buy it for you as a gift.”

“Come over here and look at this stitching. Its pure art!”

“Uh… yeah,” Tony said, brow furrowed. “I’m sure-“

“Tony.” She jabbed her finger to a spot next to her and Tony, with a sigh and a shrug to Toad who glanced over and chuckled, made his way over to his wife. “Finally.”

“I know and I’m sorry but I see it now!” Tony gushed, figuring the only way to get himself out of the doghouse was to play up how wonderful the robe was. “So beautiful… look at how they did the feathers! Oh, it is the most impressive-“

“I don’t give two shits about the robe,” Pepper snapped, her words whisper soft.

“…huh?”

“Tony,” she nodded to her right, towards another man looking over the robes. “This man just came from King’s Landing.”

He raised an eyebrow at that. “Clever girl,” he murmured before turning to the man in question. He was wearing rather non-descript clothing… except for his cloak, which was made of red feathers that fell down to his ankles. Dark skinned with a neatly trimmed beard and a head of hair that was just as short he at once appeared to be the stereotypical Summer Islander. “Well, you aren’t dressed like a trader so you have to have been part of the Prince’s entourage.”

“I’m…you know what, I can already tell you won’t be able to say my full name so just call me Sam.”

“I could say it,” Tony complained even as Pepper held up another robe, this one showing off a horse race and a cheering crowd.

“You really couldn’t.”

“Aw, come on, give me a try Sammy.”

“I will not.”

“I’m gonna have to try and figure out what it is then,” Tony said with a smile. “Let’s see… Samawhamadingdong?”

Sam shot him a level stare. “Somehow, without even trying, you have managed to insult my entire culture and heritage.”

“…did I get it right though?”

“Yes.”

“Really?” Tony asked, excited.

“No.” Sam glanced at Pepper. “So, when does your servant here go get your husband?”

“This is my husband, sadly.”

“My condolences.”

Tony let out a huff. “Yeah yeah Samadam.” He paused, wondering if he’d gotten it right that time, but when Sam didn’t react he found himself needing to continue. “So, what’s the news out of King’s Landing. We heard that Joffrey is dead.”

“Yeah. Tragic that.” Sam kept his voice JUST respectfully enough that one couldn’t get too upset, most likely assuming that the reason he wasn’t showing proper grieving for the King of the Seven Kingdoms was because he was an evil dirty foreigner who didn’t understand their ways.

“I’ll light a candle for him,” Tony muttered and Sam’s mouth twitched slightly at that. “So Tommen is ruling then? Or rather Tywin Lannister is ruling and the boy is just confused.” He hadn’t thought much of Tommen Baratheon, the few times he’d seen him.

At Winterfell he’d basically just remained in the castle playing with the cats they kept there to deal with any rodents; he’d been scared to pieces of the direwolves. The one time he’d gone out into the yard he’d looked more like a pillow than a boy, bundled up in protective gear that made him shuffle. At the Red Keep Tony hadn’t spotted him but no one had a good word to say about the boy. And not a bad word either, which was concerning. He could understand people feeling negative about him. He was the Spare after all and the history of Westeros, not just the Targaryen Line, was filled with the dangers of the Spare. They were needed just in case something happened to a Lord’s heir, taught like their older brother how to rule… and then informed after their first nephew was born “You are no longer needed”. Joffrey would have naturally tried to sow the belief in others that Tommen was worthless to protect himself from facing another situation like the Blackfyres. Blacklyon did have a nice ring to it, after all.

But… there had been nothing. No claims that Tommen was wicked or cruel. No claims he was kind and good and just. Just… Tommen existed. Which showed that no one cared about the boy and he himself had done little to make people care.

To Tony’s surprise though there was a sudden hardness in Sam’s features and a fire in his eyes.

“Tommen is a good boy who is going to be a good king. He’s smart… smarter than people realize because they were too focused on that little shit Joffrey. That brat learned a few sword swings and that was that and no one said a word because they figured that was good enough for the King of Westeros due to who his father was. But Tommen listens. He learns. He wanted to be a knight because he didn’t want to be a burden on his family and because he wanted to protect the innocent. Not a member of the Kingsguard he said, because ‘they only protect the king and everyone will do that anyway. A Knight protects the people’.” He took a step towards Tony. “And that is going to make him a good king… a great one.”

“Okay… okay…” Tony held up his hands in surrender. “So you… have a connection to him, I guess.”

“You guess right,” Sam said, not backing down.

“Right, good to know, will keep that in mind.” He swallowed and flashed a smile. He was used to people getting angry at him but usually he had an idea it was coming and could brace for it. Sam’s anger though had been so sudden that it had left him utterly surprised and thus on the back foot. Something he hated. “But even if the boy is the most amazing kid in the world… he isn’t the one actually ruling Westeros, is he?” He stared at Sam, challengingly, waiting for him to try and argue against that.

“No,” Sam finally said, posture relaxing slightly which made Tony inwardly sigh in relief. “Except it isn’t Lord Tywin who rules.”

“And why is that?” Tony asked, playing dumb. Mystique had claimed that Tywin was dead and Tony still held that it was a lie… some scheme the man had created in order to get… something. He didn’t know what the game was but he could see Tywin letting the world think he was dead in order to achieve something for his family. Perhaps a bet that he would die and he would now claim it? Or-

“Because he is dead,” Sam said. “They claim he threw himself from the Tower of the Hand… more likely he was thrown from it.”

Pepper’s eyes widened at that. “I… hadn’t heard that.”

“You sure?” Tony pressed.

Sam glowered at him. “I was in the yard training when he fell. I was one of the first to find him.”

“…ah,” Tony said. He… wasn’t quite sure how to feel about that.

Tywin Lannister wasn’t a good man. Tony knew that. But he had also given him Iron Pointe and allowed Tony to prove to the world just how skilled and cunning he was. He had been a good liege lord to him…

“Tony,” Pepper said suddenly grabbing onto his arm. “We have to go. We have to go now.”

“Pep, we’ll-“

“We have to go. NOW.” She began to tug on him, more insistently and with a fiercer drive.

“In a moment,” he assured her before looking at Sam. “I swear, people call me rude but-“

“Jon!” Pepper half shrieked, causing Tony to start and, despite the absurdity of it all, look around to see if his heir was actually there. Which was ridiculous because Jon…

…was in King’s Landing.

“Oh… fuck,” he whispered softly as it all came crashing down on him. “Okay… okay… Rhodey is still at the camp. We’ll have to grab him and run. There must be a boat that is leaving that we can stow away on. No metal… nothing metal.” He began to remove his overcoat, looking to see if there was anything metal sewn into it. Though as he thought about it that was still too risky… what if Magneto had gotten metallic thread to be sewn into the lining? Better to be rid of it all. Steal some clothing and shed what they had. ‘Probably should purge too… he might have been feeding us food rich in iron or the like and he could sense that… maybe we wait a few days, purposely starve ourselves until its out of our system? Then we run. We run hard and-‘

“I’m sorry but I think I’m missing something here,” Sam stated.

“Our ward, Jon… he was… is…” Tony grimaced and felt Pepper grab onto his arm harder. “He is at the Red Keep. An honored guest of Tywin Lannister.”

“…who are you?”

“Lord Antony Stark of-“

“Iron Pointe,” Sam whispered, eyes going wide. “Jon… Jon Stark!”

And he grinned.

“It is an honor to meet you both!” He held out his hand and Tony, thanks to etiquette that had been drilled into him by his father, forced himself to reach out his hand and accept Sam’s in his own, allowing the Summer Islander to pump it several times. “Jon speaks well of you both. You’re Pepper, aren’t you?” Pepper couldn’t even nod and Sam’s smile fell. “I’m sorry I… I was just startled to see you. Jon is fine… you don’t know, do you?”

“Know what?” Pepper got out.

“King Tommen named Jon Hand of the King and Regent.”

Tony stared at the man, feeling as if everything had suddenly rotated 180 degrees.

“…what?” he got out.

“After Lord Tywin’s death-“ Sam paused, taking a breath. “Let me start again. When Jon came to the Red Keep he worked hard to make many friends amongst all of us. He very much succeeded. Lord Tywin often spoke fondly of him after we discuss King Tommen’s training… I was one of his swordmasters in the yard, you see.” Tony nodded dumbly at that and Sam continued on. “Tommen especially loves Jon… I don’t think I would have been able to leave the Red Keep if Jon wasn’t still there. Tommen has grown attached to me… I suspect he will name me Master of Arms when I return.” He shook his head. “That isn’t the point. Jon was there for Tommen many times and when Lord Tywin died Tommen called all to the Throne Room and declared that Jon was to be made Hand of the King and Regent until he came of age.”

“Jon,” Pepper said slowly. “Jon is Hand of the King.”

“Yes.”

“Jon Stark.”

“Yes.”

“Our Jon is effectively the Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Sam nodded.

Pepper began to laugh.

Not giggle. Not chuckle. She fell against Tony and began to laugh so hard that they got startled looks. Tony didn’t blame her though for that reaction as he was about to begin breaking down himself.

‘But… you need to know more. You have to know more. Hold it together, damn you,’ he thought to himself before looking at Sam once more. “And the Tyrells and the Lannisters have no problem with this?”

“None at all,” Sam said, sounding a touch surprised himself despite having lived through it. “The Tyrells I think assumed that if it wasn’t Kevan Lannister who became Hand it would be one of them. So selecting Jon was a shock but they’ve adapted rather quickly. And the Lannisters have also seen that Jon is… fair in how he rules things. He doesn’t show favorites. He is willing to listen to all sides. But I think most important is how much Jon hates the position he’s in.”

“What… what do you mean?” Tony got out only to shake his head. “Of course. If he took on the role with an eagerness people would think it was a plot by Ned Stark. But Jon hating it-“

“Shows he is ready to give up power,” Sam finished. “Yes. I didn’t get to see much of his rule, as I left shortly afterwards, but those that I talked to have heard that many on the Small Council were impressed by how he was willing to do the job while at the same time was eager for Tommen to take over. There will be no Peake situation, as it were.”

Tony found himself nodding at that.

“Sam!” someone called out and the Summer Islander turned in the direction of the speaker. “Sam! This place is madness… you shouldn’t go off alone-“

The man emerged from the ground and Tony stared in shock.

The figure stared right back.

As odd as it was to say… the fact the man had blue skin wasn’t the thing that held Tony’s attention. No… it was the shape of the face. The way the chin was sculpted. The brow and the nose.

“…Jaime?” Tony asked, though he knew at once there was no way this could be Jaime Lannister.

“Bran?” the man said. “Bran Stark?”

“Antony,” Tony found himself saying.

“I… sorry, you just… reminded me of a friend. A very dear friend.” The figure held out their hand. “Steve. Steve Rogers.”

Tony opened his mouth to say more… only for everyone to begin screaming.

At once he pushed Pepper behind him, looking about wildly for threats. People were crying out and rushing about but there was no direction to their terror. They didn’t run in the same direction or flee from a singular point. Sabertooth was easy to spot due to his size, tensing as he curled up his lip, ready to take on any foe. There was movement out of the corner of his eye and Tony turned to see Toad having leapt onto a high pole, scanning the camp. Sam drew a sword, doing none of the fancy spins or twirls one might have expected from a man dressed as he was. No… Sam merely brought his blade up, careful not to harm any of the panicking people but still ready to attack. As for the newly arrived and introduced Steve…

“Tony…” Pepper said, teeth chattering. He barely nodded; he felt the air around them drop in temperature as well as a chill suddenly radiated from Steve.

“I don’t see anything,” Sam said.

“Too low,” Steve said and Tony snapped his gaze up. He understood at once why no one was running in the same direction: the threat wasn’t coming from the right or the left… but from the sky.

“Is that a dragon?” Pepper called out over the din.

“Was wondering when I’d get to fight a fucking dragon!” Sabertooth declared with a toothy leer at the rapidly approaching fireball.

“I don’t think so…” Steve said with a shake of his head, pulling a large red, white, and blue shield off his back and, in one swift motion, raising it over his head and twisting it so it flashed in the sunlight. Once… twice…

The fireball suddenly jerked to the left, away from the camp, and came screaming down so hard that it produced a great plume of sand while causing the harder packed ground the camp had been built on to tremble. Several stalls collapsed and Tony found himself dimly wondering how much coin the Myrish had lost from that little rumble destroying their fine glass wares.

“Come on,” Steve said, motioning for them to follow him. Or maybe he was only motioning for Sam. Tony didn’t care as he wanted to see just what the fireball was.

‘Could it have been Daenerys herself?’ he thought. ‘She is supposed to be able to control fire… but why divebomb the camp? It would only spread terror and make her enemies. And she responded to Steve flashing his shield… does she know him? He-‘

“Huh, blue man; who is he?” Sabertooth snarled as he pulled up next to Tony, Toad moving to run along with Pepper and for that Tony was grateful; if something happened he would get her out of there quick.

“Steve Rogers,” Tony said. “Or at least that’s what he told me. I can’t be sure if that is true or not.”

“What is a fucking Crow doing here?” Sabertooth asked.

“Huh?”

“I can smell it on him… he stinks of the Night’s Watch.”

Tony blinked even as they moved through the panicked crowd, Sabertooth’s bulk easily clearing a path. “That… is a good question.”

They broke through the final line of tents, the screams fading into a distant sound behind them, and ran across the lower sands of the area around Meereen until they came to the impact point. What they found was utterly spellbinding. The fireball had come in so hot that it had turned the impact spot into glass, with plumes of sand having crystallized into pillars that twisted and rose up in strange and otherworldly shapes. The ground itself was etched with strange symbols… or perhaps nothing at all and it was merely Tony’s imagination. He couldn’t be sure.

What he did know was that rising from the crash site… was a man.

A large man. In a tattered red cloak, silver-blue armor, matted blonde hair, and a rather big hammer-

“STEVE!” the blonde man roared, a massive grin blossoming upon his lips.

“Einridi?” Steve said, startled.

“Aye!” the blond declared as he hurried over, giving Steve a hug that pulled the man off his feet. “Though I go by Thor now! Or once more, I should say!” He set Steve back on his feet. “I am not dead, am I? Because I am pretty sure I am not and I’d rather it be that you found your way back to us rather than-“

He stopped and stared right at Tony.

“Bran?”

“…why does everyone keep calling me that?” Tony complained before he found himself also in a massive hug.

Chapter Text

Benjen

One of Benjen’s very first memories was his father lifting him up so he could look at a map of Westeros, asking all his siblings what they would want to rule.

Brandon had of course answered ‘The North!’ and everyone knew that was true because he was Father’s heir. But Ned had been unsure and despite Brandon ribbing him that he should go ‘South and find some soft Southerners to take over and have fun bullying’ Ned had finally said Moat Cailin because it had been in disrepair and needed to be brought up to snuff. Lyanna had, of course, proclaimed she wished to rule nothing. All she wanted was to be free. To hunt wild game and race her horse and not be shackled to a single place.

As for Benjen he’d just stuck his hand in his mouth and sucked on it, pretending not for the first time that he was too little to understand the question.

When he had met Prince Rhaegar and helped Lyanna escape so she might wed her silver prince the Heir to the Iron Throne had declared that soon things would be different. That soon he would rule and he would not forget what Benjen had done. There would be many kingdoms in Westeros that would see changes and that Benjen only had to name a land and he would rule it. Was he bookish? Then Oldtown would be his, with the Citadel commanded to allow him to read to his heart’s content. Did he love the sea? All of the Iron islands then, so he might be a pirate prince serving his King. Perhaps he wished to know something more than the flat lands of the North? Then The Vale, for Jon Arryn was old and had no heirs though they would need to speak with Ned for Rhaegar was considering giving him those lands…

Benjen had merely smile and bowed.

When Ned had returned from the Rebellion he had declared to Benjen that he could take any lands he wanted in the North, for there were many that needed a lord. The Moat that he had chosen for himself, when he’d been so young? Benjen’s with a word and he would provide him with all the coin he needed to create the greatest fortress in all of the North, so that no Southern Army would ever be able to march upon their hands. Settlements on the West or the East, where he could build a Navy to protect them? Something close to Winterfell so he could be the first there when Ned called his banners?

Benjen merely stated that he had already made a promise.

When he arrived at the Wall everyone asked him when he would declare for the position of Lord Commander. He was of the North, which was far better than the Southern fools that were coming to take the Black because they refused to bend the knee. He was already well skilled, breezing through the training that normally took months within a few weeks. Everyone knew that he would be perfect to be the Lord Commander.

Benjen… had sighed in utter relief when the Old Bear had shown up at the Wall and all but begged him to become the Lord Commander.

The truth of it was that his time running Winterfell while his family had been South of the Neck had been the worst time of his life. He still had nightmares of being forced to sit in his father’s chair while a never ending stream of people came to him, demanding he listen to their boring complaints. Quite frankly Benjen wasn’t built to command… he was built to DO. When Ned sent him letters concerning how Bran was always climbing the walls of Winterfell Benjen had merely responded that he’d chosen the wrong brother to name his son after. Bran, like him, had wanted to serve, not lead. And he also couldn’t sit still. He hated being confined to a single place, which was why Benjen had feared for him so when he’d learned of his accident…

But the point was Benjen HATED being in command.

‘Jeor hates me. That’s the only answer,’ Benjen thought miserably as he did all he could to try and keep control of the group he found himself surrounded by.

“You want me to believe that this prancing fucker once led the Free Folk?” Tormund declared, looking eye to eye (which was impressive, Benjen had to admit) with the new arrival. “Just look at his fucking hair!”

Thor, as the man that had FALLEN FROM THE FUCKING SKY, brushed his hand along his long locks. “I have considered getting it cut,” he admitted. “You look like someone who spends many hours grooming themselves… perhaps you’d like to assist?”

Tormund blinked at that before throwing back his head and laughing, his anger and annoyance gone in an instant. He slapped Thor across the back but the caped man didn’t even budge… and from the way Tormund winced it was clear that the gesture had hurt him far more than it had Thor. “I like you! Not enough to bend the fucking knee too… but I’m sure my sister would be willing to bend all sorts of ways!”

That caused Rayne to bristle, looking up from the cooking fire she had been tending with Dolorous Edd. “The fuck did you just say?”

“Come now!” Tormund declared. “Think of the strong sons and daughters this one will give you!”

“I am married,” Thor pointed out.

“He’s married,” Rayne declared. She glanced over at Edd. “He’s married.”

“I have been told,” Edd replied with a cheerful smile.

Tormund though crinkled his nose. “And what the fuck does that have to do with anything? He can still get you with child! More than one! Flying wolves, Rayne! Giant flying wolf babies!”

“We don’t know if my gift would pass on to them,” Rayne pointed out. “Wargs don’t always breed true.”

“Bah, course they would! They would be my nieces and nephews!” He looked over at Thor. “There is no way whatever weak little flower you are married to can please you as my sister would!”

“Jane would blow her up,” Thor replied offhandedly, moving to sit down next to the fire.

Tormund huffed. “Just like some Southern flower to use cheap ways to fight. Fire? Would she even bother to pull back on the bowstring herself?”

“There would be no need for bows,” Thor stated. “Jane is the future Queen of Asgard and through her father become a Mistress of Magic. She could snap her fingers and cause your sister to combust.”

Tormund blinked.

“Is this pork? It looks like pork.” Thor looked at the cooking pot that the OTHER guests had set up, poking at a bit of meat within with a knife.

“It is!” Toad said cheerfully before Tormund suddenly grabbed Thor and hauled him to his feet. “I figured tonight should be a special meal, considering that it isn’t often we have men fall out of the sky.”

“…but it does happen?” Ygritte said slowly, still trying her hardest to look at Thor without making it obvious she was looking at Thor. It honestly was getting on Benjen’s nerves because she had no right to act like she had led a normal life when she was now a fucking Other.

Sabertooth grunted. “More than you’d think.”

“-dishonor my sister like that!” Tormund declared, Benjen catching the tail end of his rant.

Thor merely shrugged. “I am only stating the facts.”

“You will take her behind that tent and fuck her now for that insult!”

Rayne shot her brother a dark look. “Maybe you should take Thor behind the tent and fuck him!”

“Language, please!” Steve begged.

Tormund considered Thor for a moment before he threw a punch at the man’s face. Thor’s head moved but Benjen got the sense it was more to prevent Tormund from breaking his hand than anything else.

“Ah! A good rumble before a meal!” Thor unclipped his cape, letting it fall to the ground. “I have missed you, my Free Folk.”

Tormund didn’t even get a chance to declare he wasn’t his before Thor tackled him, the two crashing out of the light of the fire.

“Should… should we do something about that?” Pepper Stark asked as she took a seat next to Ygritte, not at all disturbed by the woman having several inches on her or her otherworldly looks.

“Nah,” Ygritte said with a shrug. “That’s just how we Free Folk test one another.” She looked Pepper up and down, a smile slowly growing on her lips.

“I wouldn’t even think about it,” Toad commented.

“Why not?” Ygritte said with a flint smirk. “’Fraid I might break her?”

“More that I’ve seen her cleave a melon in two from 20 paces away with a battle axe,” Toad said with a shudder. Ygritte blinked only to freeze up when she realized that while she had been talking to Toad Pepper had somehow gotten her hands on a small one-handed ax and had brought it to her throat.

Pepper smiled.

Ygritte… smiled.

“You ever paint walls?” Ygritte asked.

“No, never,” Pepper replied even as Benjen groaned and pressed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets.

“Terrified they are going to kill each other?” his cousin asked as he sat down next to him, stretching out his long legs before him.

“Terrified they are bonding,” Benjen muttered as he finally lifted his head up to see Ygritte introducing Pepper to Rayne. “How are you Tony?”

“Oh, doing well. Very boring life, not much to tell… you?”

“Dreadfully dull,” Benjen muttered.

Tony smirked at that. “See, that’s why I always thought you and Ned got swapped. He seems far better suited for the Wall and you to rule.”

“Please don’t,” Benjen said cringing at the thought.

Tony, to his credit, doesn’t press and instead stated, “Jon was doing well, last I saw him.”

“I’m glad he went with you,” Benjen stated. “I would have loved to have him with me but…”

“But you are First Ranger and you couldn’t afford to give him what he needed… or you wanted.”

Benjen didn’t look over at Tony. “I feared the first time I would have had to tell him no. He would have wanted to follow me, to go on a ranging… and I would have had to tell him no. Because he couldn’t have afforded for anyone to think he was getting special treatment.”

“So like Ned you would have been overly harsh and allowed him to be treated like dirt under your shoe.”

He whipped his head towards Tony but his cousin merely shot him a look, daring him to disagree.

Benjen couldn’t.

Because he was right.

“She’ll hate me for it,” Benjen said softly. “Ned is going to get the worst of it… but when I see Lyanna-“

“Don’t,” Tony said, cutting him off. “Lyanna never knew her nephew and while I’m sure she would have spoiled the boy rotten it does no good to discuss such things.” Benjen frowned at that; Ned had sent him a coded letter, letting him know that Tony knew the truth. Why was he- “Do you know who I’m stuck with?”

“I had assumed they were connected to Tywin Lannister,” Benjen stated, nodding towards Sabertooth. “He looks like a good replacement for The Mountain.”

“Not even close,” Tony said, dropping his voice to such a whisper that it was near impossible for Benjen to hear it. “They are the Brotherhood of the Blackfyres.”

“The Black-“ Benjen’s eyes went wide with terror. “Tony!”

“It isn’t by choice!” Tony hissed back. “They found me after I had been attacked and I’m an ‘honored guest’. Pepper being a Blackfyre Sympathizer-“ Which, Benjen dimly realized, explained even more why Catelyn had been loathed to have Tony and his wife visit Winterfell, “-has given me a bit more leeway than they might normally have offered me but the fact remains that I am not exactly free.”

“I might be able to help out with that.” He nodded towards his group.

“Yeah, thanks, but I don’t feel like getting your people killed.”

“We can hold our own.”

“Not against these people.”

Benjen though shot him a level stare. “Tony… trust me… my group? We can handle what the Blackfyres would throw at us.”

But Tony just smiled a patronizing little grin, like a parent who had been told by their 5 year old that they were old enough to go to the market all by themselves. “I’m sure you’ve had some fun little adventures away from the Wall but these guys are a cut above that.”

Benjen considered his cousin for a long moment. “What do you want to wager?”

“Pardon?”

“That you have had a more wild life than I have. What’s the wager?”

“Well, considering the Night’s Watch makes you give up everything-“

“No it doesn’t.”

“-I guess I’ll be fair to you and just take eternal bragging rights.”

Benjen smirked. “I’ll take a Valyrian Steel Sword.”

Tony let out a whistle. “Oh! Someone wants to play, don’t they? Alright then… let’s do this.” Tony rolled his neck back and forth like he was getting ready to wrestle with him, wiggling his shoulders to loosen them up. “So I was contacted by Gerion Lannister to go talk to Daenerys Targaryen. And before you ask yes, he is still alive and he’s running around with an eye patch and eating all my damn food. So I travel across the Narrow Sea, thankfully having an excuse to do so thanks to Tywin Lannister who is apparently dead but I still am having trouble believing he isn’t, like, a brain in a jar controlling all this still, and get attacked by a cult and my ship sinks. I end up washing up on shore where I am dragged out of the surface by Arya.”

“Arya,” Benjen said. He looked at Tony, waiting for the joke. “Ned’s Arya?”

“In the flesh… and a lot more of it because the Blackfyres… they have this ritual. According to Arya its simple but I don’t believe that, think she didn’t know about the final ingredient. Doesn’t matter, point is that Little Arya, the one we saw at the Feast with Robert and-“

Tony suddenly paused.

“Gods,” he whispered and it was a sign how utterly struck he was that he didn’t add his usual blasphemy to the utterance, “has it only been a year or so? Feels like… a lifetime.”

“Several lifetimes,” Benjen admitted.

Tony shook his head, trying at adapt some humor again but finding himself unable to… not fully. “So the ritual… it gives them powers. Sabertooth is strong and can heal and has incredible senses. Toad can leap about and as a super long tongue. The head of the Blackfyres… well, I’ll get to him in a minute. But Arya? She can pass through walls.” He thrust his hand out. “Wooosh. Except the cost of the ritual was her childhood. She’s… ten and eight, maybe? Perhaps a touch older. Point is she’s a little girl in a grown woman’s body. Acts like it too but I can tell for many that the allure.” He waved his hand about. “Don’t worry, she has good people protecting her, even if they are Blackfyres. Point is I get captured by them because let’s be clear it was a capture and one thing leads to another and I’m in Braavos dealing with the cult-“

“We heard about that, when we passed through,” Benjen said. “Saw the wooden soldiers.”

“Sentinels,” Tony said, move twitching. “Horrible name, I know. I would have called them…” Tony lapsed into silence because he was famous for being horrible at naming things. “Anyway… when we get done dealing with the cult leader who brought them to life, along with the men and women he gave the power of… well, to burn the world, I suppose… we went here. Met you. Saw a man fall from the sky.” He looked at the fire, letting its light glow upon his face. “Oh… and I’m the Iron Man.”

Benjen was quiet for a long moment.

“I heard rumor that people think you are the Iron Man… nice try, attempting to take that from me. But… its all me. All me.” Benjen had a feeling if he’d had a goblet of wine Tony would have taken that moment to take a dramatic sip. “So… mind trying to top that?”

“Why does Gerion Lannister want you to talk to Daenerys Targaryen?” Benjen asked.

“Not even going to try? You disappoint me.”

“Tony,” Benjen said.

His cousin scoffed. “He’s convinced the Others have returned.”

“I know.” Tony glanced at him and Benjen nodded towards Steve. “He’s one of them.”

“…heh. Yeah, right.”

“I’m serious.”

“Uh huh.”

“Other.”

Tony chuckled but the sound finally faded away, leaving only the distant sound of Thor and Tormund trading punches, both laughing rather than bellowing. He turned his head slowly towards Benjen and the Ranger found that now the tables had turned and it was he who wished he had a nice tall drink to sip in victory.

“…seriously?”

“They call him The Traitor. The first Other to stand against Thanos, the Mad Titan.” Benjen paused, allowing Tony to absorb that. “His name is Steve Rogers and his father was Lann Ragers… otherwise known as Lann the Clever.”

Tony blinked at that, glancing over at Steve who was chatting with Sam. “I thought he looked vaguely like Jaime…”

“He’s not that thrilled with the Lannisters at the moment so I wouldn’t bring it up to him. I think he plans to deal with them and how they’ve acted himself.”

“Right, of course,” Tony said mutely. “And the… I’m guessing female Other?”

“Ygritte. A wilding. The Red Skull tried to turn her into his lover but we accidently reversed the ritual and she’s now another Other to fight against them.” He paused, allowing a smile to slowly tug at the right side of his mouth. “And yes… we have a ritual too, Tony.”

“Well… now you are just taking away all my fun,” he muttered. But there was none of his usual humor in his words; for once Tony seemed as dour as Ned. “Its true though? The Others?”

“Steve,” Benjen called out, nodding his head towards his friend. And Steve was his friend, as startling as that was to consider. They should have been enemies a thousand times over. Living Man and Other. Stark and Lannister. North and South. And yet there they were, not merely allies but friends.

The Lord Command of the Knight of the Dawn quietly rose, nodding politely to Sam before walking over. More surprising was that, with a simple nod of his head, he was able to get Thor to stop fighting with Tormund, the large wildling laughing and saying he had been ‘going easy’ on the figure that had fallen from the sky, and come over to join them.

“Benjen… Br-Tony.”

Tony made a face at that. “You did that before… tried to call me Bran. Why?”

Thor though was the one that answered. “Why, because it is like looking into a mirror! Loyal Bran, born again… unless I also cursed you with immortality and not just with the inability to enjoy fermented drink.”

“You look just like our friend Bran,” Steve said, clearly used to needing to translate for Thor.

“Bran,” Tony said. “As in… the Builder?”

“So I’m told is his name nowadays,” Steve said simply. “When I knew him he was merely King Bran Stark.”

“Right,” Tony sad slowly. “Because you are an Other and you-“ he pointed at Thor, “-are the King Beyond The Wall.”

“No,” Thor said with a laugh. “That would be utterly foolish!”

“…right.”

Thor nodded happily, leaning over Benjen and making him realize just how much larger the other man was when compared to himself. He made Robert look like a babe. “There was no Wall when I was first crowned King so how could I be King ‘Beyond the Wall’ when there was none? Can you be the king of an island that doesn’t exist?” He let out a boisterous chuckle. “Besides, you act as if I am their king now! I have been gone for thousands of years, so I can no longer be their king. I surrendered my oak crown and let them decide upon their king, as was and I assume remains, their method.”

“It is,” Benjen found himself saying. “They selected a man, Mance Rayder. A former member of the Night’s Watch. He is the new King of the Free Folk.”

Thor stared at him for a moment. “Aye, I will need to speak of this King Mance with my little friend Tormund and his sister. Learn if he truly is worthy. While I am no longer their king I still care for them and would not see them harmed.”

“And you’ve been… where, these last few thousand years?” Tony asked slowly.

“In Asgard,” Thor stated.

“…that explains noting. So Steve, you also in Asgard?”

“No,” he replied, “I was frozen for thousands of years after I had failed to defeat Thanos once and for all.”

“Frozen. Right. Frozen.” Tony shook his head. “Also, and I mean no offense by this but also kind of do, this is all your fault for fucking things up.”

“Tony!” Benjen snapped.

“I’m just saying you had one job-“

Thor grabbed Tony by the throat and lifted him into the air.

“You dare mock him?” Thor hissed.

Steve at once leapt to his feet, grabbing Thor’s arm. He saw Sabertooth tense, ready to leap into battle, while Pepper was screaming for Tony and being held back by Toad. Ygritte glanced at Steve, clearly looking to him for guidance, while Rayne’s eyes flashed and her body began to ripple as she prepared to change.

“Oh my nan was right,” Edd murmured, “I am going to die caught between a bunch of immortals feuding. If only mum hadn’t said, “Come now, its Edd’s 4th nameday, save that talk for tomorrow!” then I might have learned just which one of you was going to accidently rip my cock off and leave me bleeding out on the ground.”

It was, of them all, Sabertooth who slowly turned to Edd and, with wide eyes, asked, “What the fuck?

“That’s enough,” Steve said softly.

“We lost thousands to that monster. Tens of Thousands. And I don’t mean to his wights or his White Council or the Court. I mean to him. Just… him. It was like he could snap his fingers and wipe out half a battalion. If Steve hadn’t fought tooth and nail to protect every single person he could not a single one of you alive right now would be sitting around this fire. You wouldn’t even exist because your ancestors would have been reduced to rotting corpses and you DARE mock what he sacrificed so you can sit here with your fancy little clothes and arrogant smiles and judge him?”

Tony gurgled, clawing at the man’s hand. “I… seem… to have hit… a sore spot?”

“Aye,” Thor said, leaning in close before throwing Tony down onto the ground. “You may look like him, little man, but you are not Bran. He would know not to mock things he doesn’t understand.” With that Thor began to walk away.

Tony rubbed his throat. “Yeah… yeah, run off.”

“Tony!” Benjen hissed even as Thor stopped and glanced over his shoulder.

“Thee have something more to say to me, Stark?”

“Actually… yeah… yeah I think I do,” Tony said, getting to his feet. “You… you can judge me all you want. Say I don’t know what its like. You’re right, I don’t. But guess what, pal? I’ve been hearing that song and dance my entire life. Boorish bastards who claim that the world was so much better in their day. That people were noble and kind and wonderful and everything was so wondrous back then and look at us now. But we both know the truth, don’t we? That’s a lie wrapped in bullshit and dipped in ‘fuck you!’.

“The past wasn’t shiny and bright and wonderful like you love to make it out to be. People talk of there not being true knights any more but there were never true knights… we just took the monsters of the past and made them into heroes while wiping away all their negative traits. Ser Duncan? The Dragonknight? They were just as vile and wicked as you and me and everyone else but that doesn’t make for a good story, does it? Better to have them be perfect ideals so you can look down your nose on everyone else. But guess what, bucko? People live longer now. They are able to do more. Survive worse. Build better. So take your grand proclamations about how you and your blue buddy are the best thing every and shove them up your ass. Because I’m not interested, dad, in what you have to say because I know it is a lie. Just something to make yourself feel better.”

Thor stared at Tony.

Tony stared back.

“…dad?” Steve finally said.

That caused Tony to blink for several seconds before he spun on his heels. “Toad, Sabertooth. Magneto is probably wondering where we are, right? Benjen, I owe you a fucking sword.”

“Well, I don’t-okay,” Toad said, shrugging when Tony left Benjen’s camp, the rest of his group getting up and following after. But if Tony thought that Benjen was going to follow after him he was mistaken. He knew from his time with Brandon, with Ned, and ESPECIALLY with Lyanna that when the wolf’s blood ran hot it was better to just let the person walk off and try and cool it down than to risk getting your head bit off.

“The arrogance of that man,” Thor muttered to himself more than to anyone else.

“But I imagine you see Bran in him now,” Steve said softly.

“Aye,” Thor admitted before adding, “but only the worst of him.”

“I’m sure he isn’t always like that,” Steve said, looking to Benjen.

“Tony… has had it rough recently, from the sounds of it,” Benjen said, trying to be diplomatic about it. “He isn’t a free man and that can cause-“

Thor held up his hand. “I know the rage a slave can feel, Benjen Stark.” But Thor still slid his eyes towards the direction Tony had left in. “But it does not excuse his actions and deeds. Your ancestor would be most displeased.”

“I don’t know about that,” Steve said again. “Bran and you used to fight all the time.”

“Yes… fight being the key word,” Thor rumbled. “I do not see that one ever going into battle.”

Benjen had to admit they were right on that count. Tony made weapons… he didn’t use them. The few times he’d seen Tony actually swing a sword around he’d left the audience watching terrified for his life, theirs, and interestingly enough for people not even there. He was that bad at it.

‘Yet he claims to be the Iron Man…’ his mind whispered.

Steve pushed Thor to sit down. “Let’s not talk about Tony. I want to know why you are here, Thor.” Benjen had to admit he was curious as well; he had done all he could to hold his tongue, seeing that the man clearly had not arrived outside of Meereen because he simply desired a peaceful visit.

The blond warrior let out a sigh at that, settling once more on crate that had become his seat by the fire. Tormund brought him over a bottle of wine that they’d gotten just before arriving in Meereen and Thor nodded in thanks at that, yanking the cork out with his teeth.

“Much has happened since we last saw each other, Steve,” Thor said, somehow managing to make Steve’s name sound glorious with just his inflection. “I was forced to return to Asgard only a few years after you disappeared and Thanos was driven back… I begged the Allfather to allow me to remain in what is now called Westeros so I might look for you but it was never to be. The next time I was sent to live amongst the Midgardians I was sent to Essos, born amongst the Dothraki who refuse to cross the sea. Then I was born in the Summer Isles-“

“You were in the Summer Isles?” Sam asked.

Thor chuckled at that. “Aye, good Sam. When an Asgardian is sent on a pilgrimage all about them changes, so they blend in with Midgard. I once possessed the darkened skin and ebony locks known in your lands. I fought with King Isolosono and his-“

“You were part of the Thunderers?”

“Part of?” Thor laughed. “I named them!”

Sam leaned back in utter shock. Benjen didn’t blame him… he had been just as startled, after all, realizing that he was talking to someone that the Maesters would consider to be living history.

“So how did ya end up here?” Ygritte demanded. “Cause ya don’t look like a baby to me.”

“No, lovely Ygritte, I am no babe. And this is not a pilgrimage.” Thor’s features grew stormy at that, shoulders hunched and body tense. “I left Asgard to come to Westeros to seek out my brother.”

“Loki,” Steve said. “Is he okay?”

“Aye. More than fine. Married and happy,” Thor smiled. “His daughter… she is a treasure…” The way Thor was smiling at Benjen sharing a look with Tormund, the large Free Folk man just shrugging and motioning with his eyes for Benjen to ask the question if it was truly irking him. But Benjen stayed silent, figuring that was the safer option after how Thor had reaction to Tony. “We all returned, along with Loki’s family and young Shireen-“

“Shireen,” Benjen spoke up. “Shireen Baratheon?”

“Shireen Stannisdotter now,” Thor replied. “Jane and I raised her after the death of her mother and father.” He shook his head. “But that is not what matters. Except… I suppose… it is.” He let out a dry huffing laugh at that. “Shireen, upon learning the Others were rising again, journeyed to Westeros to protect her people.”

“You let a little girl go fight a war?” Edd asked. “I see Asgardians take after my parents when it comes to child rearing.”

Rayne frowned. “I was 8 when I killed my first man.”

Ygritte opened her mouth only for Steve to shake his head. “Whatever you are going to say, make it the truth.”

“Was gonna be!”

“You’d have us believe you killed a man in the womb,” Steve teased and Ygritte stared at him before shrugging in acceptance.

Thor continued on. “What she reported was… troubling. The Others were adapting, evolving their tactics. Where before they used their thralls as merely foolish and misled fodder to infiltrate our ranks now they are seeking to make them stronger. To alter them so that they are near the level of an Other… without fear they might rebel.”

“We know,” Steve said softly. “They got to a member of the Free Folk, the Lord of Bones. And…” he swallowed. “They have Bucky.”

“No,” Thor whispered in utter regret. “Surely they could not-“

“They’ve had him for thousands of years, Thor. Frozen like me, as far as I can tell. Enhanced so that he is the closest thing the thralls have to an actual Other. Broken and lifeless. Just… a shell.” Steve’s eyes began to glow. “My father taught me well, Thor. I can’t save Bucky… but I can set him free.”

Benjen tried to think of how he would handle it if it was his brother who had been captured by the Others and forced to become their unthinking weapon. ‘Would I have the steel in my veins to take Ned’s head? Would I be able to drive a sword through his heart? Or would I hesitate… hoping perhaps that I might find a way to bring him back?’

He honestly didn’t know.

“That is why we are here,” Steve said softly. “The Red Skull-“

“Who?”

“The Commander of the Others,” Benjen supplied.

“…Red Skull. That is a better name for him.”

Ygritte smirked at that. “I came up with it!” Steve rolled his eyes but playfully nudged her. Thor looked at the two of them and flashed a shit-eating grin that had Steven proving Others could blush. “Apparently,” Ygritte said, not at all bothered by the attention, “he wants to capture the Dragon Queen.”

“It would be dangerous if she were made into one of them,” Thor admitted. “And that doesn’t bode well for convincing my father to see reason.” When the others stared at him Thor sighed. “He fears the events that are gripping Midgard. Thanos returning, rumbles of a soul escaping from the Hel that awaited it and returning to attack the living world, and other threats that, while smaller, when gathered together create a far more dangerous situation. He commanded the Bifrost closed and Asgard locked down while they saw to their own defenses. Loki, Jane, and myself were the only three that managed to escape back to Midgard, though I do not know where my beloved and my brother are. Perhaps the Warriors 3 and Lady Sif managed to sneak away but…”

He trailed off.

“So… we’re on our own.”

“Aye,” Thor murmured. “We are.”

They all fell silent.

Chapter Text

Bran

“Hodor.”

“I’m not hungry,” Bran said, barely glancing at the bowl that Hodor was holding out for him.

“You haven’t eaten anything since last night,” Osha complained, stirring her own stew. “And what little you did eat would barely have fed the bird we used to make this.”

“I’m fine,” Bran said. “The Three-Eyed Raven says that true Greenseers are able to fast for weeks, feeding off of the knowledge they gain journeying through the weirwood.”

“And the Three-Eyed Raven also has a root growing up his ass!” Osha snapped, finally losing her patience. “Ya want me ta shove one up there for ya, since he seems ta know best?”

Meera reached over and placed a hand on Osha’s knee, causing the older woman to still. “Bran,” she said gently, in a softer voice, “we are just concerned.”

“I am doing what I must do,” Bran said stubbornly, looking over at Jojen. “Correct?”

Jojen considered him for a long moment.

He’d never taken that long in defending him and his actions.

“Correct?”

When Jojen spoke it was with a tone Bran hadn’t heard ever come from his lips. A sense of… indecision.

“You can not rush what will happen,” Jojen stated, never bothering to look up at him. Every other time they’d had this argument Jojen had held his gaze with his soft, watery eyes, and refused to break the stare until he was sure that Bran knew he was behind him 100%. “You can’t force the sun to rise sooner or the clouds to move swifter. All you do is hurt yourself… and perhaps keep yourself from achieving your destiny.” He then looked to the bowl and Bran scowled, feeling utterly betrayed.

But still, he took the soup from Hodor who smiled and nodded rapidly, handing over a carved spoon. Bran dipped it into the clear colored liquid and brought it to his lips… and nearly spat out the mouthful.

“Are you okay?” Meera asked.

Bran nodded, face twisting as he struggled to overcome the overload of senses. “Just… wasn’t expecting it to be that spicy.”

“…we put no spice in it, little lord,” Osha told him, sharing a look with Meera. “It is just water and the bird we found.”

He frowned at that, trying again. And while he didn’t gag like he had before it felt like his tongue was on fire and his mind was spinning. He couldn’t describe how the soup tasted just that it was overwhelming. ‘And they say there is no spice in this? No seasoning? How can that be when I can barely manage a mouthful at a time?’

The others were watching him and he suddenly remembered what it had been like when he’d first awoken after falling from the Broken Tower. How everyone had seemed to find a reason to check in on him yet at the same time had tried to do all they could to not make it obvious they were staring at him. It was utterly frustrating, the sense that one was being gawked at, and Bran valiantly took another mouthful of soup, willing his face to remain impassive as he ate it even if his tongue rebelled against the flavor. It was just so strong and he tried to remember when he’d last tasted something so powerful…

…and found he couldn’t even really remember the last thing he’d eaten.

He knew he had eaten within recent memory but it was never that much and it was also tiny little bites. The Three-Eyed Raven had said that things such as hunger and thirst were weaknesses of the body and that a true greenseer could move beyond such things. The Three-Eyed Raven stated he had not let food touch his lips for decades and that had allowed him to have his mind clouded by anything but the history of the world. Bran was desperate to prove that the man hadn’t been mistaken in selecting him-

“Bran?” Pine Bark, one of the children, said suddenly.

“By the Gods!” Osha exclaimed. “I am going to put a bell on all you Children!” She jabbed a finger at the small Child of the Forest.

For her… his… it was impossible to tell… part the Child merely stared at Osha before looking once more at Bran. “The Three-Eyed Raven wishes to speak with you.”

“He’s eating,” Osha said darkly.

“The Three-Eyed Raven wishes to speak with him.”

“Oh, am I now losin’ me ability to speak? Or you ya hearin’?” Osha challenged, glaring at the child. “You must be… I said he was eatin’.”

“Osha,” Bran said but for once the older woman didn’t back down.

“Ya know, we were always told that the Children of the Forest were kind and noble folk… that it was man who was cruel. Drivin’ ‘em from their homes, refusin’ ta understand these lands and breakin’ the treaties the trees made. But now I’m seein’ that is utter shit.”

“It is important for Bran to do this,” Pine Bark stated. “He must be ready for when the Great Enemy arises.”

“And how will he be ready if he is dead?” Osha demanded, jabbing her spoon at Pine Bark. “He ain’t eatin’. He can’t sleep because you wake him up at all hours… don’t think I’ve noticed ya sneakin’ in with messages from that rooty bastard. How ya suddenly MUST see’em when he has just settled down ta rest.”

“Sacrifices must be made,” Pine Bark said, never raising their voice.

“And what sacrifices have ya been makin’?”

THAT caused the normally demur and quiet Child to narrow their eyes. “We have sacrificed far more than you will ever know, human.”

Bran set the bowl of soup down on the ground. “It is fine… as I said I wasn’t hungry anyway.”

But as Hodor got up to assist him Meera stared at Pine Bark, gaze not exactly hard but… calculating. It reminded him of how Jon would look at someone in the yard just before he suddenly attacked them with a flurry of swings that left them utterly on the backfoot and scrambling. It was the look that Robb had held as he had discussed who to place in charge of which battalions of men as he’d prepared to march South. It was the look that Theon had always gotten when, instead of snapping off a quip from the top of his head he actually stopped and considered his opponent; whenever he did that Bran had always found himself marveling at how vicious his barbs could get.

“You sacrificed much, didn’t you?” Meera finally said. “And yet much like your best efforts it didn’t matter. Thanos still lives… one of your own number, isn’t he? That’s what you admitted to us. The Mad Titan… a cousin of yours that you have failed to defeat. So now you rely upon a child to fight your battles while the ‘powerful’ Children are reduced to messengers for a half-dead man.”

Bran winced at the comment, looking at Pine Bark… who merely stared at her before turning and walking out of the room.

He didn’t know if that meant Meera had hit her mark or not.

It felt like it took far quicker to get into the main chamber of the Three-Eyed Raven that it ever did to leave from it. ‘Perhaps it is because I am so tired that the walk feels so long,’ Bran though but he didn’t believe that to be the case. ‘There is magic here… I can feel it like the wind against my face on a warm day. Perhaps the weirwood makes the path shorter because it knows I need to get to these lessons… but why make the path longer when I am leaving? Because I’m not supposed to? Or perhaps there is a price to pay to make the path short and I must see the debt settled when I leave?’

He didn’t know and he didn’t want to ask the Three-Eyed Raven. He was already doing so much for him and he didn’t want upset him by asking foolish questions.

“Good of you to arrive at last,” the Three-Eyed Raven said, motioning with a withered hand to the spot next to him that had become ‘Bran’s Seat’. “Come… we have little time to waste now.”

“There were some disagreements,” Pine Bark stated.

“Hodor.”

Bran just caught Pine Bark suddenly freeze up, the light dimming from their eyes for a moment before they hurried out of the room. He didn’t have time to wonder why they had suddenly paused like that as Hodor set him down, taking a moment to check him over before smiling and hurrying off as quickly as he could.

“I am sorry for the delay-“

“It is fine,” The Three-Eyed Raven said with a tired half smile. “You had things you needed to do, obviously.”

“Maester Luwin used to say that whenever I was late for my lessons with him.”

“Hmmm…” was all the Three-Eyed Raven said before he reached out and stroked one of the roots of the weirdwood. “Now then… I believe it is time we journeyed into the past once more.”

“What are we going to see?” Bran asked, shifting to try and get more comfortable. “The founding of Winterfell? The drowning of the Neck?”

“Ah, not quite that far,” the Three-Eyed Raven stated with a shake of his head. “Something a bit more easy. And a familiar path.”

Bran nodded. ‘I want to see so much… but I can’t be selfish. The Others are coming and if I want to be able to help my family I must do what I can to stop them.’ He looked to the Three-Eyed Raven. ‘He has lived for so long… well beyond the years a mortal man is normally given. If we can beat back Thanos I will have decades to explore the past. To learn of the heroes of legend and what secrets they took to their graves. It is selfish of me to attempt to steal away moments just to satisfy my own curiosity.’

So Bran touched the weirwood branch and felt himself falling into the great network of roots, traveling far, far, far from the North… and blinking in confusion when he realized he was once more back in the hidden storeroom of the Red Keep, with the pendant that had been crafted from the heartstree that had once stood in the Capital that was hacked down on the command of Baelor the Blessed.

He only had a moment to wonder why they were once more looking at the events that had occurred in the Red Keep, so far away from the threat they faced, when he found himself pulled down once more, traveling not in distance but years until he found himself standing beside the Three-Eyed Raven. The godswood of the Red Keep was once more around them but he could tell at once that they were older, with the trees far taller, reaching up into the sky. Yet the godswood wasn’t wild and untamed; no, in fact they seemed far more maintained than when he had visited before. He could see that rather than a path created by the treading of hundreds of feet over many years there was now dirt that had been carefully packed down with a border of soft grass on either side, though he could only see a bit of it for there was snow on the ground while ice clung to the branches of the trees like the bangles and bracelets that Sansa used to wear.

Stretching out his senses he realized that more dirt had been added to the godswood, allowing the trees to keep their roots hidden, and all manner of new plants and animals had been introduced to the spot of green in the stone city. Squirrels, birds… there was even a small pond now with fish though with the winter upon them the fish would sleep until spring. While not as alive as the godswood of Winterfell or the Haunted Forest that Bran had journeyed through to reach the heartstree of the Three-Eyed Raven the godswood of the Red Keep felt healthier than it had before, even in winter.

Rather than the soft light of day that had bathed the godswood the last time Bran had been there now he found himself standing in moonlight, the sky above him a beautiful swirl of stars and lights. He found it a touch odd that his breath did not come out in little puffs as it did back home even during the Summer but he realized that was foolish for he wasn’t actually there. Wasn’t actually breathing the air of the godswood. All of it was just a memory of the trees. And they did not breathe.

‘Do they think it odd that we breathe?’ he thought. ‘Do they wonder why little clouds escape our lips on cold days? Or do they not wonder about us at all, much like we do not wonder about them? Perhaps trees have complex lives, no different than us. Their own Game of Thrones, where they compete to see who is king of the forest, which is allowed to grow tall and old and strong and which must wait their turn.’

Looking to his left he saw a young man, maybe a few years older than Theon, sitting on a small bench looking over a long sword made of rippling metal that seemed to take the starlight hung above them and turn it into the wavering flames of a hearth. Bran felt a sense of… wrongness… staring at the man before him. He was so used to seeing his father in such a position; even though he wasn’t supposed to bother his father when he was in the godswood, communing with the Old Gods, he had often, when he was young, fled from his nursemaid and made for the comforts of the godswood where he had first discovered his love of climbing. His father had often pretended he didn’t notice Bran, though now he knew he must have given away many times he was there with his giggles, but whenever he was done he would find Bran and pluck him from the branches like he was an apple.

But seeing the man there, with his silver hair and lilac eyes, dressed in fine clothing (though admittedly well furred and padded to keep him warm in the cold air) made Bran want to rush him and scream that he didn’t belong there. That he was disgracing his father by being there, despite the fact that as far as Bran knew his father had never felt the need to seek comfort in the Godswood of the Red Keep.

“Who is that man?” Bran asked the Three-Eyed Raven.

“That would be King Jaehaerys Targaryen, First of his Name.”

“That… that is the Old King?!?” Bran exclaimed.

To that the Three-Eyed Raven chuckled, patting Bran on the shoulder. “All men were once young, Bran. They were once babes that were swaddled and carried. Boys who could barely lift up a wooden sword, let alone one of steel. Young men who dreamed of grand adventures and buxom lasses before settling into married life. Just as all the young will grow old. Infants you saw in Winterfell will become old men with bent backs and gummy mouths, the years leaving them wrinkled and spotted and scarred.”

And then he laughed though Bran didn’t know what the joke was. But he blushed all the same, ashamed at his foolishness.

“Your grace,” an old man, maybe one of the oldest men Bran had ever seen (after the Three-Eyed Raven but could he be considered a man? Hadn’t he said that the Three-Eyed Raven was something far more?), stated as he emerged from the shadows of the trees. He wore the white cloak of the kingsguard but his armor wasn’t as gilded as he would have expected. Instead his armor was scratched and there was a dent upon the left shoulder guard. Underneath was warm practical gear that was so unlike all the images he’d seen in Maester Luwin’s books, the ones that made him long to join the ranks of the Kingsguard as the first Stark to ever wear a white cloak. The man, with his bald head, single eye, and lacked nearly all the teeth in his mouth, looked more like an old stable hand or floor sweep than a knight.

“Yes, Samgood?” Jaehaerys said.

‘Sour Sam,’ Bran realized. ‘Oldest man to ever be elected to the Kingsguard. But he won his cloak in battle and he was one of the teachers that ensured that the boy king had been a master of the sword’

“Would it not be wise to return inside?” Sour Sam stated. “It is rather late and it grows colder…”

“Has it?” Jaehaerys asked, scuffing his foot against the snow.

The knight merely shot the young king a dark look. “Your grace… you are still young enough for me to take you over my knee.”

Bran was shocked by the comment and more so by Jaehaerys’ laughter. “I wasn’t aware you desired such things, Samgood!”

“Cheeky brat,” Sour Sam growled.

The Three-Eyed Raven leaned in close. “Jaehaerys has almost no memories of his father. Sour Sam could never replace Aenys but he did serve well as a loving uncle that taught his grace many of the things a father would. Jaehaerys had no knowledge of how to please a woman… his first time with Alysanne was awkward and fumbling despite the tales that are sung of them. Sam was the one who dragged the embarrassed king into a private room and taught him with pillows and japes how to make a woman scream.”

“Why would you want to make a woman scream?” Bran asked, nose crinkling in disgust at the idea of ever being with a woman. That was part of the reason he wanted to be in the kingsguard!

The Three-Eyed Raven chuckled again.

“Your grace,” Sour Sam tried again, “it would do no good if you grew ill. There has been enough misery these last few days…”

“I know,” Jaehaerys said softly, his jovial mood from moments earlier disappearing completely, leaving him solemn. He looked to the sky and sighed. “But we will be having a guest soon, Samgood… and I think it better for Alysanne and the children not be witness to what is about to come.” He paused. “Samgood… no matter what happens… you must not protect me.”

“Your grace, I will never make that promise.”

“I command it,” Jaehaerys said firmly.

“Fuck you, your grace,” Sour Sam snapped. “I am yours to command but I will not break my oaths. To protect the innocent. The young. The women and children of Westeros. And-“ he jabbed a finger at the greatest king Westeros had ever had, “-protect my king.”

Jaehaerys stared at Sour Sam for a long moment before letting out a sigh. “I fear this is a foe even you can not defeat.”

Before Samgood could say a word Bran heard the most horrible sound ever. He had never heard it before, in fact there was no living being, perhaps for the Children of the Forest and even that that was questionable considering where they lived, who had heard the noise. A terrible, awful, nightmarish sound that filling Bran at once with a dread that had him wanting to flee, despite knowing he was only in a memory.

The roar… of a dragon.

Upon one of the battlements that surrounded the Red Keep landed a large pale blue monster, the moonlight dancing along the silver crest upon its head and the speckles of silver on its scales. The dragon flared its wings and let out another shrieking roar that had Bran clamping his hands over his ears and ducking.

“It can not hurt you,” the Three-Eyed Raven stated and once more Bran felt ashamed for showing such weakness. It was a memory… he had to remember that.

Bran looked back at King Jaehaerys but he didn’t seemed fazed at all. ‘And of course he wouldn’t be… he is a dragonrider and has known dragons all his life. This one would not terrify him.’

“Dreamfyre,” The Three-Eyed Raven stated. “It is said that dragons seem to pass on traits of their precious riders to their new ones. If so then she passed on sorrow and grief to her second rider, for her first suffered much in her long life.”

‘Dreamfyre,’ Bran thought, trying to remember Maester Luwin’s lessons on the Targaryen Dragons. He and his brothers and sisters weren’t supposed to learn about the beasts, for they were hated by King Robert and he had been like a brother to their Lord Father, but all had begged for stories of them. ‘She was born during the reign of Aenys Targaryen. Her rider was…’

“JAEHAERYS!”

Dreamfyre lowered her neck, allowing her rider to descend. She had 10 years on The Conciliator and while there was a beauty to her there was also clearly a great sadness. It was as the Three-Eyed Raven had said, Bran could tell at once: she had lived a long and sorrowful life already and Bran could tell that she would have far more.

“Sister,” Jaehaerys said as Princess Rhaena Targaryen, daughter of Aenys the First, Black Bride of Maegor, Princess of Dragonstone, and future Lady of Harrenhal, marched towards him in a black fury. Sour Sam stepped forward but Princess Rhaena glared at him, eyes narrowed and nostrils flared.

“Unless you mean to draw that sword, Samgood, you will remove your hand from its pommel,” she snapped and the kingsguard member stared at her for a long moment before taking a step back, his hand dropping to his side. “You can go. I would have words with my brother.”

“I will not, your grace,” he told the princess.

“It is fine,” Jaehaerys stated, holding up his hand. “I do not mind if Samgood hears you curse me out. I deserve it.” He dropped his head. “I was too lax with her. I should have been more careful… should have kept a closer watch on her. Let her know that her position was assured.” He shook his head. “She would never have been Queen… I do not think any would have accepted a queen who had 10 years on her king and Aerea would not have been pleased waiting for Aemon to come of age but something would have been found for her. I would have allowed her Dragonstone or her choice of castles. I would have-“

“I do not care of things that did not occur,” Rhaena declared, cutting her brother off. “I care for my daughter.” She took a step forward, glaring at the king. “I have been informed by our sister that you already had her burned.”

“I could not wait for you to arrive,” Jaehaerys said softly. “You would not have wished to see her like that.”

“I am her mother…”

“Rhaena,” Jaehaerys said, cutting her off. “I did not do it out of cruelty. I did not do it because I thought you too weak. I wish to the Seven Heavens I had not seen her that way. I wish none had seen her that way. Please do not force me to describe how she suffered. Remember her as she was… that is something I will never have again.” He closed his eyes and grimaced. “What happened in the Maester’s chambers… that nightmare will haunt me till my dying day.”

“What happened to her?” Bran asked.

The Three-Eyed Raven considered Bran for a long moment. “One day, perhaps, I will show you.”

He didn’t know quite how to feel about that.

Rhaena glowered at her brother all the same. “She should have come to me. I am her mother… why did she not come to me?” Though she had been trained to maintain her anger by the end her words held a hint of desperation leaked out as she tried to understand just what had happened and how they had ended up in the situation they were in. “She flew back here… to you.” Bitterness now coated her words. “You were always the one she long to be with.”

“She returned to King’s Landing, not me,” Jaehaerys informed her. “Had our lots in life been reversed it would have been you who saw her. It was the city that attracted her, not me.”

But Rhaena’s eyes flashed at that. “Had our lots been reversed… yes, how strange it is that we find ourselves in such a position. I should have been queen… I am our father’s eldest child now. But the people rejected me. I should have been queen because I was married to Aegon… but the people hated him and scorned us both while they have loved you and Alysanne.” She said the final name with such scorn that Bran felt, even though he wasn’t the target of her ire, that he had been physically struck.

It was that same scorn that had Jaehaerys’ own eyes flashing. “You will watch your tone, sister. I love you but I would not let anyone besmirch her name.”

Rhaena let out a laugh at that. “Of course…everyone must respect Alysanne. Perfect little Alysanne who has never known grief or pain.” She narrowed her eyes, twisting her hand in an odd motion. “I have lost two of my children… for taking what is mine she should lose five times that amount. I would say Seven-“

Jaehaerys took a step forward and Bran suddenly became aware that he was still holding his sword. ‘Blackfire,’ he realized with a shock. ‘He is holding Blackfire.’ And on his hip was Dark Sister… it was like he had walked into one of Old Nan’s stories! He knew that he was supposed to be mature about such things, that the Three-Eyed Raven was showing him important things… but he was staring at Jaehaerys the Wise, the greatest of the Kings of Westeros, with the two most famous swords in history within his reach!

“I would think very carefully before you curse my children, Rhaena,” Jaehaerys said darkly. “We have lost much, all of us… but what has occurred today has put me in a black mood. And none would be surprised if your grief led you to end your life to be rejoined with your daughter.”

Rhaena though smiled darkly at that. “And there it is… people love to speak of our Uncle and his darkness… but they forget that Maegor merely allowed the darkness that is all of us Targaryens to more quickly show. We are a cruel people, after all. Blood of the Conqueror.”

And quick as a flash she pulled a sword that Bran hadn’t even realized she was carrying out and rushed the King, Sour Sam not even having time to draw his blade before she swung at her brother’s head.

Jaehaerys caught the blow not even with Blackfire but by grasping her wrist with his free hand, forcing her to halt. But Rhaena suddenly produced a knife and slashed at him, forcing the king to dart back, releasing her arm. Once more Rhaena swung her blade down at him and this time Jaehaerys used Blackfire to intercept, twisting the blow away as the two siblings began their duel.

“Stay out of this!” Rhaena snarled when Sour Sam drew his blade. “This is just how Targaryens say ‘I love you’!”

“It is fine Samgood!” Jaehaerys declared. “She will not hurt me.”

The Kingsguard knight frowned at that and while he made no move to join in the battle he never sheathed his sword.

“Was it the timing?” Rhaena said, panting a bit as her and her brother moved about the godswood. “Or was it because of how old we were? You were young so you and Alysanne were first seen as a childish rebellion…”

“It was father,” Jaehaerys replied as he met her blow for blow, never once pushing the attack and working just to defend. “He was a weak king. The people of Westeros still remember when they ruled themselves and saw a chance to tear him down through you and Aegon.”

“Why side with Maegor though?!” Rhaena snarled.

“Because they also want to be dominated,” Jaehaerys stated. “Had our roles been reversed-“

“No, Aegon would never have been supported like you. He was a foolish boy.” She suddenly lashed out, forcing Jaehaerys to fall back, but that allowed her to slam into him, pressing their bodies against the Heartstree. “Father should have married me to you.”

“Rhaena,” Jaehaerys whispered and Bran found himself moving closer so he might hear.

“Aegon the Conqueror had two wives: the younger was the beauty that charmed the world. The older was his warrior queen and sorceress.” She leaned in close, teeth grabbing onto his earlobe and tugging on it. As she did so she dropped her sword and reached down with her now freed hand to slide her fingers into his pants. “You loved Aerea like a father… Aegon never got to see his children but you did and you loved Aerea… she should have been yours, Jaehaerys… as I should be yours…”

Jaehaerys shut his eyes and took a long breath. “Rhaena… this is your grief talking.”

“Yeessssss,” she hissed out. “My grief that I never get what I want… and you are going to give it to me, Jaehaerys.” Bran saw her hand move in Jaehaerys pants and moved to turn away only for the Three-Eyed Raven to grab his shoulders and force him to remain in place, watching. Hitching her skirt up Rhaena pressed herself against the king, Bran watching in morbid dread and fascination as she began to grind her hips against him. While Bran had never seen the act of sex, let alone engaged in it, even with his limited knowledge he know what was happening and he felt utterly wrong watching what was occurring before him. Not even that he was watching something that was supposed to be private… but more that he knew this was WRONG. “You will give me back my child… Aerea will return to us.” She shifted and hissed as she suddenly pressed herself against him, legs bowed. “And this time we will make sure she is ready for her destiny. Our destiny.”

Jaehaerys, for a brief moment, looked to be lost in the act. His eyes shut and his jaw clenched suddenly and Rhaena gasped. But then Sour Sam took a step forward and Jaehaerys came out of his daze and he grabbed Rhaena by the throat, pushing her away. But in the same motion Rhaena brought her knife to his throat and Samgood pointed his blade right at her.

“Part of you loves this. I can tell.” The grieving mother smirked as she lightly pressed the knife to Jaehaerys’s throat, a small bead of blood slowly oozing from his skin and along the sharp edge. “The danger. It is so enticing, isn’t it?” She moved the blade suddenly to her neck and for a terrible moment Bran was sure that she would slit her own throat. But instead she lightly pressed it to her own tender flesh, causing her own blood to join with Jaehaerys’. “Fire and Blood… we remember the first but never the second. That’s what you crave.” A dark smile, sharp like a wolf’s, like her own dragon’s snarl, flashed across her lips. “I have been with three men. Aegon did his duty but he was so unsure of himself. Androw couldn’t spill his seed in my belly… I much preferred his sister before she betrayed me. But I will tell you this, brother, and only to you: for as much as the singers claim I fought Maegor out of hatred… I still gushed on his cock.” She lifted the knife up for him to see their mingling blood. “I doubt tender Alysanne-“

That was her mistake.

The moment she said the Queen’s name Jaehaerys threw her off, hurriedly tucking his cock back into his pants. But Rhaena merely reached down and, must to Bran’s disgust, ran her fingers along her nethers, gathering up their combined fluids and adding them to the blood on the knife.

“You should die for what you have done,” Jaehaerys snapped.

“But you won’t do it,” Rhaena taunted. “Because despite how much you will claim otherwise… you will dream of that coupling and wonder what might have been if you had agreed to my offer.” Rhaena rose up. “But no matter… I have what I need.”

She made for her dragon again when Jaehaerys spoke up. “I have already had it moved.”

Rhaena paused. “…what?”

“Did you think me a fool, sister? You are many things but this brash and bold? You hid your times with your bedwarmers, so that even I had difficulty learning of your tastes in both men and women. I learned of it though… I know your preferences. You can stand to be with a man, that is true, but this little show is far too much for you. Too daring. Too risky. Unless it was all smoke and mirrors. A mummur’s farce to keep me from seeing the truth.” His lip twitched, it clear that he wanted to sneer but was forcing himself not to. “I can smell the Moon Tea on your breath.” He shook his head. “I had already predicted what you would do as I burned Aerea.”

“I don’t-“

The king continued. “It wasn’t enough to use the standard ingredients. You sought to use something special. Blood of a king and a princess. Salt from royal seed. And I imagine Ironwood shavings that you gained from some blessed statue.” He took a step forward. “Samgood already saw our father’s armor moved, along with that of Maegor’s. And you will never find them.”

Rhaena turned and Bran saw the lust gone from her eyes. Now there was only a fury, black and burning. “You took the armors-“

“Yes,” Jaehaerys stated. “You were mad to even think of putting Aerea in the Ultron Armor… it was cursed the moment our uncle crafted it. To place a soul in it is to doom that spirit to eventual madness. And as for the other… there is a reason our father never placed himself within it and Aerea would never take to being put in that masculine form.”

To that Rhaena let out a bitter laugh. “For the man who stole her from me you do not know her. Aerea would have been thrilled to be born a boy, with a cock between her legs and the freedom that brings. Or… should I say Rhaella.”

“Watch what you say-“

“You stole their names, just as you stole them from me. And now you steal my chance to bring her back-“

“What you want to do is monstrous, Rhaena, and I won’t allow it to come to pass. Samgood has moved the armor.”

“Where?’ Rhaena demanded.

“To the North,” Jaehaerys declared, much to Bran’s own surprise. “The Starks are the most honorable of all the lords of Westeros. I have commanded them until the last of both our lines are dust that they are to prevent any from using the armor.” Rhaena moved once more towards Dreamfyre. “They will never tell you and if you attack them you will be hunted. And I promise you that your death will not be quick. I will give up the entire treasury to the one that surrenders you to me. I will make my bounty for the dragon eggs you let slip from your grasp look like the coin beggars collect.” He shook his head. “Go back to Dragonstone, sister. Or some other castle. But do not dare cross The Neck. I promise you will regret it.”

Rhaena whipped around and jabbed a finger at Jaehaerys. “And I promise I will never forgive you for this.” She shot a dark look at Sour Sam and muttered something low under her breath, Bran unable to understand the words. “And as for you brother… a time will come when you will regret your command. When you will lose someone closest to you and you wish that you had not removed this option as you have removed it from me. And know my spirit will be laughing at you and your misery!”

And with that Rhaena climbed back onto her dragon and took off.

“…that wasn’t the command you told me to give the Starks, your grace,” Sour Sam said, finally sheathing his sword.

“Do not speak of the dreams I have had… we do not know who may be listening.”

And then Jaehaerys turned and looked right at Bran.

There was a sudden pulling sensation and Bran found himself once more in his body, blinking in confusion as he shifting up a bit against the roots of the tree.

“The command…” The Three-Eyed Raven whispered.

“What lesson did you wish for me to learn from that?” Bran asked.

“Hmmm?” the Three-Eyed Raven said before managing a smile. “If you can not figure that out on your own…”

He trailed off and Bran was left to sit there, wondering if that truly had been an answer.

Chapter Text

Arya

Mystique shivered and pulled the heavy coat tighter around her body.

“I warned you,” Arya said with a smirk.

“Quiet,” Mystique growled.

“I told you that when you shapeshift it is just your own skin that becomes the clothing so you’d need to buy extra clothing. ‘Oh, perhaps, but I have been everywhere, Arya!’ you told me. ‘I am far older than you, Arya!’. And now look at you… your lips are blue without you needing to change them!”

“Brat,” Mystique got out.

“Even your insults are freezing.”

Rather than answer Mystique somehow managed to burrow herself even deeper into the heavy coat that, due to its size, was more like a massive fur blanket than anything else.

Arya glanced over at Gambit who merely smirked. Of the members of the Brotherhood that had come along only Gambit seemed to have no problem with the cool bite of the Northern air, much to the annoyance of Mystique and Gendry. The latter had whined that he was built for heat thanks to working in a forge most of his life but had, at the very least, gotten his jacket on right away when they’d set out from White Harbor. Mystique had tried to power through, wearing her white dress and elegant leather coat so she might look regal, only to give up within in the last two days.

It had been a source of utter amusement.

“And there will be hot baths at your home?” Gendry asked for the tenth time that day.

“Very hot,” Arya assured him. “And there are great underground pools too… we all used to swim there. Remember Theon?”

“I do,” Theon said. “Though I don’t think we’ll be doing that this visit. Or ever again.”

“What do you mean?” Arya asked, confused. “Why wouldn’t we?”

That caused Theon, for some odd reason, to begin stammering.

“You’ve gotten a bit… big for that,” Brienne stated. The large green woman was riding on one of the horses that were normally meant for the large Mandarly men, so that she didn’t crush a standard-sized horse.

“You’re afraid we won’t all fit?” Arya asked. “The pools are rather large.”

“Its… not that,” Theon got out, refusing to look at her.

“What is wrong with your voice?” Arya said, crinkling her nose. “Why is it all squeaky?”

“Gambit think it might have somethin’ ta do with how you’ve developed, chere.”

Arya frowned, looking down before she finally got what they were all getting at. “…so? Its not like I really have much in terms of tits.”

“Language…” Mystique got out, though with her teeth chattering it came out far more broken up than she meant it too.

“I don’t see the big deal,” Arya stated. “We swam there all the time. I’ve seen you naked and you saw me naked.”

“You were… five,” Theon argued. “Now you’re near my age.”

“And? Its not like you want to fuck me.”

“Never!” Theon exclaimed.

“Exactly. No one would want to fuck me. Well, except the Essosi but they are weird.”

“She… she honestly doesn’t realize, does she?” Gendry asked Gambit who shook his head.

“Realize what?” Arya asked, looking about. “Realize what?”

“Your grace,” Lord Manderly said from the wagon he was riding in (others had tried to claim it was so he could look over the goods he was bringing to Winterfell but the Lord of White Harbor had merely laughed and slapped his gut, proclaiming it was because he was so fat). “I think what Lord Theon-“ and it still threw Arya off that Theon was now Lord Theon Bracken, head of a Bracken cadet branch in the North even if he hadn’t a castle or a wife or smallfolk yet, “-is hinting at is that it would cause quite a scandal if you two were known to be bathing together. What with you both being close of age and your… features?”

“He means you are very attractive,” Mystique blurted out. “And that you can’t go running around thinking you still have an ugly little boy’s body when you are a beautiful woman.”

“…no I’m not.”

Gendry grabbed his head and groaned; Arya quite agreed, everyone was being silly.

“Let’s… let’s try this again,” Theon said slowly. “Lord Manderly said you look like Lyanna Stark. Is that correct?”

“It is,” Arya said.

“And do you think you look like Lyanna Stark?”

“Yes.” She remembered well the statue in the Crypts of Winterfell, as well as some of the drawings Maester Luwin had shown her of her deceased aunt. While many preferred the drawing of her standing on a staircase, the wind catching her hair, Arya far preferred a much simpler sketch of her aunt with a sword in her hand, throwing back her head and laughing. She didn’t know WHO Lyanna had just defeated but Arya had always known that she had utterly destroyed some fool and was reveling in it. That was the woman she could believe had bewitched a Dragon Prince.

“Lyanna was said to be one of the most beautiful women in Westeros correct?”

Arya just nodded. She knew that the queen had taken offense to that and that Sansa had once, and only once, claimed that if Lyanna was as wild as was claimed she couldn’t have been ‘a beauty’. It had only been their mother whisking her to her room that had stopped several of the guards from mutinying over that remark and Sansa had never made the mistake of claiming such things again.

“So if you look like her… and Lyanna was beautiful…”

“…I don’t follow.”

Theon hung his head. “I give up.”

“And we are having another discussion about your self esteem issues,” Mystique commented.

Arya crinkled her nose at that; she honestly didn’t get why everyone kept saying that.

Lord Bolton just shook his head. “It is quite troubling that you do not see the truth of the matter, Princess. You are a great beauty.”

But Arya just shook her head. “I am no beauty. I am a wild creature. Arya Underfoot. Arya Horseface.” Brienne suddenly looked at Theon who rapidly began to shake his head ‘no’, much to Arya’s own confusion. “Everyone said so!”

“Nope!” Theon said quickly when he saw Mystique now also glaring at him. “Never said that. Not one bit! I might have joked about her preferring to use swords to needles but everyone knew that! She was much better in the courtyard than with the Septa… she liked it when I said that!” His voice was getting squeaky again.

“That is true,” Arya said. “I was horrible at all I did when it came to ‘womanly lessons’.” She said the name with utter derision.

But Lord Bolton just stared at her, his pale face and dark eyes making her think of an Other from Old Nan’s tales. “Your father mentioned to me once that you were quite skilled in managing a household.”

“He… he did?”

“Indeed,” Lord Bolton said. “We were discussing marriage prospects. I had decided against your sister but my son, Domeric, would have been a good fit for you, had he lived.” And Arya found it so odd the man didn’t seem upset by that at all. Her father still grieved his siblings yet Lord Bolton didn’t seem bothered by his son’s death at all. “He said that you were quite good at managing the timetables for the servants and balancing the books. That whatever Lord you married would never fear going into debt.”

“Well… yes, I suppose so,” Arya said. She had enjoyed those lessons… it was fun to look at the numbers and make them ‘dance’, as Maester Luwin had said. They obeyed her far better than her own feet. “But I couldn’t sing or dance or the like.”

“Those are Southern Notions,” Lord Bolton said before, once more, looking at Lord Manderly who now looked rather concerned. What was Arya missing? Why was everyone so put off on her understanding her place in the world?

“Your grace,” Lord Manderly tried again, “you are-“

But Gambit suddenly held up his hand, cutting off the Lord of White Harbor.

“Quiet,” he snapped and Arya instantly was alert. Gambit was many things but “serious” wasn’t one of them so the fact that he was giving them commands with no smile whatsoever? That had Arya at once going for Needle. “Gambit smells blood in the air.”

Lord Bolton sniffed. “I smell it too… and the wind isn’t blowing in the right direction. Rot as well.” He drew his sword and that was the sign for all his men to do the same, as did the soldiers of White Harbor who made up the escort. Lord Manderly, with surprising speed, twisted around and moved to the front of the wagon, taking the reins from the driver who drew forth a bow. Theon was already notching an arrow while Mystique drew her own blade. Lady Brienne slipped off her horse and tensed, nostrils flaring as she stared ahead, while Gambit pulled out his fighting staff and twirled it. “Princess, you should-“

“Would Lyanna have stayed behind?” she retorted.

“No,” Lord Bolton said. “But she is dead-“

“And I am not!” Arya said and with a kick she had her horse in a gallop, the others racing to catch up with her. ‘I fought against the Sentinels. I battled the Cult of the Mandarin. And now I am home, in the North. I am its Princess now but I am not one that will sit in a tower and wait for knights to come to me. I am Shadowcat of the Brotherhood of the Blackfyres… I am the Wild Wolf… and I will protect my home!’

She drove her horse to gallop all the faster.

It took her about 5 minutes to finally see the village and when she did her nerves were so frayed that it was almost a relief when she saw the large village looming before her as she crested the hill.

“That is Snowdrop!” Lord Bolton called out, having managed to ride beside her the entire way. Where others had begged her to stop the Leech Lord had, at the very least, given up trying to stop her and instead moved to ride along side. “A Winter Village!”

Arya nodded. She knew of Winter Villages, as her father had taken her and her siblings to several of them. They were large with many buildings and barns but whenever she’d visited they had always been near empty. She’d wondered the first time they’d seen one if there had been some disease or a battle that had wiped out the people but her father had informed her that it was empty because it was summer.

“During the warm summer years,” her father had told her as they rode past a building with a large chimney and a faded sign that made it clear it had once been a bakery, “only a few people remain here, paid to maintain the buildings and ensure that they are protected. Everyone else is on their farms, working the lands. There are also several fighting men who protect the great barns where food is left… not just grains and such but preserves, salted meats, and pickled vegetables. When fall comes the farmers will begin moving their families here, with the strong men being the very last to leave their lands. Every possession they own will be shifted to the Winter Village and their wives, the older members of the family, and the children will see to it that the communal homes are ready for Winter. For when the fall does end and the true snows appear all will gather together to ride out the long winter and the darkness that will come.”

Winter Villages had a pretty similar build. They were built on rises, land that either naturally rose or had been built up. Snowdrop was the former, based on the hilly area they were riding. The walls were tall and thick but Arya knew that inside Snowdrop they wouldn’t look that tall at all thanks to how the ground rope up, so that one could walk along the earth and nearly see over the top if they were a tall man. They had to be like that in order to prevent the snows that blew against them from causing the walls to come crashing down. There were wide entry ways, and many of them, that allowed oxen teams to push great snow plows along the road paths and out of the village. The buildings had sharp steep roofs so the snow would fall to the ground and not crush the buildings into kindling and many of them went down just as many stories into the earth as they did into the sky, for the earth could warm a building far better than walls. The barns were some of the best built in all of Westeros for they protected the food and thus had to guard against the cold and the pests.

‘One can always wrap another blanket around themselves,’ Maester Luwin had once told her, ‘but one can’t eat what isn’t there.’

But as they headed towards the gate Arya found herself staring in shock at the village, knowing for a fact that something terrible had happened and not in the ‘well, these things happen sometimes’ variety. The gates, which were large enough to allow two standard wagons to easily pass through, had been torn off their hinges with one of them having been driven into the ground so deep Arya wondered if they’d ever be able to be retrieved.

And then… there were the bodies.

“By the Seven,” Lord Manderly whispered as the wagon came to a stop outside the gate. There was no need for them to enter, for they could see easily the butchery that lay within. Bodies… so many bodies. Though perhaps not that many victims. It was honestly very hard to tell thanks to the fact that they had been torn to bits, strewn about the ground.

But not just the ground, either. Someone had been… creative.

“You shouldn’t see this, princess,” one of the Manderly guards said, reaching out to try and pull Arya away but she merely nudged her horse forward, avoiding to grab.

“I’ve seen far worse,” Arya said coldly. “And Winter is Coming.”

She couldn’t be for sure but she was rather positive she saw Lord Bolton and Lord Manderly both nod to one another.

Flesh had been torn from bones and both had been scattered about as decorations. Through one wall arm bones had been driven deep into the wood, forming the pattern of a heart, much like what lovers would draw on rocks or carve into trees along with their names. The flag of House Stark had been torn down and in its place was the skin cut from a man’s chest.vA flayed head with half of the muscles torn off had been left on one of the Sunstone lamps that the village must have just installed, so that the mouth glowered in a way that had Arya suddenly breathing hard-

“Arya,” Brienne said suddenly, causing her to jump and nearly phase through her horse. “Arya… what is it?” But before she could answer Brienne frowned, eyes drifting to the Sunstone lamp. “… the Cult?”

Arya nodded. The way the light was flickering in that mouth reminded her of the Cultists. How their flames seemed to want to burst from their bodies. And suddenly she was back in Braavos, feeling the heat on her skin, smelling people being cooked alive, the screams that suddenly turned to shrill screeches only to disappear into the cracking of timbers-

“Arya?” Mystique said and she blinked, realizing that she had somehow gotten outside and was now sitting on the cold Earth, her mentor kneeling down beside her. “Arya…”

She didn’t care how grown up she appeared. Didn’t care about appearing like a Princess.

Arya flung herself at Mystique and sobbed.

“Its Braavos,” Brienne said somewhere to her left. “We… ran into something very bad there.”

“Horrific,” Lord Manderly murmured. “We heard word of the attack for some sailors but I hadn’t realized she was a part of it…”

“We all were,” Theon said, sounding a touch ashamed. “I didn’t realize how much it affected her though…”

“Arya, focus on me,” Mystique commanded and she found that if she listened to Mystique’s voice things weren’t that terrible.

“Knew the Princess shouldn’t have been allowed in there…” someone said to her right and Arya felt shame flash through her and she tried to yank herself away from Mystique but her mentor refused to let go.

Then there was a scream from that guard and she flinched.

“Be wise not to talk that way in front of ol’ Gambit. His hands tend ta slip.”

It took several long minutes but finally Arya managed to get control of herself. When she did she pulled away at last, scrubbing her face with her sleeve.

“She might look like an adult,” Mystique said with a hiss to someone, “but she is still a child. Though-“ and she reached over and with fondness tucked a few strands of hair behind Arya’s ear, “-one who has seen many things and is far stronger than you realize.”

Arya managed a nod at that. She still hated that she had allowed herself to show such weakness in front of the soldiers and especially her father’s bannermen but she didn’t feel as bad when she saw Theon and Gendry looking rather pale as they kept glancing at the village.

“What… what could have done that?” Arya managed to get out.

“Iron Born,” Theon said darkly, much to Arya’s surprise. He didn’t like to talk about it but something had happened since she’d last seen him and the boy that had crowed about the Iron Islands and how they were the greatest warriors and sailors in the world had become a man that seemed to hate the lands of his birth.

Brienne shook her head. “This is too theatric for the Iron Born.”

“You’ve never met my uncle then,” was his cool response and Arya frowned at that. What could Theon be getting at with that comment?

The Lord of White Harbor shook his head. “While the Iron Born did manage to make it far more inland than ever in recorded history when they tried to take Winterfell-“

“The Iron Born took Winterfell!?!” Arya screeched, her earlier trauma forgotten as she sprang to her feet and looked at Lord Manderly.

“Oh no no no. They attempted.”

“One would say they did hold it for a few hours,” Lord Bolton stated but Lord Manderly shook his head at that.

“I disagree. Lord Robb remained uncaptured and remained in Winterfell and the guards were still fighting when Lord Rickon and his allies arrived. Thus they never gained full control of the castle.” He chuckled. “If I came to the Dreadfort and declared while you were on the privy I had ‘taken the lands of the Boltons’ had I really or was I a madman?” The Leech Lord remained silent, clearly conceding the point. “But as I was saying the Iron Born did make it deep into the North but that was by using the western shores and avoiding such attacks as this. To attack here they’d have been forced to sail around Dorne to reach the eastern shore.”

“Asha Greyjoy managed to escape with some of her men,” Theon pointed out. “A squid that was insulted and injured will do mad things.”

Arya raised her brow at that. Theon referring to someone clearly related to him as ‘a squid’? He had hated it when people referred to him as such and yet there he was doing the same? ‘What exactly happened while I was in Essos?’ she wondered.

“There are no tracks,” Gendry suddenly said, causing all to turn towards him. “Look at how muddy the ground is. You can see the tracks of our horses easily enough. But there are no tracks from whoever did this.”

“They climbed the walls,” someone suggested.

But at once Brienne was shaking her head. “Then how did the gate come down? That was torn down and something POUNDED it into the earth.” She walked over to the half-buried barrier and squatted, grabbing it with her meaty hands and giving a grunt. The wood creaked as it slowly was pulled free of the earth and Arya’s eyes went wide as she saw just HOW deeply it had been buried. While she didn’t fully uncover it what she did yank out showed that it had been driven down with tremendous force. “The only footprints near it are my own. So how did it get ripped away and flung here.”

“Someone like you, chere?” Gambit suggested.

“Which… would be a terrible thing,” Lord Bolton said slowly. “It is barely a relief to have one such as yourself on our side. To have them as an enemy…”

Brienne glowered at that but Lord Manderly spoke before she could respond to the Leech Lord’s comment. “The world is changing, my friend. The old tales are being opened, the old songs sung again; releasing what was once confined to the page and the mind of dreamers. We must accept that some new fantastical being is the cause of this.”

“Not fantastical.”

Arya turned and stared at what could only be described as a monster.

It was HUGE. She was used to seeing big muscular men… they seemed to thrive in Braavos, making the claims the people in the South had that the North was the home of large burly men utterly laughable. But the creature before her was massive, with broad shoulders that made him nearly as wide as he was tall and limbs that were as thick as her torso. His skin was slick, the color of obsidian but reflective and shiny like someone had coated him in grease from a kitchen. He wore no clothing, bare toes that ended in dagger-like points, and he was standing in the snow like he was on the warmest of Southern beaches. But it was his face that was the most terrifying. There were no true eyes with instead white splotches where his eyeballs should have been. And the mouth was huge and filled with razor sharp teeth and a long tongue that flicked out like a snake.

“Something deadly,” the new arrival said before leaning back, clearly surprised. “Theon?”

“…yes?” Theon said, startled that the monster knew his name. Brienne moved to fight him only for the creature’s face to peel away… “ROBB!?!”

“Theon!” Robb declared and Arya was rendered utterly dumbstruck at seeing her brother’s head on the monstrous body. She had heard whispers he had discovered some great power that let him turning into a monster but… but somehow…

‘I thought him smaller,’ she thought as Robb shrank down as the black body retracted, revealing his normal frame. ‘Looking more like a man in ebony armor and not… this.’

Theon and Robb had embraced as she stood there in shock, clapping each other on the back, and then Arya saw Theon whisper something in her brother’s ear and Robb went utterly stiff… before slowly turning and looking her right in the eye.

She swallowed.

“Arya?” he whispered.

“…aye?” she said softly and, because she had no idea what else to do, gave him a weak wave.

Robb lunged at her, wrapping her in a hug and laughing so loudly it made her ears hurt but Arya found herself laughing as well, clinging to him. Because in that moment it struck her at long last.

She.

Was.

Home.

Arya broke down crying again but this time her tears mixed with peals of laughter and a smile that threatened to break her face in half.

When they finally broke apart, though it did involve them keeping their hands on one another, Arya and Robb shared a look before they blurted out the same thing.

“What happened to you!?!?”

The two considered each other.

“Ancient Valyrian Ritual.”

“Creature from another world that crash landed North of the Wall.”

Both knew there was far more to it than that but it was enough for them at the moment.

She heard movement from within Snowdrop and tensed only for Robb to smile and shake his head. “That’s just Roslin.”

“And who is Roslin?”

“My wife.”

Arya slowly turned her head to glare at the Manderly and Bolton parts of their party. “And WHY wasn’t I informed that I had a goodsister?” Lord Manderly smiled sheepishly while Lord Bolton merely stared back at her with a cool challenging look. She truly wanted to hate the man for all he had said back at White Harbor but damn it all he just had a way of looking so calm and collected in the face of everything that she couldn’t help but feel begrudging respect for him.

Would still probably end up killing him if he pulled any shit.

Robb’s wife was at once what she expected and what she didn’t. Or, perhaps, the better way to put it was that she looked just like who Arya would have imagined him marrying yet didn’t.

‘Its like someone took mother and father’s ideal choice for the next Lady of Winterfell and merged them into one,’ Arya thought as the woman walked over. A year before King Robert had come to Winterfell Arya had been unable to sleep and decided to explore the castle. While doing so she had happened upon her parents chambers and been utterly terrified to hear them fighting. Not bickering… but screaming at each other. Her mother ranting and raving while her father only chose a few words but they were so thunderous it had made Arya convinced he’d bring the castle down upon them.

The fight had concerned finding a wife for Robb. Her mother had argued that they needed to find a proper match for him and had discussed the likes of Margaery Tyrell or the Princess Myrcella. Had brought up that considering the Starks were still owed a princess thanks to the promises made in the Dance of the Dragons and Robert was technically of Targaryen blood it only made sense to marry his daughter to Robb. Of course she hadn’t been that rational about it when Arya had begun eavesdropping; her mother had screamed her husband was ‘being a fool’ and that they were ‘great beauties’ and their grandchildren ‘would be fair and beautiful as well’ and ‘attract the attention of all the South’.

Father had, in cold thunderous words, stated that Robb would marry a woman of the North. That he wouldn’t have Robb deal with rebellion from his bannermen by ‘dishonoring them’. When her mother had demanded he explain… and then constantly poked and prodded him to respond… Arya’s father had finally exploded, claiming that none in the North had ever accepted Arya’s mother as a true Lady of the North because she never wanted to be ‘Of the North’. That she was seen as a soft Southerner who didn’t understand their ways and with it likely that Robb would rule during a Winter that might last 20 years or more he needed a strong wife that understood their ways.

That had, naturally, led Arya’s mother to claim that Ned would prefer Jon to rule because there were always two constants when it came to Catlyn Stark: Sansa was the most perfect perfect-girl in the world and Jon wanted to steal Robb’s birthright.

‘Honestly, if they were attacked by a bear mother would have claimed that Jon getting his arm torn off while Robb only got some scratches was a plot to steal Winterfell.’

But Roslin was a blending of their ideals for Robb’s wife. She was beautiful… not overly busty as she knew Robb and Theon had joked about when they thought she wasn’t around… but she had a pretty face and graceful build. But there was a danger to her as well as she walked through the torn apart gates. She wore the heavy furs of someone that knew and understood battle, choosing not a dress but the breeches and long coat that she’d heard were favored by the Mormont women of Bear Island. And there was something sharp and dangerous in her gaze that reminded Arya of Mystique…

…it was rather startling when Arya realized she knew that look well.

Roslin… had killed people.

“Robb?” the woman called out.

“Roslin,” Robb said with a soft smile, motioning for her to come over, “I’d like to introduce you to my sister, Arya Stark.”

“Arya…” Roslin said quietly, a grin slowly forming on her lips. “Well… this is a rather pleasant surprise.” She gave Arya a hug, though it was a touch difficult as Robb refused to let go of her, meaning that Roslin had to work around them both.

She could tell Robb wanted nothing more than talk to her but the massacre that lay in the walls just beyond him prevented that. “Is it like the others?”

“The same,” Roslin confirmed.

“Damn.”

“This has happened before?” Lord Bolton asked.

Robb glanced at the Lord of the Dreadfort and gave a sharp shallow nod. “It has. The fourth village we have found like this.”

“Heavens,” Lord Manderly murmured. “So many.”

“Why has the North not been warned?” Lord Bolton said coolly.

“Because there is no pattern to it. Merely attacks. And with the War and the preparations for Winter communication between the Winter Villages and their neighbors is difficult. And one can not merely tell every village that something is attacking at random and we know nothing… the panic would be too great.”

Roslin nodded. “Lord Stark, last we heard, commanded that all Winter Villages set up relay chains to keep in contact with one another, so that such attacks can be learned of far quicker. He is claiming he is worried about raiders. But many claim they cannot spare the men.”

“They will when they learn of this,” Mystique muttered.

Robb started when he finally noticed Mystique. “Another Child…” Arya realized that Mystique had, most likely while comforting her, reverted to her natural state.

“No, my Prince,” Lord Manderly stated. “Lady Ravan is… someone else.” Arya could tell he had wanted to say ‘something else’ but wisely changed his word choice lest her offend the woman. “She is unconnected with the Children.”

“Ah,” Robb said after a moment. “I suppose, with all that has happened, I shouldn’t be surprised. And it is a relief she isn’t another of our family returned. I don’t think I could handle it if our Grandmother Lyra had returned.”

“Our… what?” Arya said.

Robb gently squeezed her shoulder. “A long story.”

“We have time for you to tell it,” Arya said. “Winterfell is half a day away.”

But Robb grew… pensive.

“We can travel with you only a short way, little sister. Then we must part.”

“Part?” Arya said. “Why?”

“Roslin and I are attempting to learn what is causing the destruction that is striking these villages.”

And with that he broke away and the black fluid burst from his skin, causing him to rise up and swell as he turned once more into the fanged monster she had first seen.

“But… I just returned,” Arya whispered. “Can’t you see me home?”

“It isn’t our home… not at the moment,” Robb declared, his voice so unlike what she was used to. “We are banished.”

Chapter Text

Jaime

“I don’t need your help.”

“Grrr.”

“Yes, I am sure!”

“Grrr.”

“I mean it,” Jaime snapped. “If we use your flames it makes everything taste like wood. Burnt wood. Old burnt wood that’s spoiled. Which I’m not even sure is possible naturally which only shows why I will not be using your fires just because you are impatient!”

Hellfire narrowed her eyes at him.

“Trust me, it will be worth it! So much tastier for both of us!”

“Grrrr.”

“No I won’t use MY flames!” Jaime complained, throwing his hands up in the air. “We spent nearly an hour finding this buck… I am not going to have it tasting like whale oil!”

The massive sabercoat stared at Jaime for a long moment before finally flopping right down next to him and the fire, giving him a hard shove with her head. Jaime let out a sigh but still reached out and began to scratch her behind her ears. She didn’t purr… he remembered dimly Tyrion once mentioning that large cats couldn’t purr, as the ability to roar meant they couldn’t purr for some reason… but did let out a rumbling sound that made clear she was pleased. That little fight settled Jaime watched the fire in front of him, the skinned buck carcass roasting over the flames. Normally such a large beast would have been cut up and prepared to be packed up for a long trip, able to sustain him for weeks. But Hellfire needed to eat too and she would be consuming most of the deer, with Jaime getting his fill first before he let the big glutton have at it.

Shifting against the fallen log Jaime looked over at the large wrapped bundle that sat near him and huffed. “I still can’t believe that this thing is going to help up.”

When the Old Gods had commanded him to seek out weapons of power he had assumed that they would be like Darksister: blades made of nearly mythical metals, able to do impossible things, worth entire kingdoms and lost in old crypts and abandoned temples. Instead he had found the first item left buried in a glen on a small island just off the western shores of the North. It had meant a lot of digging and when he’d found the damned thing he had thought for a moment that someone had replaced what he was looking for with a false item, one meant to trick the foolish.

But no, the Old Gods had spoken in his head and told him the green stick with a ring on the top was in fact the weapon he was searching for.

“Disgusting thing,” Jaime thought to himself, taking out a rag and working to remove some of the gunk from the Staff of One. Apparently it was actually made of copper and become covered in… something… and he had decided to set about cleaning it off. “Well made I suppose, if it managed to survive all this time…” He had no idea WHAT the Staff could do but he figured that if he had a legion of voices belonging to immortal beings that had turned him into a burning skeleton man telling him the Staff was important then…

…well, maybe it was?

Or they were fucking with him. That was a possibility.

Taking out the map he frowned as he looked over it. “We should be within a few hours ride of the next weapon.” Hellfire merely nudged him, demanding more scratches. “Typical feline,” he muttered as he used one hand to itch her head, the sabercat rumbling again in pleasure. He had seen her tear apart black bears without breaking stride (literally… they had burst over a hill right in front of a bear; Hellfire simply had bitten down on its throat without losing a step, dragging it for a mile before tossing its mangled body to the side) yet she also was a needy thing that loved to be pampered. “There is a joke about my family there,” he muttered.

Hellfire licked her lips… before suddenly going still and tense. Jaime, for his part, at once reached for his sword.

“The animals always know,” Ser Arthur Dayne had once told him when they had been allowed a rare chance to actually leave the Red Keep. Their horses had suddenly begun to fuss for seemingly no reason but Ser Arthur, rather than spur his mount forward, had held firm, sending two of the guards that were with them to take the long way around to the other side of the street. They’d then dismounted, leaving the horses whinnying and clicking their hooves against the cobblestone, and edged forward to find bandits waiting in a hidden offshoot alleyway, ready to throw out caltrops to cripple their mounts and then set upon them. Jaime and Ser Arthur had easily dealt with the fools but it would have been dicy had they not been on alert. More men died of their horses throwing them in battles than died by swords, at least from what Jaime had observed. “They have senses we can’t even imagine. You ever see one sensing danger… be ready.”

So Jaime shifted, moving from the lounging position he had been in to a squat, one that would allow him to quickly leap into battle if needed. Keeping one hand on his sword he reached out with his other to grab a large hunting knife and poke at the deer, checking to see if it was ready.

‘And of course it is,’ he thought darkly. ‘I swear if some wildling bastard makes me burn my meal…’ They had managed to avoid pretty much everyone while South of the Wall but now back North again, heading towards a section of the Lands of Always Winter known as Ulysses’ Garden according to the map, they had begun to encounter those wildlings that were refusing to make their way towards the Wall and safety. And naturally if one was stubborn enough to believe they could battle the Others they believed that Jaime was an easy target.

He was utterly startled when the figure finally emerged into the circle of light his campfire created. The wildlings were skilled hunters, that was true, but he should have heard the figure approaching! Instead they emerged from the shadows of the ancient forest like a phantom, staring at him with dispassionate eyes.

“I wondered who was foolish enough to light a fire,” the figure, a woman though not built like any woman Jaime had ever seen save perhaps the Mormont women, said as she moved towards him. “Don’t you know its dangerous to be out here?”

Jaime merely raised an eyebrow, looking her up and down. She was the biggest fucking woman he’d ever seen… she had a good half foot on him, perhaps a foot! It was hard to tell with the snows. And she was a muscular lass; even with the heavy fur coat that was draped over her shoulders Jaime could tell she was powerfully built. Still… appearances needed to be kept and as such he refused to answer her.

“I know how to fight,” she said before reaching behind her. Jaime tensed but then realized she was pulling a sled that had a large… well, he guessed it was a bird from the feathers but he couldn’t be sure just what kind. Something dangerous judging from it having talons the size of his hands. “You take that down or your pet?”

Hellfire growled low at being called a pet but Jaime just patted her on the head. ‘Hold off,’ he mentally hissed; he didn’t know if she actually could hear him or not but he had given her mental commands before and she seemed to understand. ‘Lets see where this goes.’ Out loud he said, “If you have eyes you should be able to tell.”

The woman smirked at that. “Still might have gotten lucky.”

“All hunts have a bit of luck.”

“Not when I do it,” she said and Jaime found himself in the odd position of hearing his own arrogance in skills of hand being tossed back at him.

‘Gods, how many times did I make that comment when it came to a tournament?’ he thought. While it wasn’t quite the same, as he hadn’t been accusing her of needing luck to win, her words were almost his, dripping with the same confidence that came from knowing you were the best at something. ‘I wonder how good she is with that spear,’ he thought. ‘And the knives.’ He hadn’t missed that she had multiple weapons hidden on her person.

“All for you?’ she asked. A test to see if he was all by himself.

“If you’re up for a trade I wouldn’t say no to sharing,” he commented. He didn’t actually mind having just venison for dinner but it was yet another chance to test her. To see how she would handle things. How open she was to other people. ‘And it doesn’t answer her question,’ he thought, refusing to let go of his sword.

“I suppose I need to see if the thing was sickly or not,” she commented. “Might have been the only way someone like you managed to snag it.” With that she sat down on the ground that had managed to stay snowfree thanks to some trees, taking out a knife and setting to work cleaning her bird. It would take a bit of time to have it all prepared but Jaime, after giving his deer a few pokes, saw that his meal could wait until her’s was ready. Hellfire wasn’t too happy about the delay but once he settled back down and began to scratch her she quieted down.

Sitting there with the stranger honestly made him miss his companions. ‘And how strange is that?’ he thought to himself. ‘The boy I crippled. The simpleton. The dreamy moon boy. The girl who is more a boy than her brother. The wildling bitch.’ He let out a quiet snort. ‘They are people I want to be around.’ Hells, even his mockery wasn’t entirely true… Osha was a fine fuck and he was looking forward to sharing her bed again. Or anyplace else she might want to fuck. Cersei had only truly gotten adventurous at Winterfell… and after Bran she had refused to attempt anything like that again. Osha though… that woman would be willing to go anywhere. Do anything.

He shifted his legs and mentally scolded his erection, demanding it go down.

“What’s a Black Brother doing this North of the Wall?” the woman finally said once she’d removed all the feathers from her bird and set about yanking all the guts out of it. She wasn’t squish, that was for sure, and Jaime wondered if she was putting on a show to let him know what she was willing to do. He wouldn’t put it past her, to be honest.

“Your kind is passing through the Wall.”

“Exactly,” she said.

“That means those that aren’t passing through are of interest to us. Never good when someone decides to make things harder for themselves.”

“Living in the North, amongst people that hate us and think us savage monsters… they will always be staring at us waiting to see what we might do next… you believe that such an existence is an easy one for the Wildlings?”

‘No,’ Jaime thought, ‘but then again you aren’t a wildling, are you? You would have called yourself Free Folk. Would have commented on my dress; might be black but isn’t the right make up. And you certainly don’t have the fucking accent of a Wildling.’ Osha had taught him much and while he knew it would be wrong to assume that all the Free Folk were like her… he had to imagine there were enough shared traits amongst them that they would have some resemblance to her.

And the woman in front of him who was sticking a bird on some skewers?

She was no Wildling.

It was hard to place her accent… it reminded him a bit of the Dornish accent but also tempered. It reminded him, quite honestly, of Lewyn Martel. He had been in King’s Landing just long enough that he had begun to lose a bit of his Dornish accent; it was still there but it had been muted. Or perhaps stunted was the better word. Still there but reduced. Enough that all the women fawned over him even though he had swore to take no wife and father no children (and as surprising as it was to think of someone related to Oberyn Martel keeping such a promise Lewyn had held true to his oath though he was a shameless flirt) yet he could talk with the men of the court and make them forget that he was from Dorne. Jaime had watched more than one noble begin going off on the Dornish while Lewyn merely smiled.

Her accent reminded him of that. And while it was hard to tell thanks to the darkness… he got the sense her features were Dornish as well.

‘Perhaps a Sand Snake?’ he thought. ‘I could see Oberyn Martel sending one of his daughters North of the Wall to investigate things.’

People always talked about what a good father Oberyn Martel was. How he was dedicated to all his bastard daughters, loving them like they were true born. But what people missed was how he used them as his own private spy network meets sellsword company.

All of them were deadly, trained by the greatest warriors Oberyn could find. Jaime had little doubt if things had been different and their families not been in a silent war the Red Viper would have asked Jaime to train at least one of them. Apparently he’d already managed to convince Tyrion’s pet sellsword, Bronn, to work for him and Jaime had little doubts he wanted to man to come to Sunspear and train his brood.

But they were also said to be utterly clever… and able to blend in with the world and disappear. One was said to have gone to Old Town and disappeared without a trace. Others commonly slipped into the Reach. And then there was his eldest, Natasha Sand… or now Natasha Stark, the Black Widow, future lady of Iron Pointe. That one… he’d heard stories about her and while normally he would have been interested in testing his skill against her he had a dark feeling it wouldn’t be worth it.

‘Wonder how the Bastard is handling her,’ Jaime thought before mentally shaking that thought away. ‘Heh… he ain’t a bastard anymore though…’ He gave that thought as well a shove and focused on the issue at hand: the stranger. ‘She’s one of Oberyn Martel’s, most likely. Sent up here to check things out. She’d doing well but can’t hide that sun kissed skin.’ That did leave him wondering about her accent; it didn’t sound anything like the Free Folk so it wasn’t them that had tempered the Dornish twinge. Jaime couldn’t place it.

As if sensing his eyes on her the woman looked up and opened her mouth… only to click it shut.

‘Oh… this is going to be really good or really bad,’ Jaime thought to himself. He thought of Tyrion and how he would do that often when something startled him… before either becoming giddy with delight or so sarcastic that his words seemed to drip acid. And he thought of his father and how, when he did that (though far, far more subdued) it usually meant pain and suffering for all.

“Where are you from?” she asked.

Jaime raised an eyebrow at that. “Could I safely say “My mother’s womb” and not get struck?” It was a very Tyrion thing to say… and it made his heart ache a bit knowing he may never see his brother again. And considering how the family hadn’t been all that concerned about him…

“You have the looks of the Westerlands to you,” the woman said, now doing nothing to hide she wasn’t a wildling.

“I grew up in Lannisport,” Jaime said, deciding that he inject as much truth into his lie as he could. He had found all his life that the more honest you were the easier a lie was believed. That had always been Cersei’s mistake: trying to make a lie out of whole cloth. It was like trying to build a shelter for the night: better to have it anchored by something stable. She would claim that she was kept from an appointment because she ran into some strange trouble. Jaime would just shrug and say he took a wrong turn.

“Connected to the Lannisters.”

“Distantly,” he said. “Though I guess with them and how many are running around that doesn’t mean much.” He was tempted to say he was a bastard, to see if she would open up more, but quickly decided against it; she might ask him things about his life that he honestly wouldn’t know and that could lead into another trap that he did not want to try and find his way out of.

“And how did you end up North of the Wall.”

“I broke my vows,” he admitted honestly. “Many times.”

“Vows… are tricky like that,” she said, her voice growing just a touch softer. Not soft… but softer. She began to check on her bird. “The same one?”

“Yes. But to two different men. One I broke for the best of reasons. The other for the most selfish.”

“But you feel worse about the best one, don’t you?” the woman asked.

“Yes,” Jaime got out. Because it was true. Even if all of Westeros learned of how he had betrayed Robert and looked upon him with scorn… he could live with that. Accept it. Because he understood that what he had done was wrong but he also understood that Robert was a shit king who had broken his own vows a thousand times. While he would never claim that making love to Cersei was justice…

But Aerys?

He had broken his vows for the greatest of reasons… and still it felt wrong. And not because of the reasons many would have believed. He didn’t care that Ned Fucking Stark looked down that massive nose of his at him; the bastard had vowed to serve his king, hadn’t he, and then risen in rebellion? He didn’t care that people mocked him with the name ‘Kingslayer’; they did that because they were scared of him and it made them feel better to seemingly be able to lob an insult at him. He didn’t care that other members of the Kingsguard looked at him in disgust; he would take Selmy’s glowers any day because they were forever tainted by how he hadn’t reacted as the Queen screamed for help as Aerys violently raped her. It was why, after the first time when Ser Arthur had seen him make a move towards the door, he had never been allowed to stand guard over the bedchambers again. Only he remembered the words of his oath.

‘I charge you to defend the innocent’

All the Kingsguard had made that pledge when becoming knights. And all of them had stood by as an innocent woman was brutalized by that-

“Why?” the woman pressed.

“Because I should have broken them sooner,” Jaime whispered.

He thought of Harrenhal. Thought of Aerys gleefully making him a member of the Kingsguard. Harrenhal. The Beginning of the End.

How different would the world have been if Jaime had risen up, grabbing the sword from Aerys’ hand before he could finish inducting him into the Kingsguard, and slit the bastard’s throat? Maybe he would have died… most likely would have… but how many more would be alive now if he had done that? Allowed Rhaegar to rule? Perhaps the Prince would have revealed to all what a monster his father was and lifted Jaime up, thanking him for doing what he didn’t have the strength to do. Or maybe he would have still died… but at least been able to walk into the Seven Heavens with his head held high. His ancestors staring at him before bowing low.

How different the world would be if he had charged into Aerys’ bedchamber the first time he raped the Queen rather than allow Ser Arthur to grab his hand to keep him from drawing his sword. Cut him into pieces before gathering Rhaella in his arms and swearing she would be protected. Rhaegar would have thanked him… he knew the prince hated how his father treated his mother. It was why Jaime had always doubted the claims that Rhaegar had raped Lyanna Stark; the prince refused to become his father.

Cut the collar off of Brandon Stark’s throat and together charged the Mad King, Jaime holding off the noble fools while Brandom showed Aerys the might of the North? And then the two standing at the Iron Throne, calling for any who still thought Aerys worthy of it to come forth and be his champion. A trial by combat like in the songs… Gods, if only Brandon had called for that Jaime would have sided with him. Aerys would have demanded the Kingsguard stand with him but Jaime would have sided with Brandon and his Northmen and they would have fought together and proven their innocence.

Bashed his fucking head in the first time he had ordered a bard’s tongue ripped out purely because a song they sang was ‘out of tune’ to the king’s ears. Driven his sword through his throat when he insulted Ellia and her children… even though Mantis assured him that she knew he cared he could have saved her from her grandfather’s judgement…

‘In my dreams… I kill him every night,’ Robert had once told him when deep in his cups and left sorrowful about his privileged life.

But Jaime doubted Robert dreamed of ALL the different times he could have killed Rhaegar.

Not like how Jaime dreamed of the thousand chances he wasted in ending the Mad King.

It didn’t matter though. Aerys was dead. Robert was dead. His family clearly didn’t care if he was dead. And he had to live for the here and now and not become trapped in the past.

So he walked over to the deer, prepared to haul it off the flames, only for his now dining companion to join him, helping him lift the carcass up and set it down upon the ground; Hellfire honestly didn’t care if part of the meat got dirty.

“Take your fill because this one won’t leave enough for seconds,” Jaime said as he reached over and patted Hellfire’s head. The sabercat merely licked her lips and continued to eye up the deer, ready to pounce on it the moment Jaime said she could.

The woman merely nodded and cut herself off several long strips of crackling meat, the juices popping and bubbling as she placed it on a long scrap of leather that she had pulled from her pocket that looked to be stained by a thousand different meals. Jaime laid his on a hunk of bark he had pealed from a tree and cleaned before her arrival before stabbing into her bird, pulling out great chunks of white meat from the breast. Once both were settled he eyed his sabercat and finally nodded.

Hellfire launched herself forward, violently tearing into the remains of the deer. She was showing off, much to Jaime’s amusement. He had seen the cat eat far more carefully but she clearly wanted to prove to their dining companion that she could be quite vicious if she desired so. Snapping bones so they popped, tearing into the flesh with her razor sharp teeth. All to warn her off from doing anything stupid.

As if sensing his thoughts the woman merely eyed the sabercat and said, “All you are doing is showing me all the best ways to kill you.” That caused Hellfire to look up and growl. “All the spots that are weak and soft. Where I can slip a knife. Where I can twist to avoid your claws.” She narrowed her eyes and Jaime suddenly felt as if he were watching a viper square off against an eagle. “Don’t show a predator what you can do, kitty cat.”

Hellfire snarled at that and Jaime tensed, ready to call her off… only for the sabercat to let out a huff and return to eating her meal only now at a slower pace.

“You have to show them you won’t put up with their shit,” the woman said.

“Have experience with cats?”

“Doesn’t matter if they are huge or fit easily in your daughter’s arms. They-“

And then the woman stopped and went silent.

‘What was that about?’ Jaime thought to himself before it suddenly hit him. ‘Daughter… she mentioned a daughter. A touchy spot then but… why?’ He didn’t know what was making him linger on that but he had the sudden feeling that the answer was far more important than he realized. That… it would mean the lives… and the deaths… of so many. ‘Or I’m just being an overly dramatic woman,’ he thought with a mental smirk.

He also got the sense that if he pressed her on her daughter the two of them would end up fighting. And he wasn’t interested in that.

‘Because you might not win,’ a tiny voice whispered in his head even as louder voices crowed that of course he would win, he was Jaime Lannister, the greatest sword in all of Westeros! ‘Who isn’t in Westeros at the moment.’

So instead of asking that question Jaime found himself saying, “Are we just going to keep dancing around names? Or should I just call you ‘wench’?”

“Call me that and I will ensure YOU are called wench,” his companion said gruffly.

‘Oh yes, she’s a Sand Snake alright,’ he thought before saying, “I’ll go first, if that makes you feel better. I’m Ryder.” He had no idea where he’d pulled that fucking name from but it worked. ‘And it is a bit fun, having a fake name,’ he thought to himself, remembering the childhood stories of Dunk and Egg and of other famous knights and heroes who would give themselves false names to hide their true identity. He’d never dared attempt that before, knowing exactly how his father would react. “A Lannister doesn’t hide their name away… our names are our sword, Jaime. Our strength. Our…” Jaime shook his head. ‘Or something else pithy and a bit long winded and filled with scorn.’ Yes, that was what his father would say if he found out that Jaime had decided not to reveal himself. Even if he knew that sometimes there was places where the name Lannister wasn’t a benefit no matter how much he wanted to believe. That respect or fear wouldn’t exist and instead it would only be hatred… and the drive to do something about it.

“…Kraven,” the woman stated.

“There is a story behind that name,” Jaime said, having not expected that from her. “Unless your parents really hated you.”

“I think they might have.”

‘Another touchy subject,’ Jaime thought as she once more focused on her food. While not curling in on her self or anything like that she still went quiet and still, her tone making it clear she wasn’t interesting in any my questions.

So… naturally… Jaime asked more.

“What brings you out here?” he asked.

“I thought we covered that.”

“We covered why others would remain here when the Night’s Watch is offering more fertile lands that are certainly warmer than this place. But we never discussed why you are here.”

“I was with others. They went after someone… I went off on my own.”

“Didn’t agree with what they were doing?”

“Not interested,” she said and while the words were just a cut off as the ones before, making it clear she wasn’t interested in discussing that either (making it a rather long list already of topics Jaime needed to avoid) there was something there… “And what of you, Ranger?”

“Searching for a place,” he said. He’d almost said ‘something’ but quickly caught himself; letting Kraven know that he wanted something was a dangerous thing. After all while the Old Gods weren’t screaming at him that she was an ally of the Others that didn’t mean that she wasn’t a threat on her own. All evils didn’t come from the mythical White Walkers… his entire life had shown him that humans could be bastards all on their own. “You ever hear of Ulysses’ Garden?”

“…how do you know that name?”

Jaime raised an eyebrow and torn off another bit of venison, chewing on it. ‘Now… that’s interesting,’ he thought to himself. ‘Clearly she knows the name as well.’ Outloud he said. “From an old map. I was told there might be something of interest there.”

“Something…” Kraven muttered before she brought up the drumstick of her bird to her lips and tore off a great chunk of it. Jaime was stuck with the vision of some grand savage queen, feasting in a hut filled with flames and smoke, sitting on her throne made of foreign woods and bones. “Yes… something alright. A monster. A powerful one. Or at least those foolish enough to mock it call it a monster.”

Jaime once would have argued that there were no such things as monsters. That they were just tales told to children. Later he would have said snidely (but also with quite a bit of hidden pain) that the only monsters were those that wore fine clothes and moved about great keeps rather than slime-filled caves. Now however? Having seen the likes of Bloodraven?

Monsters existed.

Actual monsters.

“Others though call it a god,” Kraven stated. “There are wildlings who worship it. The Life Giver.”

“That is a lofty title that I have a feeling gets tossed about far too often and easily,” Jaime stated.

Kraven smiled. It was barely there and certainly wasn’t a pretty smile but it was there. “Yes. But for this one that might actually be the truth of the matter.” She leaned in. “They claim that it is able to grow vegetation. Plants. Fruits and vegetables that should wither and die in these lands.”

“If true then I suppose it would earn the name,” Jaime said.

“it also isn’t something that is to be taken lightly. I have heard claims that it draws power from those that fear it.”

Jaime murmured at that, a joke on the tip of his tongue that he crushed. Something was warning him in his not-so-deep bones that it wouldn’t be wise to jest about such things.

“It can sense the make of a man before you even see it. Should you prove to be in need it will provide, though you may not be able to see it. If you are unworthy… it is the last thing you ever get to see.”

“I suppose then no one knows what it actually looks like,” Jaime said. “Convenient, that.”

Kraven though shook her head. “No… there are those that claim to have seen it from a distance. A great hulking thing of living vegetation. Tree roots and swamp water creepers and great willow branches and tuffs of wild grass patched together to create a single living being that is stronger than ten oxen.”

“Sounds like an… interesting creature,” Jaime finally said.

Kraven though narrowed her eyes. “Do not make light. It is said that the Life-Giver is able to burn a giant alive with a single touch. The wildlings have a saying: Whatever knows fear burns at the Man-Thing's touch.”

Jaime… burst into laughter.

“Man-Thing? That is the name of your grand god?”

“Not mine,” Kraven replied. “But it fits, does it not? I can think of quite a few women who have come to fear a man’s cock. And just as many who burn at its touch. A life giver but also a brutal destroyer.”

“…well, when you put it like that,” Jaime said though he still chuckled at the frankly terrible name. “Still,” he finally said when he’d settled himself down, “I suppose if that creature is real I’ll need to show it no fear when I walk into its territory tomorrow.”

“We are already in its territory.”

“…what?”

“We are already-“

“I heard what you said,” Jaime snapped. “What do you mean we are already in its territory?”

“We are already in Ulysses’ Garden,” Kraven stated.

“No… no we are not.” He pointed to where, hours earlier when he’d begun to set up camp, he’d spotted a series of rising hills. “We haven’t reached The Rises yet.”

“Yes and no. Did you not notice how the land was slowly moving upward? You have been walking on The Rises for at least a day. Those are just the mere tops.”

Jaime looked at Hellfire who paused from her own meal, staring at him before swallowing a mouthful.

“We are in the Garden.”

“We are,” Kraven said. “I am here to test myself against the monster. To see just how powerful it is. I do not know why you are here, Ryder, but I suggest you prepare yourself because-“

And then a cold wind blew through the trees, making the fire lessen in strength. At once Kraven was on her feet, pulling her spear from her back and giving it a twirl. Jaime, for his part, drew Dark Sister and wondered if he should risk maintaining his façade of just being a normal man or risk taking on his form as the Spirit of Vengeance.

He didn’t get time to debate it any more as a great roar filled the air to his left and he turned in time to see a truly monstrous being suddenly emerge from the trees. Despite its great bulk it moved far too quickly; it reminded him of the Hound, the few times he’d seen that man fight. Except far, far faster. Big things shouldn’t move that quickly and there was the Man-Thing, storming towards them.

‘And limber too,’ Jaime thought to himself as Kraven fell into a defensive stance, spear at the ready and, to his surprise, a bit of a deranged smile on her lips. ‘Its moving through the trees like a hunting hound. Slipping through them so easily despite how broad it is.’

There was no more time to think. The monster was on them.

Jaime locked eyes with it, tense.

‘Do not worry, Jaime Lannister.’

He blinked.

What?

‘I will protect you from this foe… and then we shall speak.’

…

…

What?

Chapter Text

Catelyn

“Your grace… your grace.”

Catelyn murmured slightly as she slowly opened her eyes. “Wha-?” she said in the most undignified manner ever. But she didn’t care because it was so late that she could barely see anything in her room even with her eyes open. She turned only to shrink back when she saw the candle, its light far too intense for her sleep-addled eyes.

“Sorry, your grace,” the servant said softly. “But you must get up.”

“What… what is going on?” Cat asked even as she rose.

“Banners from White Harbor have been spotted.”

“White-“

Catelyn froze.

“Arya,” she whispered, the sleep that had been plaguing her at once gone. She was moving at once, hurrying to her dresser to retrieve her small clothes, the servant now the one struggling to keep up with her. Only where her dresser should be- “Oh,” she said to herself, remembering that she wasn’t in her main chambers but instead in the smaller bedchamber that she had been sleeping in for the last week or so. The servant though revealed that she had already gathered up her clothing and Catelyn allowed her to work on getting her dressed. “Has… the king been informed?” she asked.

“Maester Luwin has gone to inform him.”

“Then I want to hurry,” Cately said. “I want to be there before he arrives.”

The unspoken words ‘Before Ned sends Arya away too’ danced on her tongue but she forced them to remain in her mouth. It wouldn’t do if she showed herself as anything other than regal.

She was dressed in record time and moved out of her room only to find Rickon leaning against a wall, checking over his crossbow. He glanced at her before smirking and offering his arm to her, Catelyn happily accepting it. “Has your sister been informed?”

“Sansa was already awake. She smelled her coming, I think… began barking up a storm and that’s what got the guards to look for the banners.”

“Hmmm,” Catelyn said with a nod. “I do not like her being up so late.”

“Direwolves are different from us,” Rickon stated with a shrug.

“And how did you manage to get dressed so quick?” She couldn’t imagine that Rickon would be told before her or Ned so that meant he must have been up drinking and partying. Yet the moment she thought that she dismissed it, for she could tell that he was rested far more than he would have been if he had been down in Wintertown getting a drink (which, much to her shock, happened more often than she would have ever liked; even though he was grown he was still her baby and shouldn’t be drinking with soldiers!).

“When you grow up with Yondu you learn to get moving quick,” Rickon stated. “He loved to burst into my room screaming “HEY RICKON WANT TO SEE MY NEW FACE SHIELD AND GIANT AXE!?!”.” Catelyn scowled at that; she wasn’t the biggest fan of her goodfather and his… methods… in raising children. Sadly some of the comments Ned had made had made it clear that she couldn’t even blame the Child of the Forest that Rickard had bonded with for such actions. “And I’m a light sleeper so when I heard a bunch of boots moving around I was able to find out what was going on and get dressed.” He smiled as they finally separated at the stairs, Rickon going first so he might catch her if she fell. She wouldn’t but it was a lovely gesture. “I thought you might like an escort…”

“Thank you,” she said as they continued down.

“…we’ll figure this out and get Robb back home,” Rickon told her. “Gamora and Drax are going out every day to see if they can find what is attacking the villages. And… you know father had to do something-“

“Yes. But not that.”

“He kept Robb’s honor. He is touring the North-“

“He is exiled from Winterfell and it won’t take long for others to figure it out.”

“Which is why we need to figure out who really is attacking those villages,” Rickon repeated.

They reached the bottom of the stairs only to be confronted by a yawning Rocket and a bemused Groot.

“I swear, Stark, if this is a false alarm…”

“I am Groot.”

Rocket shoot him a dark look. “No, I won’t apologize if it’s a true alarm. I didn’t say anything wrong!”

“I am Groot.”

“My tone?” Rocket complained. “Listen here-“

“Rocket, if you don’t wish to attend I won’t force you,” Catelyn said. She had been trying to be kind to the raccoon, seeing that his snarling behavior was cover for his own feelings. Rickon had told her he hadn’t had an easy life, having been betrayed many times by those he had thought were friends and family until he’d been picked up by the Children of the Forest.

As such rather than snarl and snark at her Rocket merely shook his head. “Nah, I want to see what is up. If this truly is Rickon’s sister I have to see just how smart she is… everyone says the kid is a freaking genius.”

“I don’t know if they are saying that…” Rickon commented.

“Well first off compared to you they could be licking tree stumps and still be smarter. Second-“

“I am Groot.”

“What?” Rocket said, turning back to Groot.

“I am Groot.”

“How is that racist!?!”

“I am Groot.”

“I didn’t know that was a thing tree sprites did!” Rocket threw his hands up in the air. “And even if I did why would that be racist!”

“I am Groot.”

Rocket was quiet for a long moment. “Okay, admittedly that makes sense. Sorry.”

Catelyn wasn’t for sure she wanted to know.

“But ignoring you, Stark,” Rocket stated, “your sister is apparently whip smart according to everyone I’ve talked to.”

That took Catelyn by surprised. She knew that many people had fond memories of Arya but ‘smart’ wasn’t what she would have first used to describe her. Oh, she knew her daughter was cunning but everyone always talked about how wild she was. A slippery little thing that hated being a lady and wished only to live as she desired.

Something must have shown on her face because Rickon shot her a look. “You don’t know, do you?”

“Know what?”

“Just how smart Arya is,” he said. “I admit, I don’t remember a ton about her since last I saw her I was too busy trying to see if I could shove my entire fist in my mouth-“ Rocket opened his mouth to say something most likely crude but Rickon continued on, not giving him a chance, “-but I remember how smart she was. Maester Luwin agrees.”

“That I do,” the Maester stated, walking up the Cat and her group. She thought, for a moment, telling him to attend to her husband as his words from The Meeting still burned her greatly, but she was curious just what he had to say about Arya. “While it was hard to keep her in my quarters for her lessons when I was able to she provided to be quite the student. Remember the work she did on balancing the test books?”

Catelyn frowned. “I…” She vaguely remembered something concerning that.

Luwin frowned at her pause. “She did them as if she had been lady of the estate for decades, your grace. And she also was quite skilled in setting up rotations for the hypothetical servants I asked her to watch over. And there was the grain and barley supplies… some of her ideas on how to spread them out I honestly considered taking to then Lord Stark.”

She looked at the maester, wondering how she had missed all that. “I… I don’t remember-“

“Course you don’t,” Rickon said and she was startled by the bitterness in his voice. “She wasn’t playing harps and dancing so anything she did didn’t matter.”

“Rickon…” she said, trying to scold him, “I am your mother-“

“I’m nearly as old as you and I came to my years the right way,” he reminded her. It was easy to forget that he hadn’t suddenly woken up decades older… he’d lived each and every one of them. “And Arya was smart. Very smart. And she would have made a find lady, running a castle and overseeing the servants and the wealth.”

“Far better than Sansa,” Luwin stated and that caused Catelyn to whip around and stare at him in shock. “I mean no offense to either of you, your grace, but I did warn you and his grace that Lady Sansa did not take such lessons seriously. She had trouble with her numbers and would grow rather upset with Princess Arya when she succeeded.”

“Why do you think she encouraged Jenye to mock Arya as much as she did?” Rickon retorted.

“Sansa… did what?”

“She encouraged Jenye to make fun of her. The servants too. Arya Underfoot and Arya Horseface didn’t spring up in the servants’ minds… they were her creation.”

Catelyn found herself looking towards the wall where Sansa stood.

“I love Sansa, don’t get me wrong,” Rickon quickly added. “But you saw her as utterly perfect. Could do no wrong. The best at everything. People said she was you born again because you also used to run Riverrun.” Catelyn was surprised Rickon knew of that and her son shrugged. “Yondu liked to talk about it. Was one of the reasons why he said he selected you to marry Uncle Brandon… figured you could beat some sense into him and keep him from ruining the North.”

‘Considering what I’ve see now… that sadly makes sense,’ Catelyn agreed.

“Sansa wasn’t like that. At least back then. She didn’t want to put the work in to be a lady… or at least a successful one. She thought being a lady… being Queen… meant getting to sit on a pretty throne while people all waved at you and said you looked beautiful and you gave the king babies.” He huffed at that. “That wouldn’t even work in the South, let alone the North.”

And Catelyn had to admit… he was right. She had always worked hard to keep Winterfell running and it had only been in her later years that she had realized such an attitude had allowed her to survive the North. Had she been like Cersei Lannister she would have been sent to the Silent Sisters ages ago. The Sisters… or worse.

“Arya liked figuring out how to run things,” Rickon continued. “I remember one time she and Bran were talking and she was just gushing about reorganizing the schedules for the cooks. The cooks!” He shook his head. “But because she couldn’t sing and dance she wasn’t ‘a lady’ and you looked down on her for that. And that made her decide if she wasn’t a lady she shouldn’t care about any Lady things…”

He trailed off, there being no need to say another word.

Catelyn wasn’t for sure if she wanted to hear what he had to say or preferred the silence.

‘I have made many mistakes with my children,’ she thought, not for the first time. ‘Did not teach Robb and Sansa what the real world was like. Robb had to learn in combat… and Sansa through the horrors of King’s Landing. I never considered that it wasn’t getting Arya to behave like a lady that was my mistake… but rather how I drove her away.’ She shut her eyes. ‘What great woman have I deprived the world of?’

But just as quickly she pushed such thoughts aside. Arya wasn’t dead… she was riding to them right now! And that mattered because it meant they had another chance. Catelyn would be able to do better!

“Ya remember… she ain’t gonna be so little, right?” Rocket asked and for him he sounded utterly tender. “Had some weird ritual…”

“I know,” Catelyn said with a soft sigh, opening her eyes. At some point Ned had finally emerged into the great courtyard and when he caught her eye she turned away. He was standing with Yondu and Ser Rodrik, Jory just a step behind. Maester Luwin moved to join them, leaving Catelyn with Rickon, Rocket, Groot, and soon enough Drax and Gamora.

“He had no choice,” Gamora said and it was only her tone that kept Catelyn from snapping at her. She wasn’t happy either. “The evidence forced his hand and he did all he could to make sure no one but us knows the truth.”

“We are welcoming back Balon Greyjoy’s son,” Catelyn reminded her, “and yet Robb-“

“He will come home,” Drax rumbled, for once utterly serious. “And the ones that framed him will die.”

“Good,” Catelyn said, voice as hard as steel.

There was a commotion and Sansa leaped from the battlement in a way that always had Catelyn gasping in fright. But she landed nimbly and Nymeria joined her, the rest of their pack still out beyond Winterfell’s walls. Calls began to grow louder in Wintertown and Catelyn smiled as she heard the people cheering Arya’s return.

“She’s going to hate that,” Rickon softly teased. “Them treating her like a dainty flower to be celebrated. She’d rather be greeted as a conqueror.”

“Perhaps,” Catelyn said just as a horse thundered into Winterfell… and a beautiful young woman leapt from the saddle. She had brown hair that just touched her shoulders and was wearing riding leathers like a second skin. A long face but that merely showed off her elegant cheekbones and perfect little nose. At once Catelyn was reminded of Gamora… and that let her know the truth.

Her child was HOME.

“Arya…” she whispered.

Her daughter stormed forward, moving towards Ned who stared at her in shock, tears in his eyes…

…only for his head to snap back when Arya punched him.

“YOU BANISHED MY BROTHER?!?!” she screamed even as several of the guards drew their swords. Catelyn gasped at that but Arya merely scoffed. “Oh put those away,” she snapped, glaring at the men, taking a step forward and placing her hand on her own blade. “I could take out all five of you without breaking a sweat. You are embarrassing yourselves. Foot work is terrible, the lot of you!” The guards shifted at that but Arya merely narrowed her eyes. “Very well then. Either rush me now or sheathe your blades as I have no desire to stand around all day while you pretend those are you cocks! For the Gods’ sake, Jory, what are you teaching these fools if they can’t see a superior threat?”

“Not enough, apparently,” the head of Ned’s royal guard said, which caused the other men to start, though, to their credit, they didn’t actually turn and stare at Jory.

“Knock it off, all of ya!” Ser Rodrik demanded. “Gods, you are all too young… a punch to the face is practically how the Starks say hello!”

“I punched out father several times,” Gamora commented.

Yondu rubbed his jaw. “Better than the kick to the balls you gave me when I betrothed you to Robert.” He narrowed his eyes. “I still haven’t paid you back for getting me fucking killed though.”

“You, me, the training yard. Just say the word old man.”

“I also punched father,” Drax stated. “I remember it well… I was in a woman… oh, she was tight and warm. Then some maester pulled me out, smacked me on the bottom , and you declared “My heir, Brandon!” and I punched you in the face.”

It was very sad that Catelyn wasn’t entirely sure if Drax was joking or not.

“Besides,” Ser Rodrik continued, “I doubt his grace wants you to take his daughter’s head.”

“Away with those swords, all of ou!” Ned snapped and at once the men moved to sheathe their blades, seemingly racing each other to see who could do it first. “Arya…” Ned said, rubbing his jaw. Catelyn felt pity for her husband… despite their current spat she knew that wasn’t how he wanted to greet his child.

“Did you, or did you not, banish Robb?” Arya snarled.

“…he is on a tour-“

Arya cocked back her fist to hit him again.

“Still haven’t changed, have you?” Rickon called out and at once Catelyn was thankful for that because all of Arya’s anger disappeared, replaced with shock and then delight.

“RICKON!” she screamed and she raced forward, leaping into his arms. Her brother grabbed her and spun her around, holding her close as he laughed. When he finally set her down she whispered, “You’ve grown.”

“Look who’s talking,” Rickon said.

“Yeah, like a foot,” Arya complained and Catelyn heard more horses approach, at a far more measured clip, and turned to see Theon, Brienne, three other figures including a blue-skinned woman, and Lord Manderly’s host. “You actually grew up! I still need chairs to reach the top shelf!””

“Just means you can squeeze into passages I can’t,” Rickon teased.

“Arya…” Catelyn whispered and her daughter turned to her, for the first time in their lives able to look at her eye to eye without needing to tilt her head. She took a step forward only to pause, fearful of what might happen. Considering how she’d greeted Ned? Well… Catelyn know that Arya had always preferred her father to her. That he was her favorite parent. It hurt but she understood that.

‘And there is my hand in all that has happened. How I pushed Ned to accept Robert’s betrothal idea. How I drove her to wish to go to King’s Landing just to avoid being around me. How I treated Jon. She has every right to blame me for all that happened. Every right to-‘

At once Arya threw herself into Catelyn, burying her face against her shoulder. “Mama…” she gasped out as she clung to her and Catelyn lost the barely fought battle with her tears as she drew Arya close.

Her daughter was home.

It didn’t matter that she was older now. That she had done so much. That she wasn’t the same little girl that she had seen off from Winterfell ages ago (and yet it hadn’t been that long at all…). She was Arya. Her daughter. And she was home once again.

Catelyn sobbed and ran her fingers through Arya’s hair, shaking so hard Rickon had to reach out and steady her only for Catelyn to draw him into the hug. She dimly heard barking and realized that Sansa was next to her, happily nuzzling them both.

“I must apologize, your grace,” someone said at some point and Catelyn finally let go of Arya to see that the blue woman was speaking. She gracefully dismounted, almost oozing form her saddle with such elegance it made Catelyn feel like every action she had ever done, every step, was a plodding lumber. “I’ve tried to teach her some decorum but it seems the lessons on Not Punching Royalty never really stuck.” The Blue Woman paused. “Or remembering how to do proper introductions.”

To Catelyn’s surprise Arya instantly let go, brushed her riding jacket off, and moved back towards the center of the courtyard, a look of contrition on her face even as she composed herself and…

And…

‘It is like seeing the legendary warrior queens of old!’ Catelyn thought as she saw Arya at once shift and take on a stance of strength and regal bearing. All eyes fell upon her and could not pull away unless she gave them leave. Catelyn herself had managed to command such attention before but only with servants… Arya was doing it to all of Winterfell.

It was how she had always wished Arya to be and yet… nothing like it. She commanded complete control without having to forget who she was. It made her wonder if the ancient Northern Queens that Arya had asked Old Nan to tell her about had been born again within her.

“Maester Luwin, have you brought the bread and salt? While I would hope my word would be enough to protect my companions my father’s recent actions show that isn’t the case.”

Ned winced at that and opened his mouth to try and explain (and Catelyn wondered how Arya had learned of Robb’s banishment) but Arya merely shot him a look and he clamped his mouth shut while Maester Luwin hurried to get the foodstuffs Arya had requested. It wasn’t until they had been presented that she finally began to speak again.

“You of course know Lord Manderly… I don’t think I need to introduce him.”

“Not at all,” Lord Manderly said with a chuckle. “And Lord Bolton needs no introduction either, your highness.” Roose Bolton merely nodded slightly, it clear from the scowl he was wearing that he really wished they would hurry things up.

“Ugh, I will never get used to that,” Arya complained. “Your highness…” She shook her head before finally continuing on. “May I present my companions: Ravan, though you will know her better as-“

The blue skinned woman’s flesh rippled and Catelyn could only stare in shock as everything about her changed. Her flesh became plain and tan, her dark red hair become short black locks, her face while elegant now holding the fierceness of manhood, completely with a neatly trimmed beard and mustache. Even her clothing changed to that of a doublet and trousers.

“Syrio Forel…” Ned whispered.

“The First Sword of Braavos,” the woman… man… said before reverting back to her blue skinned feminine form. “I didn’t lie about that. I am still the greatest sword in all of Braavos.” She looked past Ned to the guards. “If they had taken a step towards Arya I would have been able to offer my services in training their replacements.”

Arya merely smirked at that. “Gendry Waters,” she gestured at a large man with a hood covering his face. “Now, please do not react badly when he-“

The young man removed his hood and Catelyn couldn’t help but gasp. At the very least everyone else did as well as they took in the dark hair and familiar facial features.

“Uh… am I missing something?” Rickon asked.

“Robert?” Ned whispered before shaking his head. “No… no… I remember that name. Gendry…” he puzzled it over before it suddenly came to him. “The Blacksmith’s apprentice!”

“Aye, your grace,” Gendry said with a nod, clearly not liking all the attention he was getting. “I am… apparently… King Robert’s bastard son.”

Arya shot her mother a look so dark and vengeful it made her wish that she and Ned were able to swap; she’d have preferred a punch to the face.

“You are… more than welcome here, Gendry,” Catelyn said, swallowing as she did all she could to make herself welcoming. “Even without bread and salt.”

“Of course,” Ned quickly said.

“I don’t want the throne,” Gendry said quickly and Catelyn frowned when she saw him glance at Ravan. There was something to that… something she was missing…

“And this,” Arya said, gesturing to the final member of their group, “is Remy LeBeau.”

“An hour ta met ya, yar grace,” the tall, dashing figure said with a sweeping bow. He smiled as he moved to Catelyn, taking her hand before she could truly understand what was going on and giving it a kiss. “And I see where our dear Arya gets her good looks from…”

“Knock it off, swamp rat,” Ravan declared and Gambit looked up at Catelyn and smirked. She suddenly had the feeling that while the phrase ‘if looks could kill’ was accurate (especially after the one Arya had sent her was) just as true was ‘if looks could fuck’. Catelyn felt herself blush, a heat creeping up not just along her cheeks but other places that weren’t proper to discuss, and finally yanked her hand away as Remy stepped back with the rest of the group.

Arya nodded and swept her eyes over the Winterfell contingent. “My I present Lord… King Eddard Stark.” Ned nodded though Catelyn, well used to being able to interpret her husband’s looks, knew that despite how stone faced he may have appeared his heart broke over Arya addressing him only as “King Eddard”. “My youngest brother, Rickon Stark.”

“Sup,” Rickon said and Catelyn closed her eyes; why oh why could he not regain his proper Northern accent?

“My mother, Queen Catelyn Stark,” Arya continued and Catelyn was unable to stop herself from reacting to how much warmer Arya greeter her than Ned. It felt as if she had slipped into another world entirely, where everything was the opposite.

Sansa let out a ‘woof’ and Catelyn realized that was very much true.

“Arya… I don’t know how much Robb told you…” Catelyn said as she looked down at Sansa. But at once Arya moved forward, kneeling down and pressing her hands to Sansa’s face.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t save you,” she whispered.

Sansa pressed her body against Arya’s and the two sister remained together for some time, ignoring the entire world.

“Now,” Ravan said as she stepped forward, Catelyn at once seeing from whom Arya had learned to command attention, “it seems there is much to be discussed. I must admit I am troubled by what I have heard from Prince Robb. Though I imagine your grace wishes to not discuss such things in front of the whole of Winterfell.”

“Indeed,” Ned said. “Arya has become… confused… when it comes to the nature of Robb and Roslin’s departure. It would be best to clear this up… in private.” He a louder voice he declared. “But let it be known that Prince Robb Stark remains my heir! He is not banished! Winterfell remains his home.”

Arya moved to glare at Ned but Sansa butted into her, nearly sending her to the ground and thus stopping her from making the look.

Catelyn supposed she should have felt bad for the servants and the rest of the Winterfell court. They had clearly come out expecting a grand reunion, with tears and hugs and warm welcomes. Having Arya punch out the King in the North, while sure to fill the tavern halls with lewd gossip, wasn’t what many had been hoping for. She could see it in many eyes.

‘I don’t care,’ she thought. ‘She’s home.’

“So,” Rocket said as he moved to walk by Arya; much to Catelyn’s surprise Arya didn’t really react to the raccoon starting up a conversation, “since no one bothered to introduce us since I guess we aren’t important that falls to me. I’m Rocket… you might say I’m the brains of this operation.”

“I am Groot.”

“What do ya mean I need ta have brains ta be the brains? I got brains!”

“I am Groot.”

Rickon snickered. “Yeah, him not getting it did prove your point.”

“Hey! Keep out of this Stark! I bet your sister would LOOOOOVE ta know about all the stupid things ya did growing up!” Rocket looked at Arya. “What say ya? Want some blackmail material on this idjit?”

“Oh, you and I are going to get along just fine…” Arya said with a chuckle.

Rocket glanced back at Rickon as they moved into Winterfell proper. “Okay, this one I like, Stark. And I can tell she’s your sister. No offense ta Robb or Sansa but the sticks up their rosebuds have sticks up their rosebuds.”

Sansa growled at that and Catelyn reached down, gently patting her eldest on the back. The direwolf calmed down but she could tell she was ready to snatch up Rocket and remind him how dangerous a direwolf could be at the drop of a hat.

“That was some right hook ya gave your old man,” Rocket said. Ravan had moved to walk with Ned, which had her wondering just who the blue skinned woman was and why she clearly took a commanding role, while Remy and Gendry remained in the very back. Catelyn wasn’t for sure how to feel about that; on one hand Remy had her feeling all sorts of awkward but on the other she wasn’t a fan of him being able to stare at her ass; too much had been said about it thanks to Drax. “They teach ya that in “Grow Up Suddenly School”?”

“If you are referring to Braavos then yes,” Arya said. “I had a lot of teachers that made sure I knew how to defend myself, even if I was unarmed.”

“They are going to be singing songs about that punch for ages,” Rickon said. “You are going to regret that when you calm down.”

“I will not.”

“… yeah you will,” Rickon teased. “We’ll get things settled and you’ll feel all bad about what you did. They’ll sing that song and you’ll sometimes want to beat up the singer and other times just blush and shrink down in your chair and mumble that you so didn’t make him shit himself when you knocked him literally out of his boots-“

“Which I didn’t do.”

“It’s a song, Arya. They are going to embellish it.”

“Hmmmpf.”

Catelyn chose that moment to shift closer to Arya. “Can you tell me why you decided to address me as mother when you didn’t address your father as father?”

Arya smiled at that. “Because I know you, mother.” Catelyn frowned, not quite getting what Arya was trying to say. “You love Robb. Everyone knows it.” She paused, chewing on the inside of her cheek. It was something her daughter always did when she was about to admit that someone was right about something when she really didn’t want too. It made Catelyn feel all the better about the situation she found herself in; despite how Arya looked she was still her little girl. “That is why you were so horrible to Jon… you were afraid for Robb. Wanted him protected. You have heard all your life about how bastards are, how they always seek to steal their trueborn siblings’ birthright, and you feared that father would do the same. I… I will never forgive you for that. How you made Jon feel like Winterfell couldn’t be his home. How you couldn’t see how much we all loved him and how he loved us. But I understand… you did it because you love Robb. That’s how I know that you wouldn’t agree with him being exiled.”

Catelyn merely nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She hadn’t agreed with it… had cursed out Ned for his decision. In private though because it was a wife’s duty to stand by her husband, even if he was wrong. And that went doubly so for the wife of a Lord as important as Ned. And even more so when one was a queen.

Entering into Ned’s solar at long last she moved to stand next to him, face impassive as Ned settled down in his chair with a sigh. He had done nothing to change his solar despite being named King in the North and while Catelyn had been pushing him to add a few more touches to show off his new position she was happy he had resisted her. It was far better for Arya to feel comfortable at the moment and the Solar was a familiar place.

‘I used to frown upon Ned allowing the children in here,’ Catelyn thought to herself as she watched everyone pile in. ‘I told him that the solar was supposed to be his private domain… not a family room. “That is how my father kept it,” Ned told me. “I was only in here once, before I became Warden of the North, and that was when Father told me I would be fostered in the Vale. I will not allow that to be the case with Robb. I will not have him not understand the weight of this room.’”

And when she had asked him then why he allowed the rest of the children to enter he had merely stared at her with a sad look and said, “Because Winter is Coming”. She hadn’t wanted to consider that but she knew he was right: one couldn’t predict how life would go. History taught them that no rule was secure. There was a reason why ‘the spare’ wasn’t good enough. Jaehareys the Wise had gone through so many heirs that Catelyn couldn’t remember how many he’d had before the Great Council had been called. There was a very good chance that not just Bran or Rickon might need to rule the North but Sansa or Arya as well.

Ned let out a weary sigh as he leaned forward in his chair. “There is much you don’t know… and much I wish you would have chosen to discuss in private, Arya.”

The young woman merely moved to the chair opposite of her father, sitting down on it in a way that at once was lazy and calculated. Arya understood her body and was comfortable in it, which allowed her to relax yet also show off her control of a situation.

‘Its also a warning,’ Catelyn thought. ‘She wants to let Ned know that he can’t treat her like a little girl.’ He saw Remy shift, moving so that he was leaning against a wall, pulling out a deck of Essos playing cards and idly shuffling them. Gendry remained near the door, his bulk creating a fleshy barrier. And Ravan…

Catelyn swallowed.

‘She is the deadliest of all.’

They were moving to back Arya up.

“Then let us discuss how you decided that it was wise to forever paint a target on my brother’s back,” Arya stated.

Ned narrowed his eyes at that. “I had to act. The smallfolk are talking-“

“And you make sure they talk even more,” Arya snapped back, cutting him off. “Those that believe Robb is guilty of these crimes will believe you have vindicated their slander! And even when he proves that he is innocent they will still believe he is guilty. They will say all you did was cover up what he did. And those that might have been allies will see him as weak and not in your favor. You do know that because you kept him in Winterfell the Greatjon believed Robb to be a weakling when he first met him… it took Greywind taking his fingers to convince him otherwise.”

“How do you know that?” Ned asked, surprised.

“The whispers have reached Braavos,” Arya retorted. “There is a tavern that Gambit took me too.” Catelyn wondered who Gambit was. “It is… inspired… by the North.” Arya made a face at that and Catelyn wondered what the story was there. But before she could ask Arya continued on. “Many sailors go there as well in order to have Northern food. It was… a small piece of home.” She narrowed her eyes. “The sailors love to gossip. You think the story of you banishing your heir hasn’t reached them? Or King’s Landing?”

Ned sighed. “Arya… entire villages have been wiped out. Torn apart and the people consumed. I don’t know how much Robb told you-“

It wasn’t Arya who cut off Ned but rather Ravan, who stared at Catelyn’s husband with a cool gaze that was so contradictory when done with her burning yellow eyes. “We are aware of the creature that has bonded with him. A… symbiote, I believe he called it.” Catelyn frowned, doubting that Ravan couldn’t remember what Robb had called Venom. “He was rather up front as well with his preferred methods of dealing with his foes. Something I think your grace wouldn’t argue against.” She shot Ned a stern look. “We have heard how you have earned your OTHER title… Punisher.”

Ned frowned at that. “Then perhaps you have heard how villages and small communities aren’t just being destroyed but their people consumed. All when Robb could not be found in Winterfell to provide him with proof that he wasn’t responsible. Were I to do nothing all would see me as the king that was protecting his son and ignoring his people. Aerion Brightflame. Rhaegar. Maegor. History is filled with weak kings that could not control their sons. The North remembers well how Robert did that with Joffrey… they will not suffer another king such as that.”

Cat knew it hurt Ned to speak of his best friend like that… but it was the truth.

“The people know Robb!” Rickon charged. “He led them while you were in King’s Landing. He battled with them in the Whispering Woods and claimed the Kingslayer! He helped us repel the Ironborn while you were down South-“

“Rickon, we have discussed this,” Ned charged.

“Clearly not enough!” Arya snapped. “Only an idiot would see this for anything but what it is: a ploy to make Robb look guilty. Why would he ever attack villages so openly? He’d have to know that he would be caught! Robb is no fool!”

That caused Yondu to shake his head. “The boy is a fool about many things but you’re right he wouldn’t go attackin’ those villages.” But before anyone could think he had decided to side with Arya and Rickon Yondu said, “but it ain’t just Robb anymore, is it? He gots that black snot bubble glued to him now, don’t he?” He narrowed his eyes as he glared at Arya. “Ya never even considered that, did ya? Just took the boy at his word because he is your brother. He’s Ned’s son and he was smart enough to know that we can’t trust him anymore… not with that gunk getting into his head.”

“Father,” Ned said, holding up a hand, “I don’t believe Robb-“

“Aw cut the crap, Ned!” Yondu snapped. “We both know that ya can’t trust the boy! Even if he is innocent he’s still a damn threat! Goin’ round eatin’ people-“ Catelyn shivered at that; Robb hid it very well but she had heard enough of Venom’s comments to know that the symobiote consumed more than cooked beef. “-it ain’t right. And the fact that Robb thinks its okay?”

“And Roslin?” Rickon charged. “You think she is okay with him slaughtering all?”

“She’s a Frey,” Yondu said dismissively.

“Watch your mouth,” Gamora said, much to Catelyn’s surprise. “Roslin has proven to be a strong ally.”

“The girl ain’t no fighter,” Yondu said. “We face the Others… we don’t have time for little girls that will sob at the sight of blood.”

“Yet you send away our best fighter?” Rocket said with a huff. “Pretty boy and Venom might be different from the rest of us but I’d rather have him on our side…”

“I am Groot.”

“Exactly!”

Theon slowly raised his hand. “I’m sorry… the Others?” Brienne looked just as startled and Catelyn realized that they had completely forgotten about them. Hadn’t even noticed them arrive. No introduction in the yard, no greetings. Everything with Robb had taken importance. “What do you mean by the Others.”

“Keep up, boy!” Yondu demanded. “Damn squids…”

Brienne took a step forward, cracking her knuckles.

Arya turned and glared at Yondu. “I’m sorry but who are you and why the fuck should we care?”

“I am Yondu, leader of the Children of the Forest.”

“Oh, the ones that failed to defeat the Others,” Arya said glibly, causing Rickon to cough. “Yes, such a brilliant person to seek advice from when it comes to battle.”

“Watch that tongue of yours, girly. I’m also your grandpa.”

“…again, why the fuck should I care?”

“I like this one!” Drax declared.

“Arya,” Ned said, trying to regain control of the situation.

“No,” she said, glaring at Yondu. “I am getting the sense it isn’t the King in the North that banished my brother but this blue bastard. I think I punched the wrong person.”

“Try it. I ain’t afraid ta crack you one back.” Yondu slowly pulled open his jacket and Catelyn’s eyes widened as she saw the red arrow in there. She had seen his demonstrations and knew what that weapon could do!

“Think you can lay a finger on me?”

Yondu narrowed his eyes. “I think your daddy didn’t beat you as often as he should have-“

Sansa snarled. Rickon took a step forward. Gendry suddenly grew larger… and his skin turned to metal. Remy’s eyes glowed. Ned leapt to his feet and moved to draw his dagger.

“ENOUGH!” Catelyn shouted.

Everyone was thrown back.

Literally.

Ned nearly crashed through the window. Arya was sent toppling but landed in a crouch. Gendry skidded back and Sansa howled from where she fell. Rickon groaned as he rubbed his head, having almost cracked it against the stone while Rocket cursed. Gamora was looking about in surprise while Ravan shifted back, ready to fight but not sure against what. Brienne had managed to remain on her feet and held Theon who looked dazed.

Catelyn… blinked.

“…what the fuck was that?” Yondu got out.

Staring at her hands Catelyn couldn’t help but wonder the same thing.

“By the way…” Lord Manderly said with a cheerful smile as he got to his feet, “would this be a poor time to mention that Princess Arya didn’t do the introductions properly?”

“Yes, Wyman,” Ned groaned as he got up, his eyes seeking out Catelyn’s as he silently asked what she had done. But she had no answer… no answer at all. “I am sorry we didn’t recognize you properly-“

“Oh, not that,” Lord Manderly said with a pleasant shrug. “I meant Ravan’s full title.” He gestured at the blue woman. “Princess Ravan Blackfyre, wife of Erik Blackfyre, known as Magneto, head of the Brotherhood of the Blackfyres.”

And suddenly Catelyn didn’t care at all about the strange force that had drive everyone away.

Chapter Text

Kraven

She spun her spear around her body in hopes of startling and confusing the Man-Thing, allowing her to get in a strike against him. It was a trick she had seen her brother Doran learn in the training yard and that she knew, based on the reports she’d been able to gather, that her brother Oberyn had mastered. People thought it was something done out of arrogance or disrespect for one’s foes, a wasteful use of energy, but in reality it was all about drawing the eye away from where the blow would come. It worked best with a spear because one could last out with either end: the biting head or the hard tail. It was why main spear styles were named after different types of scorpions. She spun the spear in her hands, over her neck, behind her back-

Kraven suddenly lashed out with the spear, driving it forward just as it was near the ground, spinning it up into a cutting arc before diving forward before pulling back and spinning it again. The Man-Thing stared at her during all of that but she kept going, spinning again, knowing that the next attack would be real.

But when she went in for the thrust the lumbering creature proved to be not lumbering at all. No, he deftly avoided the strike, nearly sending her into reach of him.

‘Don’t let him get his hands on you,’ Kraven thought as she dropped down onto the wet ground, idly feeling the dampness soak into parts of her clothing. She’d have to be careful and warm up by the fire once she was done with this; one didn’t stay damp North of the Wall, for if they did then they never returned. But in order for her to do that she would need to actually get out of the fight alive and that started with getting out of the creature’s range. Rolling along the ground she sprung back to her feet, spear at the ready as the Man-Thing swiped at her, just missing the tip of her weapon. ‘His touch can ignite people, reducing them to ashes.’

Too many people thought she was a dumb brute; Kraven knew that if she were a man they would think it even more so. Being that she was a woman they thought her merely naïve or a savage. They thought that she just went stumbling through the world, finding fights and when she couldn’t find one she started one. Her attacks must be lazy and without any planning. What they didn’t realize was that one didn’t survive long, even if skilled, if they tried to live like that. A wise fighter learned all they could about their foe, so that they might have every chance possible to win. And when it came to wild beasts one had to learn all they could because to fight them one had to enter their world, unless it was like her fight with The Lizard, where the creature was dragged to a man made structure and forced to fight.

No… to fight a beast in their territory was to fight on their terms and only by learning all you could about them did you have any hope of being able to defeat them.

‘Or survive,’ Kraven thought as she pulled out a throwing knife and flung it at the Man-Thing’s right leg. It sank in and the beast let out a rumbling cry at that… but there was no blood. No gush of fluid. And when it reached down and yanked the blade out Kraven saw the wound heal. ‘Just as the reports said. There is nothing that could be considered ‘animal’ making this thing up. It is entirely a creature of plantlife.’ She narrowed her eyes as the Man-Thing tossed the knife away from the two of them, making sure she couldn’t snag it again. She had plenty of other throwing knives on her, so it wasn’t a grand loss, and she didn’t plan on wasting any of them now that she knew they would only distract the creature. But it was still annoying. ‘I just need to tear it to shreds.’

Getting to her feet she reached to her side and pulled out her sword, switching it to her left hand while she kept her spear in her right. It was the classic Panther Hunt Strategy: Jab with the spear to keep your distance, force the beast to become enraged as you slowly killed them with a thousand cuts while keeping them from striking at you, and then use the sword when they made a sloppy dive at you. It was of course tricky, as one could easily become bored and try and press their advantage. The trick was to keep your patience, focus on every move your foe made, and not become impatient. Too many times one would grow tired of the dance and try and go on the offensive, falling into the very same trap they were trying to lure their foe into. It was all about-

The Man-Thing let out a bellow and Kraven found herself having to duck when one of the fucking trees suddenly reached down and took a swipe at her. It was a clumsy grasp, like an infant trying to stubbornly smack at an aunt who kept leering over them making annoying ‘goo goo goo’ noises, but it was still a danger to her. She looked about and her eyes widened when all the trees began to shift and move, at first as if they were caught in some storm… and then stretching like an old man preparing for a battle.

A battle.

Oh yes, that was what they were preparing for, no ‘like’ to it.

“Take off the branches!” she yelled at the Lannister, tossing him a small axe she had hanging off her side; at least the blond bastard was staying out of the way and not rushing in to fight. She had been mildly worried that he would feel, as the ‘big strong man’, that he needed to save her and thus would go plowing through, doing something so eternally dumb like leap at the creature or try and yank her behind him. Instead the man had proven to be oddly smart, staying back and letting her fight.

She frowned. Or maybe he was just a fucking coward.

‘Doesn’t matter, so long as he lets me fight nad stays out of my fucking way,’ she thought as she began to attack the trees with her sword, hacking at branches even as she jabbed her spear at the Man-Thing, forcing it to remain well away from her. She caught out of the corner of her eye the Lannister attacking the trees with his own sword, cleaving off wood and needles. Kraven spun and hacked off one thick branch only to scowl when thick sap gushed onto her. She felt it cling to her clothing, making them stiff, and she snarled in frustration. ‘Another limitation.’ She wondered in the back of her mind if the creature had meant for that to happen. ‘Considering he’s making no move to attack me? It is possible that he can’t attack when he calls upon the plants to attack me but I doubt that. I think he could attack me just fine. He just wants me to wear myself out and end up covered in sap.’

The Man-Thing was proving to not just be dangerous… but intelligent.

It could PLAN.

Only a few months earlier she would have been excited. The creature apparently could burn every living creature on the planet that felt fear, could survive any wound she might have laid into it, and was proving to be utterly cunning. Most important of all it wasn’t harming the innocent… in fact it was aiding the innocent.

The perfect being to die to.

An honorable death.

Normally she would have never sought out such a beast. Even with all the darkness in her heart she had still kept a bit of her humanity and she refused to slaughter just for the sake of slaughter. She wasn’t her goodfather, consumed by a giddy need to burn and pillage and destroy. No… she would have never gone after the Man-Thing before, even if it offered the best chance at her death. She wouldn’t kill something that did not harm and sought only to protect. Many times she had refused to kill an innocent creature that was no threat to the people and merely wanted to exist.

‘But now I must fight it… and I can’t die,’ she thought bitterly, gripping her sword tightly.

Ultron had been clear: the Wildlings had to be stopped at all costs. According to him they were a threat on two fronts. The first, and less likely according to the mad silver bastard (and Kraven wondered WHY her lot in life seemed to be tying herself to mad silver bastards… if she had a silver stag for every time that happened she’d have two stags, which wasn’t a lot but it was weird it had happened TWICE), was that if the Starks ever got their heads out of their own asses they could rally them and turn them into a true force to aid them against Ultron. He didn’t see that happening… even with the Night’s Watch allowing them to pass through the Wall they were still so mistrusted by the Northerners that they would never embrace them with open arms. If Eddard Stark tried it he could very well end up dead. The rumors that the Lord Commander was allowing the Wildlings to pass through the gates of the Wall were nothing more than filthy lies.

But the second was because of their worth to Thanos.

Ultron had stated that he knew little of the mysterious ‘Night’s King’ that was marshalling his forces North of the Wall. That he was creating an army out of the Wildlings. As such every dead wildling was one less one they needed to worry about… not that Ultron would ever ‘worry’ about some massive King Beyond the Wall claiming to be an Other. He had been rather clear on that point, glowering at them all for even suggesting that Thanos might be a problem. Still… he had been clear he wanted the Wildlings dead, so that the Starks nor the Night’s King could use them against him.

Taking away their strange plant god and protector would be a good start.

‘Though I would prefer to get back to my other work,’ she thought to herself. ‘The North is ripe for chaos and the Starks are so close to finding themselves falling from the lofty perch they have placed themselves upon.’ The fact that they had taken royal titles annoyed Kraven to no end; despite all she had done to remove herself from her past life the fact remained that she still held some loyalty to the Martels and the idea that any but them would carry the title of ‘Prince’ was the gravest of insults. ‘They have gained so much… but they didn’t realize that when you have much that only means you have much to lose. It is far better to have nothing…’

The Man-Thing let out a bellow and suddenly was on her, swinging at her and forcing her to leap back.

‘I need to focus,’ she thought to herself. She put aside all thoughts of her revenge, a rarity for her, and focused instead on the fight. She had been pushed away from the campfire, driven into the woods, and she looked about as she realized that now it wasn’t just the Man-Thing she needed to avoid but the trees themselves. They were a danger, any one of them ready to grab her and snatch her up, and she-

Kraven suddenly stopped.

The Man-Thing was gone.

Adjusting her grip on her spear even as she raised her uncle’s white sword, Kraven calmed her breathing and focused on the darkness around her. Even something as swift as the Man-Thing would make some kind of noise… that was something she had learned chasing after the most dangerous creatures in all of Essos. A normally person might not hear them but she had spent over a decade learning how to stalk such things. One just had to listen for the sounds that didn’t quite belong. The crack of twigs. Movement of a large body against a tree. The-

Something snapped to her right and she twisted… only to realize her mistake seconds later when the Man-Thing leap from the opposite direction. A distraction… probably caused by him getting a tree to act for him! Kraven cursed and brought up her sword but the Man-Thing grabbed her by the head and she braced herself.

Nothing happened.

Kraven shut her eyes and cursed. “Fuck… fuck fuck fuck!” she screamed, ignoring how the Man-Thing tilted its head in confusion at her angered response to his burning touch doing nothing. She snapped her eyes open and glared at him. “Whatever knows fear burns at the Man-Thing's touch. But when I have had everything taken from me, knowing that the cost of my going on was the lives of my children? That the men who killed them will never die by my hand, despite the nightmares I endured to become strong enough to slaughter them? That all I have done was for NOTHING?!!?” She threw back her head, a cruel bitter laugh filling the air. “What would I have to fear?!?!”

The Man-Thing considered her for a long moment.

“But I wonder… will you burn when you learn to fear me?”

She lashed out suddenly with her uncle’s sword-

-and the Man-Thing easily caught her arm with his other hand, halting her strike before he slammed her hard against a tree. Her head ached terribly and for the first time since she had awoken up on the slab within the House of the Undying, the Warlocks of Qarth all murmuring in delight that they had been able to take her weak body and make it strong with their dark magics… Kraven felt a sliver of terror.

But more than that… she felt regret.

‘I’m sorry, my children.’

And then she thought no more.

~MC~MC~MC~

Jaime

Once more he found himself sitting before a fire, watching as a deer he had caught cooked on the flames, with a stranger sitting across from him.

But where before it had been a massive warrior woman now…

‘I think its about done,’ Man-Thing, as Kraven had declared the creature to be, said in Jaime’s head. ‘Do you mind sharing?’

“You eat meat?” Jaime asked before frowning. ‘And should I talk out loud or…’

‘Oh, either will work,’ his new companion stated pleasantly. He had an oddly soft ‘voice’. ‘I don’t mind… perhaps speaking would be better for you… I know that others I have talked to find it a bit uncomfortable to communicate only in their head.’

“Summer said the same thing.” Jaime huffed. “The direwolf. I’m talking about speaking with a direwolf in my head like its normal.” He looked at Man-Thing. “I am talking to YOU like it’s a normal thing!”

‘It is a bit odd, isn’t it? As for the meat?’ Man-Thing gestured at the deer. ‘I do eat it. There are many plants that consume meat. More than you’d think!’

“Well then, Man-Thing, of course,” Jaime said, deciding that considering the giant plant being had managed to battle Kraven he wasn’t in the mood to anger him.

‘Please, call me Ted. Man-Thing sounds rather pompous but it is my title.’

“…seriously?” Jaime said before shaking his head. “Sorry, I shouldn’t question. There are far worse names out there. I was requested by Lord Tarly to take his son Dickon on as a squire.”

‘That is… an unfortunate name.’

“More than ‘Man-Thing’?” Jaime found himself asking, Hellfire looking up and giving him a look that screamed, “Did you just really say that?”

Ted though merely let out a rumbling laugh at that. ‘I didn’t choose my title. The Old Gods did… I believe that there is a small chance they simply don’t understand what it sounds like.” He paused. ’Its far more likely they do and are just giant dicks.’

Jaime swallowed at that. “Uh… you do realize-“

‘Yes yes, you are their Spirit of Vengeance. And I’m their Spirit of Growth, Healing, and several other titles. They don’t care if I mock them. They’re gods. Why would they care if we mortals take the piss out of them?’

“…Tyrion would love you, I think,” Jaime said, moving to get more deer off the spit, cutting off a hunk. Ted held out a fallen piece of tree bark and happily accepted the meat, which he began to lightly tear apart with his fingers. “You are another Spirit?”

‘Of course,’ Ted stated. ‘For… far longer than you. There are quite a few of us running around in the world, though we aren’t easy to find if we choose to hide. And harder still to be selected to serve, despite how many of attempted to appease the gods and earn a title. A person has to have the right temperament to serve the Old Gods. A touch of something. Insanity, some claim. Determination others. Destiny for the poets.’

“So you don’t always look like that?”

‘Look like what?’ Ted asked, blinking his large eyes.

Jaime stared at him for several moments.

‘Heh. You are too easy, Jaime Lannister.’

That made the greatest swordsman in Westeros roll his eyes and shake his head over the fact that he had been so easily tricked.

Jaime swallowed a piece of meat and looked to Hellfire; the saber cat growled happily and leapt at the deer carcass, yanking it away from the fire and happily attacking it, ripping out great chunks of flesh. ‘She was annoyed she couldn’t fight… but I couldn’t risk Kraven realizing that I wasn’t truly on her side. I could fake it but Hellfire… I doubt she would have been able to contain herself.’

Thoughts of the woman made Jaime glance at her limp form, which lay trussed up just at the edge of the camp. “Will she be okay?”

‘She will,’ Ted informed him. ‘I will feed her some mushrooms that will speed up her healing. She will have a headache that will leave her rather annoyed with us but otherwise she will be fine.’

“Why did you attack her?” Jaime asked. “Didn’t seem like a bad lass.”

‘While she may not have fear, Jaime, she still has great darkness in her heart. The things she has done in the name of her vengeance… they stain her.’

That made Jaime frown though. “I… know a few things about darkness. About doing things that leave stains.” He didn’t want to say the words but the old hurt remained and he found himself saying, “They call me the Kingslayer-“

‘No,’ Ted said, cutting him off even as he bent his head and began to gobble up the meat Jaime had given him. He couldn’t see exactly WHAT he was doing thanks to the way his head was tilted and his long… nose?... blocking his view but Jaime had the sense that it wasn’t pleasant. ‘You are no longer the Kingslayer. The Old Gods were clear on that.’

“I still did the deed!” Jaime exclaimed. “I still killed Aerys! I broke my vows!”

‘You vows were forced upon you, created by a vile man for vile reasons. When the wicked force the innocent to make a pledge the Gods give them no sway or hold.’

“…what?” Jaime whispered. “But-“

‘No, Jaime Lannister,’ Ted said firmly. ‘I know of such things. You never broke your oath to Aerys because he broke his to you.’

That left Jaime utterly befuddled. “Oath? Aerys made no oath-“

‘He might not have sworn the words but the oath was made the moment he accepted the crown: to be a noble and just king. When a ruler chooses to take on the mantle of King or Queen or Lord or any other position of power they make an oath to the gods to serve the people. Aerys broke his oath time and time again. When a ruler takes on a knight into their service they make an oath to be WORTHY of that service.’

Jaime though shook his head, unable to comprehend what Ted was suggesting. “No… I still swore to protect him-“

‘In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave. In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the innocent. Are these not the first vows you swore when you became a knight?’ Ted raised an… eyebrow?... at that. ‘Why would you believe that such vows are tossed aside just because you swore to protect a king? One who is supposed to be brave… just… a defender of the innocent?’

Jaime swallowed at that, watching at the fire as it merrily crackled and popped, consuming the wood logs that were set in its heat.

‘So many vows. They make you swear and swear... Defend the King, obey the King, obey your father, protect the innocent, defend the weak. But what if your father despises the King? What if the King massacres the innocent? What if the innocent war with each other and neither is wrong or wicked? It's too much. No matter what you do you're forsaking one vow or another.’

Jaime started at Ted’s words, staring at the man (and yes, he had come to accept that while he looked different he was a man… more a man than those that looked human in many cases, wearing kind faces as they did monstrous things) and wondering how he knew them. For they were words he had whispered to himself many times in the dark of night, wondering how he had ended up where he was, having gained all he desired and hating it.

‘Certain vows are more important than others… and a vow to humanity, to protect the weak and the innocent? That is greater than any other. You upheld that vow that day, Jaime Lannister.’

“But not after,” he muttered bitterly, thinking of Bran.

‘Which is why you are different from Kraven. You seek to change. To be better. There is no redemption in her. Perhaps in the future, there might be. But at this moment? All she cares for is revenge and she will make the world suffer to have it. And when she has had it she will die… and if she can not she will die. But you, Jaime? You will fight even if you know you can’t win so long as it buys other a few seconds more.’ Ted shook his head. ‘I will not kill her for I believe that is a chance for her… but I will not make things easy for her. That is why you are being protected.’

Jaime managed a nod at that. ‘All have looked at me and seen me as a tool to get what they want. The perfect golden heir to Casterly Rock. A source of pleasure. A shield to hide behind when our father was in a rage. A pawn to taunt Tywin Lannister, a hostage to stay his hand. A prize to mock since my sister and father had to be shown ‘honor’.’ He looked at Ted but also thought of Osha. Of Meera and Hodor. Of Summer and even Jojen. Bran. And now Ted.

They… they cared for him as a person. And in turn he cared for them. Missed them fiercely.

‘And that… is why I helped you,’ Ted informed him. ‘Because you know you did wrong. And you want to make it right.’

‘I just don’t know if I can,’ Jaime quietly thought, doing his best to try and make his thoughts not blare out for Ted to hear.

‘Why did they send you this way, Jaime Lannister?’ Ted asked him suddenly, breaking Jaime from his thoughts.

“They said there was an item of power near here that I needed to retrieve…” he trailed off and rolled his eyes. “And why do I get the sense you already know what it is?”

That made Ted chuckle before he reached within, well, himself, and pulled out a small box. ‘They were right… and I do believe that this will aid you.’ He passed the box over to Jaime who looked it over. It was made from weirwood, he could tell that at once; there was no other wood he’d ever seen that had such a white hue as weirwood. Embedded in it was red glass, carefully crafted to form curving lines so that it looked like the box was oozing sap just like a Heartstree. His fingers brushed against the surface of the box.

‘If the box alone is so beautiful what might lie inside?’ he thought, fingers slowly moving towards the lid.

‘ I would recommend not-‘

Jaime though had already opened the box only to hiss, slamming it shut as quickly as he could. It felt like he had walked into a blacksmith’s shop, the heat so suddenly striking his face that he forced his eyes shut and twisted his face away. “Fuck!” he cursed. “I’d forgotten how hot flames are!” He grimaced, feeling the burn still, and he began to twist his mouth and his cheeks, screwing up his eyes before opening his jaw wide, trying to figure out what was happening to him. Everything felt too tight, like his skin had been stretched too thin.

‘Hmmm… flames… I suppose that would be the form of your torment, wouldn’t it?’ Ted gestured at his own face and Jaime frowned, reaching up only to start when he found that parts of his skin had melted away, allowing him to feel hot white bone. ‘It is only temporary,’ Ted assured him. Jaime drew his sword and stared at his reflection, horrified by what he saw. It was as if he were stuck in mid-transformation, only it was pockets of flesh rather than his entire face. And around the white bone he saw charred black flesh and further than that blood red skin that oozed with white puss. ‘That is the power of the Bloodstone.’

“The Bloodstone?” Jaime muttered, stilling look at his face. He grabbed his chin with his free hand, pulling at his skin one way and then the other. “Where have I heard that?” It suddenly came to him and he reached down, picking up the box from where he had dropped it, though he was careful to keep it shut tight. “The Monster Slayer?”

That made Ted chuckle. ‘So you have heard of him. Ulysses of House Reed… yes, not Stark as they like to claim. The Starks are good people but they have their vanities and have stolen from lesser families great deeds, just as all others have.’ That made Jaime chuckle; he wondered how old Ned would react to THAT. ‘A younger brother of the King of Marshes… he was walking one day when he saw a great red star crash into the sodden earth. He found there a dead man wearing ruined armor… and the Bloodstone.’

“The weapon that can defeat monsters…” Jaime whispered before his eyes snapped up to Ted’s own gaze, growing horror filling him. ‘A monster…’ he thought, touching his face.

But before he could dwell on that Ted let out a laugh. Not in his head… out loud. ‘No… not monsters. Those… touched by other worlds. The Bloodstone based itself and its powers upon the one who claimed it… him. Ulysses Reed. Because he was just a normal human…’

“It reacted to anyone NOT human,” Jaime finished.

‘Or rather no longer binded by humanity,’ Ted argued softly. ‘He took it and swore to hunt down the beasts and terrors that threatened his people. And he did… and then he died. As all do. The bloodstone passed to another, with each swearing to bring it back to this place, his Garden, where he died. But now… now no bearer will come. Not to this place. Not with Thanos and his White Council and his Court about. That is why you must take it, Jaime Lannister. You must bring it to its new holder.’

“Its new holder?”

‘Have you not realized it? There is only one that can wield it. One you would trust.’

He did in an instant. ‘Meera.’

Ted nodded before rising up. ‘She will do well with it, I think. Do not open the box again… it is reacting violently and only the chosen bearer can force it to calm.’ And with that Ted began to lumber over to Kraven. ‘I would suggest you leave before she awakens, Jaime Lannister. I do not imagine that Kraven will be pleased. Flee quickly and do all to cover your tracks… should she choose to track you it would be unwise to lead her back to the great Heartstree.’

“Will… will I see you again?” Jaime asked, not wanting Ted to go. It had been… so nice… to talk to someone who understood him. Though they had met only briefly Jaime felt like he had found a true friend.

‘…yes. I think you will. When the dawn does not shine… I will return.’ Ted turned and glanced at him. ‘And there is another… a tree spirit… much like your friend Hodor. I believe he would be one you would enjoy spending time with. He is far more intelligent than others believe. Seek him out. He can help you.’

Ted paused though, not moving for a long moment.

“Ted?”

‘Jaime… Bloodraven must not be trusted. His plotting… it is far darker than you realize. His ego knows no bounds. The weirwoods scream in agony. You are right to fear him and what he means for not just the boy but all of Westeros. Look to the roots. Look… to the roots.’

And with that… he was gone.

Chapter Text

Robb

The knife scrapped against the piece of wood, taking off another slice. Robb lifted it up, looking over it carefully before nodding to himself, deciding that it looked good enough and he could move onto the next part of his carving.

“Someone is approaching,” Venom stated. “Several someones.”

Robb raised an eyebrow at that as his partner formed a gooey head upon his shoulder. “Can you tell where they are from?”

Venom slammed his head into Robb’s own, covering his features and causing the two to merge together. At once Robb’s nose filled with the cool autumn air and he sniffed as he tried to determine just what scents were on the breeze. There was old wood, which was rather common in the Wolfs Wood, as well as dirt. Animals all around. Roslin’s nature scents which were far more enticing than any southern perfume she could have worn. And then the familiar scent of home that didn’t bring the normal joy it should have.

He let out a huff and stepped away from the porch of the cabin that had become his latest residence, rolling his shoulders before declaring, “Come to count how many babies I’ve eaten, Jory?”

The head of his father’s guard, along with several of the Snowcloaks that Lord Karstark had personally trained, gave up any attempt to be sneaky and instead openly walked towards the cabin. Robb merely watched them, doing nothing to leave his Venom form and make them feel comfortable.

“You know that isn’t the case, Prince Robb.”

“And we both know that is a lie,” Robb replied. “Father does not send you out solely due to the kindness in his heart. He wishes to know what we are up to.” He pointed right at Jory. “If not you then one of these men will scurry back to him and report on every action we make during this conversation.”

“I do as I am told,” Jory replied. “But that doesn’t mean that I agree with it. You are the Heir of Winterfell. I will serve you after your father passes-“

“Will you?” Robb asked and even he wasn’t for sure if he was questioning Jory’s loyalty… or his hopes of remaining in his position once Robb took the throne.

Jory hid his wince well but it was still there all the same. “Your father-“

“We are not interested in his reasoning,” Robb informed him. “We have discussed it already and we have accepted his decision.”

Left unsaid was that while Robb accepted the decision that didn’t mean he agreed with it… or would forgive his father for it. Robb understood that his father, being not just merely a king but the first King in the North in hundreds of years, had to weigh his actions very carefully. He couldn’t risk allowing his familiar ties to cloud his judgment and harm his kingdom. Robb understood that.

But…

“Your father… he loves you,” Jory said. “It hurts him greatly to not have you at his side.”

“How many?”

“…pardon?”

“How many men has King Eddard killed?” Robb asked, turning his back on Jory and returning to the cabin’s porch. “Do you think we haven’t noticed it? His hatred of the Lannisters… it has made him blood thirsty. People call him “The Punisher” because of his actions after the Westerlands and their forces. He could very well drown the Neck with the amount of blood he has spilled. And no one denies it. Just as no one fears him for it, at least in the North. Yet while he is celebrated you come with armed guards because of something we have denied and you have no proof of.”

That time Jory did wince.

“Prince Robb… please…”

“We believe we are done here, Jory. You can run back to his grace and tell him we have not died in some ditch so he can sleep well. Or would he have preferred it that way?”

Jory though took a step forward. “You dishonor your father by thinking so little of him. He loves you… this was the toughest decision he ever made.”

“He would rather hide in Winterfell than clear his son’s name,” Robb replied.

“You do not know-“

But Robb laughed. “Oh… but we do. You think we do not have our own allies? Our own spies? We know far more about what is going on in Winterfell.”

And that’s when the growls filled the air.

Jory tensed as the wolves began to emerge from the forest that surrounded the cabin. Dozens of them, all staring at the Snowcloaks who suddenly began to reach for their swords only for Jory, with a violent slashing of his hand, to force them to not bare the live steel. Robb could see the fear in the Snowcloaks’ eyes as they realized that the wolves had been there the entire time and they just hadn’t noticed it. They were thinking of the ride to the cabin and wondering if the silence that had surrounded them had truly meant there was no danger around… or the danger had always been there, waiting to pounce. And at their head were Nymeria and Greywind, both glaring at the intruders.

“Did you think our sisters would side against us?” Robb asked. “Sansa is rather upset with our father… and has been rather kind to lend us parts of her pack.” He didn’t bring up that they had worked out ways to communicate with one another, using Sansa as a translator of sorts to for Arya and Rickon (who went unmentioned only because Rickon had been the most vocal in calling out their father for his actions). He needed some surprises. “Our father has done little to clear our name. He has sent out only token forces to investigate the deaths attributed to us.” He shook his head as Jory opened his mouth once more to speak. “Let us be done with this. Ask your questions, Jory.”

Jory took a breath, steeling his nerves. “Could we go inside-“

“No,” Robb informed him as the wolves slowly disappeared back amongst the trees. “Roslin is resting. I won’t have you wake her up.”

That was a lie. Currently Roslin was out hunting. But he felt no urge to inform Jory of that. Or his father.

Jory sighed and finally moved towards the porch, the Snowcloaks staying just close enough that they could hear what was being said and leap to his defense if Robb tried to do something. One of them kept glancing at the woods nervously and that had Robb flashing an even bigger fang-filled smile; good, he wanted them to be on their toes.

“Why are you staying here?” Jory asked, gesturing at the cabin. “Your father arranged for an entire keep for you.”

It had been his father’s final attempt at showing Robb some kindness. While he had been forced to leave Winterfell Robb had set out with very little; a simple chest filled with mostly Roslin’s belongings. Venom had shown him that he could create pretty much any set of clothing he wished, having mastered the ability to shift his form into any clothing he wished. Robb wondered how Jory would react learning that.

Robb was actually rather naked at the moment, with only Venom there to form into all the garments that currently clad his body.

But there had been no need for him to bring all manner of fine clothing and he’d only brought Roslin’s along because she had argued that anyone learning of Spite would only make him look more guilty.

‘Spite,’ Robb thought to himself in amusement. Roslin and her symbiote had been debating for months a name for her partner and gone through half a dozen ones. Currently they had settled on Spite… not for any particular reason but because the female symbiote thought it ‘sounded powerful’. Or at leas thtat was what she claimed. He had a feeling it was much to do with her mood.

He huffed. His mind was wandering.

“Your father selected a keep for you,” Jory continued on. “One that would keep you protected. Guards, servants, all of whom would aid you. They are still ready, waiting for you to arrive.”

“A gilded prison like Jon finds himself in?” Robb asked. Jory winced at that and Robb knew it was a low blow but he didn’t care. If wasn’t even that much to do with his father… he was mad at himself for not going and freeing his brother. He and Roslin had discussed it with their symbiotes and they were all rather sure they were very close to figuring out how to produce a new symbiote from the two of them. Venom stated that the basic knowledge existed in all their kind but it was rather like a human… the instinct was there but not the knowledge. But they were close and when they could do it then Robb would to go to King’s Landing and bond Venom and Spite’s potential child with Jon, so his brother might be blessed with the same partnership Robb had been.

Jory shook his head though. “It was planned before all this happened. While it is important for you to be at Winterfell your father also wanted you to have a chance to understand rule on your own. The Targaryns had Dragonstone and Winterfell now has Wolfsrest.”

Robb though huffed. “Give it to another. I am happy here.” He turned his head away from Jory. “I will not be some wild beast kept in a cage for children to gawk at. My father can either accept that I have at least allowed you all to know I am staying here or he can continue denouncing me, declare I am no longer his heir, and then do as he sees fit.”

“He would never do any of that.”

‘He’s done more than enough already,’ Robb thought darkly. He understood his father’s actions. He truly did. But that didn’t mean he’d forgive them. Even when he was proven innocent he would have to deal with the rumors and claims for all of his life. His father had weakened Robb’s future in order to make the present easier on him. It was, sadly, something he had seen too much in his father’s choices.

Jory got the hint that Robb wasn’t in the mood to be ‘convinced’ to go to the prison his father had set up for him and instead said, “How did you get this cabin?”

The moment he asked Robb could tell Jory regretted the words. Saw how they came out. As such Robb merely flashed a dark smile, daring Jory to ask him who he might have killed to claim the cabin.

In reality Robb had purchased it from its owner, a hunter and his family who knew Winter was coming and the isolation of their little cabin would mean grave danger for them in the winter years. Robb had been more than fair with his payment and even spent a week helping the man pack; Ornest and his wife, Morya, were good people with Roslin becoming fast friends with Morya and wishing her well. Robb planned to keep tabs on the family and set them up well once he took the throne.

“Fairly,” he replied.

Jory finally shook his head. “You can choose not to believe me, my prince. You can think I am against you. But I have known you for nearly your entire life. My uncle trained you in the yard, taught you how to use a sword. I am loyal to you.”

“You are loyal to House Stark. None can deny that, Jory.” He grew quiet after that, the message very clear.

Jory reached into his breast pocket and pulled out some letters. “You have allies.”

Robb merely took the bundle, knowing based on the first one and its seal that they were from his family. He wondered if his father had included a letter; he also wondered if he would be able to read it or if he would toss it to Roslin, letting her decide if they should just burn it.

The Snowcloaks and Jory made their leave and it wasn’t until he could no longer hear them that Robb looked to his left, letting Venom slowly slide back into his body, hidden away. “You can come out now.”

He heard the flapping of wings and then Shireen Baratheon appeared, Jane Seaworth beside her with a judging look on her face. “We don’t get the honor of you remaining in that form?”

“The Snowcloaks see me as a monster. Why should I try and remove their doubts?”

“And that’s the only reason?” Jane asked with a quirked eyebrow.

“The only one I am giving you two,” Robb stated as he moved back towards his seat on the porch. “Now then… what brings you two out here? I am not used to so many guests come to gawk at the beast.”

“To see you,” Jane said with a shrug. “Things are rather tense in Winterfell at the moment, as I am sure you’ve figured out, and we thought it might be wise to get some fresh air.”

“And if that includes you gaping at Ned Stark’s Disappointment I suppose that is just a bonus?”

“Don’t do that,” Shireen said sternly. “Do not dishonor your father that way. He doesn’t see you as a disappointment.”

“He has a funny way of showing it,” Robb pointed out, taking up his whittling knife once more. He was still undecided just what the wood might become; at that moment he was more allowing his blade to find the shape within, rather than trying to force the wood to become what he desired. It was something Jon had taught him and while it hurt to do it because it reminded him of his brother it also helped him center himself and remember who he was. ‘Any man can do this,’ Jon had once told him. ‘Poor. Rich. Simple Farmer or powerful lord. A trueborn son or a bastard. The wood and the knife don’t care.’

Jane though walked over to him and shook her head. “Walk with us.”

“Why?”

“Because soon it will be too cold to do so.”

‘She has a point,’ Venom told him and Robb rolled his eyes before getting up, setting the wood aside along with his knife… only to grab his sword and strap it to his waist along with several knives and daggers. Shireen watched him and while her face remained stony he could sense that she was pleased with him arming himself.

“Do you really need all of that?” Jane asked him as he finished up. She gestured at his chest. “I mean, that partner of yours makes you a living weapon right?”

“Considering that most people are looking at us like we feed on babies and wash that down with virgin blood I’m trying to be careful with how often I got out in our true form. Outside of my father’s dogs, of course.” She frowned at his choice of words but frankly Robb didn’t care; he felt truly himself when he and Venom were one and wasn’t ashamed of that.

Shireen spoke up before things could get terribly awkward. “That sword… there is something different about it. I can taste it on the air.”

Jane nodded. “Yes… it reminds me of Thor.”

Robb shrugged and pulled the sword two inches from its scabbard, the metal at once beginning to crackling with lightning. At once both women leaned forward and before he could tell them not to both reached out and touched the blade, the lightning leaping out and snapping at their fingers. But rather than jump back and cry out in pain from the touch the two women merely stared opening at the sword, Jane in particular looking utterly fascinated.

“That explains why its so familiar,” she murmured. “How did you manage to do this?”

“I didn’t,” Robb said and Jane pouted. “This was a sword carried by an Iron Born raider. They attacked Winterfell and held it for less than a day; Rickon and the Guardians helped me take it back. I took this sword and made it my own.” He slowly slid his sword back into place.

“So the scabbard insolates its, so that it doesn’t shock you… clever. Very clever. But the metal… there must be something that is allowing it to conduct the lightning. And generate it, of course.”

“Magic,” Robb said as they started out.

That made Jane scoff. “Magic is just what the clueless call reality when they can’t explain it.”

“Isn’t your father known as the God of Magic?” Venom asked, popping out of Robb’s shoulder.

Jane waved the symbiote off. “My father is clueless too.” That made Robb and Venom share a look before the two shrugged and Venom retracted back into Robb’s body. “I don’t suppose I can look over that sword. I’d love to work out how it works-“

“No,” Robb said flatly.

“Come on… I bet I could make more of them!”

Robb though turned to look at Shireen. “I thought you were supposed to be older than her.”

Shireen let out a bemused smile, a smile tugging on her lips. “This is her having mellowed out.”

“Well…” Robb really didn’t have anything else to say and Jane was annoyed that they weren’t taking her quest to understand the mysteries of the universe seriously. “You aren’t concerned about the pack?” he finally found himself asking. He assumed that Jane and Shireen had seen him and Venom call forth Sansa’s pack and thus it struck him as odd that they were willing to go through a walk through the woods with him.

“Even if I did worry that you would send them against us…” Shireen reached down and patted her axe hammer and at once Robb got the message.

The Wolfs Wood was a peaceful place, so long as one knew where to walk. More wild and savage than Winterfell’s Godswood and honestly that made Robb love it all the more. While his father did almost nothing to rein in the Godswood he didn’t allow predators to room. Didn’t allow the great deer and elk within the city so they might rub against the trees and nibble at the leaves. There were no well worn paths in the Wolfs Wood save for the game trails and those were nothing like the walkways that he and his siblings had darted through as children, being as silent as possible so they might not disturb the gods. The woods were a sacred place that deserved silence. The Wolf Woods, however, were a wild place that demanded shouts and cries as much as they did silence. Sometimes Robb felt the urge to roar into the sky, just to fill the air with his bellows and let the Wolf Woods know that he understood that savageness of the place. But other times he wanted to silence even his own heart beat, so not to disturb the place.

“I assume you don’t have much to ask when it comes to Winterfell?” Jane asked. “What with the contacts you’ve maintained.”

“I am told enough,” Robb stated. “I am more concerned about what is occurring beyond our borders.”

“Your brother,” Shireen stated.

“He remains a prisoner of the Lannisters. That is not something I can allow to continue for much longer. I am staying my hand at the moment, only so that perhaps a better plan may be drawn up. But should the snows come I will go and retrieve him myself.”

He and Venom, along with Roslin and Spite, had discussed the idea in detail. Winter would make it virtually impossible for armies to travel and even a sole rider on horseback would have trouble. But he and Venom had been testing themselves in the Wolfs Woods, seeking out deep snowbanks from the fall showers to see how easily they could move through them. He had regretted them leaving by boat from Beyond the Wall as that would have allowed them to better understand just what they could do. But he was confident that Venom and him could easily make it through the deepest snowfalls that would slow down a grown stallion. They would kidnap Jon and they would bring him home and then Robb would do what his father had been too scared to do: he would ensure that he had a home forever in Winterfell, as a Stark. Even with their cousin Tony giving Jon the Stark name Robb would legitimize him…

‘And if father has a problem with that then perhaps it is time for him to step down,’ Robb thought darkly.

Shireen, as if sensing his thoughts, spoke up in that moment. “There is more than you realize going on, Robb. Far more many plots and plans.”

“And I find myself and my family caught in the winds of these plots,” he replied. “But we are not leaves. We are wolves. We snarl and snap at the wind.”

“Even when the wind aids you?”

“I have not felt a touch of support from these schemes,” Robb retorted. “I have only seen my family suffer. Arya is half Essosi at this point thanks to Mother and her plotting. Sansa isn’t even human anymore. Bran is missing because Father had his eye on Southerners that still look down upon us. And Jon is now a prisoner of the Lannisters.”

“And you have been unjustly exiled,” Venom added, popping up once more.

“I can survive that,” he told his partner. “I will never forgive father for this but I can survive it.”

“I wish I had handled it better.”

Robb started and whipped around, part of his arm already merged with Venom as he glared at his father, who had emerged from his hiding spot amongst the trees. Unlike how he had grown used to seeing him his father at that moment was not dressed in the finer garments that were required of him as king. No, much like Robb himself (or, at least, how Venom was allowing Robb to look) his father was wearing sturdy traveling clothes, designed for the muck and the slime and the slush rather than the mincing and simpering and sycophantic comments that were found even in the Northern court. For a moment… just a moment… Robb was able to believe that time had reversed and they were back to before Robert had come to Winterfell and ruined all their lives.

But then the vision was gone and Robb, while returning his arm and hand to normal, still stood apart from his father. No move to embrace him or greet him. No hugs or clasping on hands. Robb instead merely glanced at Jane and Shireen.

“I will remember this,” he said darkly.

“I hope you do,” Jane said smugly, clearly dreaming of a time when Robb would thank her for the lies that had forced the meeting to occur. But as he continued to stare at her the smirk faded from her lips and the woman began to edge her way behind Shireen, who merely raised an eyebrow, challenging him.

Robb wondered just who would win in a fight between the two of them.

“We can not have division,” Shireen said sternly. “Thanos will not sit by while we feud amongst ourselves. We are already weakened thanks to the War of the Five Crowns… we can not afford the North to be engulfed in civil war.”

“There won’t be,” Robb said. “I make no move against my father… and he has ensured none will ever follow me.”

“Robb…” his father said softly.

“You have branded me a monster that slaughters the innocent, father… even those that followed Lord Bolton’s deranged bastard son would never follow me into battle.” He shook his head in disgust. “You have ensured a strong North that I can never rule.” Robb turned to glare at Jane and Shireen but found that they had quickly retreated; he didn’t know if that made them cowards and geniuses.

“We will prove that you didn’t do these things.”

“How can you prove that when you question my innocence?” Robb snapped. “I see it in you and mother’s eyes… you think Venom in influencing me. Oh, perhaps I didn’t do it… but my partner did. Used me like a puppet as I slept. Venom would never do that.”

“We don’t know-“

“I know,” Robb spat, wanting nothing more than to back away and gather himself… or to just disappear so he didn’t have to deal with the man again. “I have told you and you don’t believe me. How can I ever rule as king when our subjects know you don’t trust me. You are Aegon the Unworthy, destroying your heir-”

“That is not what we are dealing with right now; I do trust you,” Ned said forcefully. He shook his head. “I should have handled things better. I should have discussed it with you in more detail. I know that you didn’t do these things. This was never about casting you aside. All of this has been about protecting you.”

“I feel utterly protected,” Robb said with a scoff. “And do not lie to me again, Father. This has been about one thing… the only thing you have ever cared about: the North.”

“Of course it is about the North,” his father said. “There is a threat out there, a creature or a beast or a foe of some kind that is slaughtering the innocent. As Warden, as Lord, or as King I must protect our people.”

“And you protect them by sending the monster away.”

“I do not see you as a monster.”

That made Robb laugh. “Venom and I have two heads, father, yet you do so well talking out of two mouths. You can’t claim that you trust me while in the same breath as you cast me aside to please your Small Council!” he threw his hands up in the air. “This is how it has always been with you! Claiming one thing while doing another! Putting the North ahead of all of us!”

“I have NEVER focused on anything more than this family,” his father said darkly, the wolf’s blood at long last beginning to stir. “Exile? I was setting you up in Wolfsrest, so you might be able to be with Roslin and live without your mother and I hovering over you. It was supposed to be a chance for you to show the North your maturity, that you could lead without relying upon me. They remember well that the only other time you ruled on your own Rickon disappeared, Bran disappeared, and Winterfell nearly fell to the Iron Born!”

Robb grit his teeth at that. He HATED that his father was right when it came to his comments. He knew that there were still people in Winterfell alone who blamed him for the attack by the Ironborn. Never mind that they had used weapons none of them had been prepared for and he, along with the Guardians, had driven them back. He had still been the Stark of Winterfell and nearly let the Capital of the North fall.

“They also remember that before that I captured the Kingslayer,” Robb retorted. “And isn’t it convenient that you only come up with the idea of Wolfsrest when you need to cast me aside. Why was it father that you never mentioned this to me? Or anyone else? You expect me to believe that you came up with this and it was only poor timing that made that place into my prison.”

“Believe what you wish, it won’t change the truth. Wolfsrest was always meant to be the seat of the Heir of the North, so they might showcase their ability to lead. But rather than going to Wolfsrest and demonstrate to all that you were not some savage you ran off to this… place.” He gestured around him. “You only make them believe that you killed those people.”

His father was right, of course. Robb could see that. But his anger at that, and the situation at hand, would not allow him to apologize. So instead… he lashed out.

“All of this… all of this is just you yet again not thinking of your children. Believing that you know best for us even as we suffer for your repeated mistakes. You exile me and say I should be grateful.”

“I have not exiled you. If I were to exile you then you would know it. You remain in the North, do you not?” He took a step forward, waving his hand wide. “I do not blame you for your anger but do not act as if you are the only one to ever exerienced it. I know what it is like to feel like you have been cast out of one’s home!” His father ran his hand along his jaw line in frustration. “Do you forget how I met Robert? My father sent me South, to lands I had never known, away from my family, just to feed his ambitions. I would only be allowed back when he deemed me ready and then I would be sent someplace else. And I was half your ages when I was told that I would be leaving Winterfell! You have a wife… I hope at some point you have a child. I was giving you a chance to live your life away from the madness that is our rule!”

“And how easy it is now, after I have been told I must leave my home, the only one I knew because you refused to foster me as your father and your father’s father and all the Starks have done down the line, because “people are turning their eyes towards you, Robb. You have done little to prevent this.” You make it my fault that this is happening… that I am blamed for crimes I never did!”

His father shook his head at that as Robb panted. “I… shouldn’t have worded it like that.”

Robb cut him off before he could continue with his weak wristed apology. Assuming his father even attempted one. “You are always concerned with others and how they view us rather than your children.”

“How… how can you say that?” Ned said, aghast. “I have only thought of you all!”

That brought a huff to Robb’s lips. “You denied me a chance to know of the North… when you were imprisoned by the Lannisters I nearly had open rebellion because none of the Lords knew me as anything other than a green boy. I was never allowed to go to tournaments or to travel to other keeps and castles… you kept me here. Lord Manderly told me that there had been fears that I was slow and stunted and you were hiding me away out of shame. Others thought I was far too Southern because of Mother’s hand in my education and I wouldn’t even know how to properly use a sword.”

Winterfell had never been one to hold the lush banquets and feasts like the South. Robb knew that his mother had tried more than once to convince his father to hold a tourney in honor of Robb or Sansa’s namedays but their father had always denied her, seeing them as a waste of money. He remembered well that it had been a tourney that had led to the near downfall of their house. And while he understood that logic he also knew that it had only hurt them all that none of them had been allowed to display themselves to the other Lords of the North.

“You allowed Sansa’s head to become so full of Southern knowledge that she betrayed Arya to that monster Joffrey. All because you didn’t want to upset Mother and dash her delusions that the North could be turned into the South. You saw that Arya was not some sweet little girl that would become a quiet wife and yet you still allowed mother and the Septa and Sansa’s friends to mock her and belittle her. Jon-“

“I made mistakes with Jon,” his father admitted.

“Is that what we are calling it now?” Robb said with an annoyed grunt. “You kept him close with one hand and shoved him away with the other. He wasn’t like the smallfolk but he wasn’t one of us either. Let everyone know he was yours, that he was my brother… but then forced him to wear the shame of the name Snow.” He took a step forward. “He was never a bastard. He was legitimate but because you cared more for Robert you allowed your nephew to be tormented every day!”

Ned narrowed his eyes. “Jon… is my son. He might not have been born my son but he became my son the moment I took him in my arms.”

Robb silent conceded that point; after all, he saw Jon as his brother. Would never stop seeing Jon as his brother. He, Sansa, Arya, and Rickon had all discussed it recently when his siblings had snuck away from Winterfell to check in on him and make sure he and Roslin were still fine. All of them had agreed that Jon was their brother, no matter who his parents were. Arya was nearly as driven as Robb was to bring him home and Sansa mourned the time they had lost. Even Theon, when he had visited him, had admitted that he wished to make amends with Jon for, in his own words, ‘being such a massive ass’.

“And Jon led a far better life than most bastards. Do you know how they are treated in the south? I met Gendry Waters in King’s Landing; his mother had been a tavern girl, his father a King. He grew up tucked away in rooms, told to keep quiet while his mother worked long hours to try and provide him with a bit of food. When she died he was reduced to begging for a sip of brown and hiding in doorways to sleep until he was found by Lord Varys. Jon never went hungry. Was never cold.”

“A man can have a full belly and still starve,” Robb argued. “Can be in the warmed room and still shiver. If he is lacking love and safety then he will never be comfortable. Mother ensured that Jon was always seen as the enemy to the servants.”

“Your mother… had her issues,” his father admitted. “Ones she is working through due to her-“ He stopped and Robb knew exactly what his father had almost let slip: because of her Southern Ways. “She was wrong in her treatment of Jon. But he was never an enemy of the servants.”

Robb threw back his head and laughed at that, so loud that Venom, who had been quiet for the entire conversation, slowly retracted back into his body. “Then you are a fool, father, if you still do not know what happens in your own castle. You believe yourself the master of it but mother had the true control of the servants. Oh, you would make an order of course… but then mother would demand they find ways around your orders and they would do so. Happily. Septa Mordane-“

“We will not speak ill of the dead.”

“Why not? Because they died they do not deserve scorn? Are we to preach how wonderful the Mad King was? Joffrey?” His father’s jaw clenched at that but Robb didn’t care; the fact that his father hadn’t said a word to dispute what Robb was saying made clear that he realized he was right. “Mother told the servants to watch Jon every moment of every day to make sure he wasn’t plotting to harm me. I remember the two of us playing in the yard and washwomen suddenly stepping forward if Jon got a bit too rough. But if I struck him down no one cared. I had to hide if his blows hurt me so he wouldn’t get in trouble and with Ser Rodrik I had to fake checking my swings so that he didn’t go scampering off to mother telling her that Jon was getting a bit better than me; if I forgot that was when Jon suddenly had a task he had to perform or a favor for another servant that couldn’t wait only to be yelled at for falling behind.

“I noticed that by the time I was six. Jon was seeing it far longer. You think he brooded and was solemn because of his ‘Stark Blood’? No… it was because he knew that he could never truly relax. Never truly be himself. That Winterfell was a dungeon full of traps. You made him fear his home but you refused to allow him to go out and make a name for himself beyond being ‘Ned Stark’s Bastard’. He could have been a knight or a sailor. A maester or a blacksmith. He could have become a great hunter or a farmer. Anything. But you clung to him, refusing to let him go but also refusing to give him a chance to be a Stark!”

His father stared at him for a very long time.

“I am… trying to make up for that,” he admitted. “Shireen and Jane have made me think upon things. Jon was robbed of his birthright… when Winter passes I will see it returned to him.”

Robb found it now his turn to stare at his father in disbelief.

“…are you mad?”

“No,” his father stated. “Jon-“

“Doesn’t want to be fucking king!” Robb roared and he sensed even Venom startled by the outburst. “Do you know ANYTHING about him!? Jon has lived his entire life knowing if he dreamed of even an ounce of power he would risk mother’s wrath. He once made the mistake, during our playing, of declaring he was ‘the Lord of Winterfell’. It killed me to silence him… he didn’t see the maid glaring at him. You were off visiting the Umbers… you would have returned to him dead had mother learned that. She would have ordered him beaten like a dog or thrown him down a flight of stairs because he childishly called out one of his ancestor’s names during a game! And now you want to put him on the Iron Throne?!? Jon might kill himself the moment you utter the words, his terror would be that great!”

“I think you embellish things too much-“

“And I think you don’t know your family,” Robb retorted. “You certainly don’t know me.” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. You didn’t come out here to discuss my childhood. What is it you desire, your grace.”

“Do NOT take that tone with me,” Ned warned, pointing a finger right at Robb. And despite everything… despite the battles he’d fought, the enemies he’d defeated, and the symbiote at his command… he felt a shiver of terror go through him at his father’s tone and at once he was a child again, caught being naughty and cringing at his father’s disapproval.

“..what is it you want, father?” Robb said, removing a touch of the aggravation from his tone.

Ned sighed at that but finally nodded his head in acceptance. “There is a way that you can not only help prove your innocence but also show the North your dedication, your strength, and cunning. A way to remind all the lords that you are not someone to be trifled with.” Robb raised an eyebrow at that. “Barbery Dustin.”

That made Robb frown. “I… I have never met her.” He knew of her, certainly. It was well known that her husband, Lord Willam Dustin, had gone with Robb’s father to the Tower of Joy to retrieve Lyanna. He had died along with all but Robb’s father and Lord Reed and his father had been unable to bring back his bones for a proper burial, thus earning Lady Dustin’s eternal wrath. “She sent very few men to me when I summoned the banners.”

“And she continues to do so,” his father stated. “She does not fly the Direwolf flag over her keep and she refuses summons to swear fealty.”

“…what else as she done?” Robb pressed. He knew there had to be something else, something his father wasn’t telling him.

His father’s nostrils flared and he let out a harsh breath. “She has… she has sent ravens to the Lannisters. To Lord Tywin. She seeks to betray us. To rally the North against us.”

Robb’s eyes widened at that before they narrowed, a blast of hot air leaving his nose. “So she is a traitor to all the North.”

“Aye. When I heard the news I desired to call the banners and in 3 weeks time march on Barrowton and rip her from it like a maester yanks a tick from a leg. But I was advised that such an action would lead to too many deaths.”

Robb slowly nodded at that. “Even if they disagree with her many in Barrowton will side with her, if only out of loyalty to her husband. Especially if she has replaced the guard with those faithful to her. And she has had plenty of time to do that.”

“Exactly,” Ned said. “We must be… more cunning… when it comes to dealing with her.”

And at once Robb saw the answer, his eyes widening. “My exile.”

Ned nodded. “You are now the black sheep of the Starks in the eyes of some… and for one obsessed with me, seeing me as a thief and a blackheart who stole Brandon’s seat and denied her the right to be the Lady of the North she may very well see you as an ally.”

“At the very least she would consent to meet with me,” Robb said. ‘I wonder… did father always mean for this? Did he truly believe I wasn’t to blame and in my anger I left before he could explain?’ He wanted to believe that was the case… and also believe it wasn’t. He had been so angry with how he had been treated but learning that he had made a mistake and blamed his father for no reason was painful to him. Embarrassing too. Even though he longed to know that his father had always had faith in him he also wanted his father to have doubted him, so he could maintain he was the wounded party.

“That is my thought, yes. She may very well not trust you… you are, after all, my son. And more importantly your mother’s son.” When Robb stared at him in confusion Ned sighed. “Barbery hated your mother before Willam’s death. She loved Brandon and thought herself destined to be Lady of the North. She sees in her a thief who robbed her of her birthright.”

“Then won’t she hate me as well?” Robb asked. “I am your son… a reminder of the child she never got to give Uncle Brandon.” His face twisted. “Can’t we send Uncle Brandon to her?”

“No,” his father said. “Even if she would believe that Drax is Brandon come again… I can’t trust him with this.” Robb smirked but his father shook his head. “No… not as you might think. He is… enraged… by her actions. For as mirthful as he has become the wolf’s blood is still strong in him and he has not taken this betrayal well. Same with Gamora and Yondu. Rickon has taken them to look over the sites of the attacks, to prove your innocence, least Drax go to Barrowton and deal with her himself.” Robb winced, his earlier anger now tasting vile on his tongue. “I… have other matters to deal with as well. It must be you.”

Robb though shook his head. “But I can’t. She will be smart enough to offer me guest rights. I won’t be able to deny her. If I kill her then I will be forever branded as honorless.” And, he left unsaid, this crime would have actually been committed by him.

Ned nodded. “Yes… but will she be wise enough to offer it to Venom?”

At once Venom popped up. “She will not! I can kill her easily! Guest rights and then head bitten off! Unless the salt in her blood will-”

“No,” Robb said sternly, looking at his partner. “I won’t have you dishonored too. People will see you as not being your own person…” He frowned, knowing that wasn’t quite the proper way to put it but unable to think of any better words.

“Let them. I do not mind.“

“I do,” Robb said. He looked to his father. “It is a good plan but I will create a better one. I will talk with Roslin and we will figure out a plan… I will capture Barrowton for you, father.”

“Do so,” his father said. “As you work on that Rickon will clear your name and I will work to soothe the lords. You will return home my heir, Robb. And all will know your honor.”

It was a good strategy.

Now he would just need to figure out some way to pull it off.

Chapter Text

TW: Hint at Spousal Abuse

Wade frowned as he looked up. “Okay, that warning is nice but… uh… where is the Daenerys?”

“She’s in the palace,” Logan replied, taking a long pull from his mug of dark beer. He’d only agreed to go out with Wade because the bastard was paying… and he’d made sure Wade ACTUALLY paid ahead of time and didn’t stiff him with the bill.

“And why are you calling her ‘The Daenerys’?” Ser Jorah asked, Domino nodding in agreement. “Is that a new title.”

“Please tell me its not a new title,” Domino complained.

“First off you two shouldn’t even be here. The rest of my supporting cast was glorified cameos and you two weren’t even included in my Top 9.” Wade jabbed a finger at Ser Jorah. “You haven’t even been burned yet to end up with your metal arm and messed up eye.”

“…what?” Ser Jorah said, confused.

“Shhh,” Wade said, pressing a finger to Ser Jorah’s lips. “We had a great thing but you and I are over. Logan is my new best friend.”

“No I’m not,” Logan said, waving for another beer.

“That is exactly what best friends would say!” Wade declared. “And I don’t mean The Mother of Super Long Titles. I mean the DAENERYS. As in the name showing what this chapter is about.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Logan complained before shaking his head. “Wait, no, I don’t give a fuck.”

“I am talking about the Daenerys Chapter!” Wade declared. “It only makes sense! Deadpool and Wolverine just came out so Chaos should get that wonderful synergy going and do a Daenerys chapter so he can, in turn, focus on us.” Wade paused. “Of course if he were really smart he should set up a Batreon. Make some good cash out of this. But you know, with a P but we can’t call it that because if we do its censored!”

Logan looked at Ser Jorah who shrugged.

“Seriously, where is it? Come on, I know you only spell check these fucking things once you lazy-“ Wade paused, looking down at his feet… and blinking. “Cersei? You are doing a chapter about fucking Cersei? Chaos you dumb motherfucker! Synergy! Seriously! At least move the Dany chapter up! Fuck!” Wade threw his hands in the air. “This is why Chaos Effect will never be as popular as Child of the Storm or This Bites!”

Wade paused.

“Seriously, Chaos should do a Batreon, right? He already does the live reads and discord invites for free… maybe then he’ll actually think when it comes to putting out these chapters so there is some synergy?” Wade suddenly looked up as Viktor entered the bar. “Hey, Chaos should do a Batreon, right Tony?”

“…” Viktor, rather than responding, slammed Wade’s head into the counter.

“Jonathan Majors?” Wade slurred before passing out, his last words being, “Batreon?”

Cersei

“Good morning, your grace,” Robecca Flowers said, breezing into the room. The young woman was tall, with thick arms and a shock of black hair. If not for her age and the fact that Cersei had kept track of such things VERY carefully she would have assumed Robecca was one of Robert’s bastards. But no… the girl had been born in the Reach and Robert had been in the Vale at that time; while Cersei had MUCH to say about Jon Arryn she admitted that he had done well to restrain Robert after he had brought into the world his first bastard.

No… Robecca was just another way for the Tyrells to taunt her. She wasn’t his bastard but a reminder of them. Even the name was a reminder of her hated dead husband. It was all a way to ensure that Cersei awoke every morning in a piss poor mood.

“Are you ready to get up, your grace?” Robecca asked as she threw open the curtains and let the sunlight into the room, making Cersei squeeze her eyes shut. Even with fall upon them the sun was far too bright, in her opinion.

‘No. In fact the only thing that could get me up at this ungodly hour, you giant blundering cow, would be if they informed me that your head was about to be put on the block!’

That… was what Cersei wanted to say.

“Yes, I do believe it is time for me to get up. Help me, would you? I feel as if the years are truly weighing down on me this morning.”

“Of course, your grace!” Robecca chirped, moving to help Cersei up from the bed.

The stupid girl had no idea that, in her head, Cersei was screaming and raging. Not only was she putting herself into the power of this woman but she was admitting that she was OLD!?!

‘Damn you Margaery!’ Cersei mentally screeched.

Thankfully the giant moose of a woman was able to get Cersei dressed quickly enough so that the queen only had to hear her prattle for about 40 minutes; from the moment that she was stripped clean, washing with wet cloth (no bath, as much as Cersei longed to have a leisurely soak… she was denied that too), dressed for the day, hair done, makeup applied, her perfumes dripped onto her body, and finally one of her false hands, this one made of ivory with golden nails, was strapped to her wrist. Through it all Cersei was forced to deal with the woman happily blathering on about whatever popped into her little mind. Worse, Cersei was compelled to encourage her to continue. When she wanted to do nothing more than snap at her to be quiet or dismissively comment on whatever Robecca was saying until the dunderhead got the point… what came out of her mouth was instead questions and comments that kept the entire horrid affair going.

“Thank you, Robecca,” Cersei told her with a true smile that made her face ache even as the words burned on her tongue like acid.

“Have a wonderful day, your grace!”

‘I hope you trip and fall out a window… preferably a very high one so you have plenty of time to watch the ground racing towards you. Then at the very least you would get a fraction of the taste of the suffering I have had to go through listening to you constantly prattle on about your pathetic, useless life!’

Cersei left the room but only got about 10 feet before she found her hated enemy grabbing her arm, a smile on her face as she turned her away from her original path.

“Well, hello mother,” Margaery said with a smile as she tugged Cersei along. “How delightful to find you up and able to join us this morning! I know you were up quite late last night…”

Cersei had been up late and her eyes were heavy with sleep. All she wanted to do was return to her room and sleep. But Margaery continued to drag her along and when Cersei tried to stop the young woman reached down, grasping her right hand in her own and giving it a squeeze.

“Now now… my grandmother would be most disappointed if you chose not to join us. And I would say hate to have to waste time trying to figure out how to explain how you lost your other hand.” Cersei’s eyes widened as she suddenly felt a burning sensation along her wrist, looking down to see that Margaery’s hand was crackling with wicked magic. “Don’t worry… I won’t use a spell to take your hand.” She giggled at that. “Oh, what a waste that would be! My chaos magic is far too much to use on such a simple thing as that. No no no… I would NEVER do that.” She lifted up Cersei’s hand, the fingers turning a dark red thanks to the pressure Margaery was applying to her wrist, and patted it with her free hand. “No… I’ll just force you to stick it in the nearest hearth. Remember the way you scream as your flesh is cooked and your muscles are reduced to ash and pleasure myself to it each night.”

“Your brother can’t bring you such pleasures?”

Margaery merely chuckled at that, letting out a soft sigh. “Are YOU of all people trying to shame me for sleeping with my own brother?” She shook her head. “Come now, mother, you know better than that. The blood of the Dragon flows through me… you wiggled your arse in the mud while giving your husband horns.”

Cersei glowered at that and sniffed. “Jaime and I came into this world together. We shared the same womb.”

“So did Loras and I,” Margaery pointed out, “though I don’t use that as some sort of claim that we are destined to be together.” She continued to lead Cersei on, pausing every once and a while to chat with a servant who paused, much to Cersei’s annoyance. Her head ached thanks to the little sleep she had gotten and still feeling the affects of the alcohol she had consumed the night before.

‘At the very least this little whore lets me indulge in such things… the only way I manage to get through my days is by numbing the pain with wine.’

That wasn’t entirely true. How she also got through her days was plotting how she would be able to escape the mental prison she found herself in. Then, once that was done and she was free again, she would torture the Tyrells slowly for their crimes against her; all of the agonies and traumas they had piled onto her would be remembered and catalogs and paid back a thousand times. The dreams she had had of all she would do to Margaery…

Her favorite was how she would lock Margaery in a black cell with only a single candle, deaf guardian assigned to force feed her meals so she would live. And in her cell would be placed her father, brother, and grandmother, their bodies slowly allowed to rot right in front of Margaery’s eyes. Oh, how the vile little cunt would scream so beautifully as she was forced to watch the flesh slowly melt off her family’s skulls. And once they were little more than skeletons Cersei would burn their putrid remains and mix the ashes with the stickiest of waxes, painting Margaery’s body so that her family’s remains would cling to her body forever.

Yes… that is what got Cersei through her days of embarrassment.

They turned a corner and headed down another hall, Margaery still clinging to her like a barnacle on a ship. “I must admit, I am impressed by your resolve… so very impressed. A weaker woman would have gone mad and allowed me to make them into my puppet. But you not only have kept your resolve you STILL fight my control.” She leaned in and whispered, “I am enjoying the challenge.”

“And I will enjoy-“

Cersei’s mouth snapped shut.

“Having breakfast with my grandmother? I am very happy… she will enjoy having a meal with you. It has been so long since she has had a chance to talk with you… before the wedding, I believe. The first one, that is.” Margaery smiled at that and suddenly something twisted in Cersei’s stomach.

‘Baelish would never have killed Joffrey in such an open manner…’ she thought to herself, thinking of the Maester of Coin who was currently still out there, plotting his revenge upon her for his death. ‘YOU!’ she mentally screamed, twisting out of Margaery’s grip, ignoring the pain in her hand as she did so. She tried to roar but her jaw remained clamped shut, preventing her from doing anything but glare at the whore before her with blazing eyes. ‘You killed my son!’

“Well well well,’ Margaery said allowed. “Something just occurred to you but I’m not quite sure what.” She flicked her hand and Cersei’s world exploded in pain, the cracking red energy now coursing up and down her body, making her limbs tremble and her knees give out. She collapsed on the ground, jaw nearly snapping as she fought to scream even as her mouth was forced to remain closed. For nearly a minute she writhed on the ground, trying to reach out and grasp onto Margaery’s ankle and drag her down to the ground so she could claw her eyes out. But she couldn’t… she was completely at her mercy and Cersei hated it!

Finally… finally… the pain stopped.

“What was it you wanted to say, hmmm?” Margaery asked, squatting down to look at Cersei. “I can’t read your mind, you know.”

Cersei merely glared at her. “A… proper lady… doesn’t bend down like that. It… it makes you… look like you are… relieving yourself.”

Margaery chuckled at that. “I suppose you are right… though what does it say about a queen who writhes on the ground like a brain addled piglet?” She reached over and tapped Cersei’s forehead. “What was it that angered you so?”

But Cersei kept her mouth shut. ‘She can’t read my thoughts… she can command me to say what she wishes and prevent me from saving other things… but she doesn’t know my thoughts.’ Finally the little bitch had made a mistake and given Cersei the first foothold in clawing her way out of the trap she’d found herself in. Margaery merely smiled tauntingly but Cersei kept her mouth shut and that caused the smile to drop.

“There are other ways…” She trailed off, holding up her hand which crackled with crimson energy and Cersei squeezed her eyes shut, giving one final mental command to NOT speak. She would not give the whore-

“Margaery.”

At once Cersei snapped her eyes opened and watched as the young girl rapidly rose to her feet, brushing off her dress and flashing a smile. But the new arrival didn’t give Cersei much hope for salvation for it was the bitch’s hated grandmother that had arrived.

“We were just coming to breakfast-“ Margaery began.

“Yes and were delayed, leaving me to wait all by myself. And what are you doing out here when you were asked to retrieve the Queen for me?” The Queen of Thorns looked at Cersei, her puckered up face twisting into a look of annoyance.

“She decided to talk back to me-“

“With your power?” Olenna snapped. “I think not. What really happened child? And don’t you dare think of lying to me.”

It was a startling thing that happened and if not for her pain Cersei would have cackled at how Margaery curled in on herself. No longer did she look like the brash and bold queen she tried desperately to portray herself as… but as a child found running about the halls when told they were supposed to be studying, embarrassed and ashamed.

“She… realized something. But she won’t tell me what it is.” Margaery pouted. “I can’t read her mind and-“

“Stupid, dim-witted girl!” Olenna shot at her, cutting off Margaery once more. The young woman reeled back as if she had been smacked in the face.

“Grandmother…” she said, startled.

“She didn’t know that and you offered up that information for free?” Margaery at once wilted further into herself. “It is bad enough you are indulging in this vulgar display. What if a guard had happened upon you?”

“I could have handled him easily enough.”

“Of course you could have,” the Queen of Thorns said with a rolling of her eyes. “But do we WANT you to be dealing with it?” Margaery tilted her head, clearly confused. “We are on the cusp of our final victory. Soon the Brotherhood will be on the move. Winter will allow us to easily complete the Grand Plan and you want to complicate matters with such a needless move? People talk, Margaery… they will notice a guard missing and we will need to explain it.”

“It is one guard,” Margaery argued.

“For now. But your stupidity will only cause the number to grow… you take far too much delight in torturing her. Are you the Mad King come again?”

At that Margaery narrowed her eyes. “Never,” she hissed.

“Then don’t act like him. I taught you better than that.” With that she pointed at Cersei. “Get her up and follow me. No, I will not go ahead, I will in fact follow you to ensure that you do not give into your impulses. And then you will leave us be.”

Margaery spoke even as she helped Cersei up, yanking her to her feet with no little amount of agitation. “I thought we were dining together.”

“That was before you proved yourself to be lacking the maturity I thought you had. It is my fault… with matters moving as they are I have been forced to speed along your education and you clearly aren’t finished. You will return to your room and spend the day writing out the failures of Jaehaerys the Wise when it came to his lost and loose daughter and how you would have handled her differently.”

“I was supposed to go with the others to observe the Open Court that Lord Jon is holding in the city-“

“You will lie and claim that you can not. If anyone presses you state that it is your bleeding; you are near enough for it and no one will think twice if you are heavier than normal. No man will dare complain for fear you will describe it to them. The only benefit of those little gifts.” Margaery ducked her head at that and led Cersei the rest of the way in silence; when they finally reached the small dining room Margaery bid goodbye to her grandmother but Olenna didn’t say a word in response, leaving the young woman to walk away rather remorsefully.

Cersei forced herself not to shudder as she took a seat at the table. Ever since the meal with Mace Tyrell she had come to hate breakfast, the meal forever tainted by the violations she had suffered at the hands of the Rose of Highgarden. The only nice thing about the entire spread, if one could use the word ‘nice’ in regards with her situation, was that Olenna had gone with far less meats than her son had, choosing to break her fast with fruits and breads rather than charred animal flesh.

As if sensing her thoughts Olenna stated, “When one gets to my age they must be careful with their diet. Being regular is important, which the fruit sees too, but meats can make the entire thing a messy affair and I’d rather not be known for dying squatting over a chamber pot that stunk worse than my corpse.” She smiled at that and began to select some food, Cersei refusing to do so. “Come now, no need to be stubborn. That stomach of yours must be empty at this point.” She tsked at Cersei, shaking her head. “You can hate a person utterly and completely and still eat with them. In fact I’ve found it the greatest revenge, to eat them out of house and home.” She chuckled at that, eyes twinkling in amusement. “And you hate me so very, very much, don’t you?” she asked.

Cersei narrowed her eyes.

“Oh, you can admit it. I had Margaery allow you to speak your mind for the length of this breakfast. I want-“

“GUAR-“ Cersei managed to get out before he voice was reduced to a dry whisper, the last of her bellow for the castle guard coming out as a weak wheezing sound.

“Fool!” Olenna snapped, her smile fading at once. “Did you truly believe us so stupid as to allow you to scream for help? I said you could SPEAK your mind, not scream it! We are not as moronic as you are!” She glared at Cersei who returned the thunderous gaze right back at her. “Sit down and talk with me. Put all notions of escape out of that clearly empty head of yours. It isn’t going to happen. Just like this meal take this opportunity to actually speak freely. You never know when it will come again.”

Cersei continued to stare at her but she found her glare lessening. That caused the old shriveled up woman before her to smile. ‘At the very least she has all her teeth,’ Cersei thought to herself.

“Come now… don’t you want to let me have it? Tell me all the reasons why you loathe and despise me? Why you hate me and wish me dead? I don’t just mean my family… I mean myself, personally.” Olenna leaned forward. “This is your chance to finally let that mask slip and tell me all the dark thoughts that have been bouncing through your head. A rare opportunity, one that doesn’t come along often. You have no need to worry that you will somehow make your situation worse… I dare say me killing you would be a kindness compared to what my granddaughter has done to you. What else could we possibly do to you?”

Cersei could think of a lot of things, honestly, and something must have passed over her face because Olenna sighed and shook her head.

“Yes, we could do much but it wouldn’t benefit us. We need you right now in this castle… we can’t get away with tossing you aside. Too much of the public remembers Robert’s reign as a good one- don’t give me that look.” Cersei forced herself to stop rolling her eyes. “Robert had one rebellion against him that was put down quick. But he still will be remembered by the smallfolk as a good king purely because he left them alone. He was a shit king to the rest of us but they remember him fondly and that will be what saves you, Cersei. So again, I ask you: what is stopping you from finally letting it all out?”

And much to her own surprise… Cersei began to speak.

“I hate you because you are my future,” she replied in a harsh whisper. “I look at you and know that all I do now to prevent what is coming… will come. I will not remain beautiful. I will not remain appealing. I will wither and wrinkle and be reduced to a hideous thing that is looked upon with pity. ‘Remember Cersei Lannister, the fairest maiden in all of Westeros? Look what has happened to her.’” She reached out and took a wine glass, filling it to near the top. She found that the more she spoke the easier the words dripped from her tongue… no, not dripped. The gushed out like a broken vase, spilling upon the table. “I look upon you and know that you are as I will become and it sickens me. I simply do not know how you allowed yourself to become the shriveled pathetic thing you are. The aching joints, the loose skin, the stringy hair… I do all I can in order to prevent myself from reaching that state and every day have to look at your weathered face and know that if I relax by even an inch you are what I have to look forward to in my mirror.

“I hate you because you aren’t royalty. Not truly. You are servants. For as much as I hate the Starks at least they can trace their line to kings. But you were servants who only got your station because of the foolish kindness of the Targaryens. You should be scrubbing my chamberpot, not sitting her dictating terms to me.

“I hate the very thought that your whore of a granddaughter, who opened her legs to Renly Baratheon of all people, might carry my grandchild in her festering womb. That we might be forever linked. What does your grandchild know of children? What does she know of the pains they bring you? She will raise stupid vain little boys and girls and the Seven Kingdoms will be made the worst for it.”

“Go on,” Olenna said, a little smile on her lips which only aggravated Cersei all the more.

“I hate that you turned down a chance to bed a Dragon. I LONGED for it and was denied… you were given the chance and tossed it aside for your oafish husband! They were above us… all knew it! The great dragon riders, born of a lineage beyond even the Lannisters. And you tossed it away! I had my Silver Prince robbed from me and you threw yours aside.

“I hate how no matter what I do people see my family as gold mongers who are never to be trusted while you and your kind are given respect because you make your wealth through tilling the fields. You are glorified field hands and now you sit there at the head of the table and mock me? I am the Queen! I am the Queen of the-“

Her voice gave out once more.

“I told you, don’t raise your voice,” Olenna said, shaking her head in disapproval. “And there… didn’t that feel good to finally say it? To no longer have to hide your true thoughts? I am willing to bet you thought many dark things about Robert and lied in bed as he snored away wishing you could shake him awake and let him know. Not the barbs you tossed at him… the true depths of your disgust and revulsion for him. Am I wrong?”

“…no,” Cersei managed to get out.

“So this… must have been freeing for you,” Olenna stated and Cersei HATED that the old bat was correct. It had been an utter relief to finally speak that hidden thoughts that she had kept buried deep within herself. No worrying what her father might say. No concerns about portraying herself as ‘a queen should’. Not wondering how she might keep an enemy close so she might use them properly. She hated Olenna Tyrell and let the old woman know it. It would have been far too dramatic to claim it was something that was, for example, better than sex… but it was still so freeing and delightful.

Naturally… the Queen of Thorns had to ruin it.

“Of course all you have said reveals far more about you than it does me,” Olenna stated. “I am not your future. Yes, you will get old but I can already tell that you will squander your old age just as you have your youth. I work even now to build up my family… not only have we, in barely three hundred years, become one of the most powerful families in Westeros in terms of wealth and influence but we have also become the master manipulators of nearly every major criminal act in the Seven Kingdoms. Oh, I’m not vain enough to claim that I nor Mace control the little pickpocketing and burglaries that happen in the far off villages that don’t even have remembered names… but I will tell you that any murder that goes unsolved is thanks to our hand. And-“ here the Queen of Thorns chuckled, “-some of the solved ones too, even if it is the wrong man sent to the headsman. But you, my dear? Your family, within 50 some odd years, has risen up from the muck your grandfather placed you in and become something grand… only to sink back low due to your laziness.

“You are the Queen… but you do nothing with it. Alysanne, even in her final years, held herself with great nobility and wielded great power. And so people ignored the wrinkles and saw instead the beauty that came with age. Like a fine wine. You could be the same but you will not work towards it… and thus you will age more like apple vinegar than apple wine, I would say. That is the failure of Tywin Lannister… he gave you far too much.”

“My father gave me too much?” Cersei asked, laughing at the thought. “Your mind has begun to go if you believe that to be true.”

“Believe and know,” Olenna stated. “He became the great man he did because he had to work to build himself up. And as such he understood that it was like to be low and thus respected the power he wielded. His folly was not instilling the same in you or your twin. Jaime Lannister being sent to squire for a well known Westerland’s knight… he should have sent him to Dorne or the North. Some place where his name meant nothing and he would have to truly prove himself. As for you… well, you have said it yourself: you were beautiful and thus never had to work for a single thing in all your life. You were handed it and that is why you are the vain and greedy little creature I find myself dining with. That, Cersei, is why I hate you.”

Cersei’s nose twitched, mouth pressed into a bitter line. The blasted woman didn’t understand… no one did. They believed because they were ‘lesser’ that all others in the world should be like them. They didn’t understand that there were people that were superior; that their intelligence or their beauty or their skills put them from birth one step ahead of all others. They couldn’t be blamed for that! It was like blaming a tree for blocking the sun!

“You mock us for not being royalty. Perhaps… that is a claim that has been thrown at the Tyrells for 300 years, after all. That they were nothing but stewards who were rewarded by the Dragons. But…” and at that Olenna smirked, “When compared to all but the Starks and the Martels I would say that we beat the likes of the Baratheons, Arryns, and Lannisters quite well. We did not bellow at a dragon queen when she made a royal offer and end up with our only daughter in chains. We didn’t give up our royal standing for a child’s flight. And we were not foolish enough to march with the Gardners onto a field of dry grass with three dragons waiting for us.”

She paused.

“Have you never wondered just WHO put that thought in King Gardner’s head? Who whispered in his ear that ‘Aegon will not use his dragons… he will want to bleed his army and that will be your chance’?” The Queen of Thorns smiled at that.

“You… you can’t be suggesting…” Cersei said before narrowing her eyes. “You aren’t. That is just another one of your lies.”

“Oh yes!” the Queen of Thorns said with a grin. “Or is it? Something for you to mull over… sometimes a question that you must answer for yourself, without any true way of ever knowing the truth, is the only way that you can develop your mind. I play such games with Margaery even now.” Olenna shook her head. “That girl. I have done as much as I could for her and for a time I believed I had molded her properly but ever since your boy killed Sansa Stark and started up his little war she has proven to be a disappointment.”

Cersei smiled at that. “Oh? The Rose of Highgarden hasn’t been so sweet to sniff as all claim?”

“Oh, she is sweet to sniff but her thorns have been the problem,” Olenna stated, not at all bothered by Cersei’s insults against her granddaughter. “I sometimes wonder if it is Alerie’s fault. While she did her duty, faking the pregnancy of Margaery and Loras, she never truly connected with them as the rest of us did. ‘They are babes,’ Mace informed her once. ‘What does it matter if they came from between your legs or not?’” Olenna let out a sigh. “He is a man, so he doesn’t understand the difficulty. We women-“ she gestured at Cersei and herself, “-we bring these babes into the world. They come literally attached to us and even as the cord is snipped we still feel a connection to them.”

“We do,” Cersei found herself saying.

“It didn’t matter that Margaery and Loras would be the next Queen and King of Westeros and that our family needed the connection with the Blackfyres… Alerie simply could not bring herself to connect with the children for their first few years of life. Oh, she grew to care for them, you can see that now, but… well, how you treat a child when they are at their most helpless is something they can’t help but forever remember. You know that. You coddled Joffrey and allowed every misstep to be treated as a glorious thing. And thus the kind of man and king we got: a vain and petty little monster who believed he shouldn’t merely be allowed to do as he wished but be praised for it.”

Cersei narrowed her eyes at that. “Joffrey-“

“Was a monster. Because of you,” Olenna stated.

“Joffrey was beautiful and charming-“

“And arrogant, stupid, and blundering. He would have been another Aegon the Unworthy. By his 30th name day he would have been grossly overweight… the boy was already putting back on fat and it wasn’t the cute baby fat that Tommen has which even now he is burning away. He was lazy and cared only for his whims. Aerys and Aegon, that’s what he would have been.”

“Jof-“ Cersei’s voice seized up, her body unable to shout out how he was her perfect child.

“You made that boy your sole focus and ruined your relationship with all three of your children,” Olenna informed her. “Joffrey came to view you not as the only person he could trust but as yet another person that would give him praise. And in fact because your scolding was so rare any attempts by you to do so were met with rage.” Olenna shook her head. “What was your hope, Cersei? You certainly didn’t support any bride for your ‘Perfect Prince’… did you plan to sleep with him too?” She started at that, eyes wide. “Oh… oh that was it, wasn’t it?” Olenna said and Cersei could feel her face heating up and blood rushed to her head. “You have a few years left… you wanted Joffrey to mount you and put a child in your belly. Perhaps you could produce a daughter with him and he would, in turn, get her heavy with child? Out Targaryen the Targaryens? Parent and Child forever producing a line of kings?” Olenna laughed at that. “My my my… I knew you were short sighted…”

Cersei couldn’t speak. She wasn’t sure what she would have screamed if she was able to but she couldn’t speak.

“Now…” Olenna said, “we come to your other children. Myrcella should have been something wonderful for you. A beautiful girl that you could truly bond with. Ah… but you only had eyes for Joffrey. And you fear your own gender most of all, don’t you? I’m not sure why…” Olenna leaned forward. “What was it that made you hate women so?”

The Queen now kept her mouth shut for a different reason. She would not whisper that most guarded secret. ‘Gold will be their crowns and gold with be their shrouds’ ‘Another queen… more beautiful…’

“Well, it doesn’t matter, I suppose,” Olenna said with a shrug. “Whatever it was you pushed your daughter away from you again and again, so that when she was offered up to the Dornish her tears were only because she was leaving the only home she knew… not because she misses you.” The Queen of Thorns reached over and selected an orange, wrinkled root-like fingers digging into its peel and tearing it away. “Tell me… has she even written to you?”

Cersei went still. ‘When… when is the last time I heard from Myrcella?’ They got reports on how she was doing, of course. The Martells were quick to let them know how happy she was and Varys’ spies said the same thing quite often. How Myrcella was flourishing in the desert, how she was embracing many aspects of the Dornish life. How her and her intended seemed utterly happy with each other.

But… Cersei had never received a private letter.

Not… one.

“I thought not,” Olenna stated. “You had no time for her and now she has no time for you. That is how the song goes, doesn’t it? The bards love to be cheeky and play that for dunderheaded lords who ignore their spares only to find the heir dead and the spare now unwilling to listen to a word their noble father has to say. ‘The cats in the cradle and the silver spoon. Little boy blue and the man in the moon’?

“Which brings us to King Tommen and here I must truly shake my head in wonder, Cersei. How is it that you bungled up your child so much they looked to Tywin Lannister for love and support?” She shook her head. “You have damaged him greatly and now you are nothing to him. Oh, he doesn’t realize it yet… he still cares for you because he’d been told he must but as he reaches adulthood such loyalty will disappear. He has Jon Stark, that Summer Islander Sam once he returns, and of course my granddaughter.

“Perhaps… perhaps you will be able to do better with the next generation. After all I stepped in to become a mother to Margaery when Alerie proved to be unable to do so. All know that she comes to me and not Mace’s foolish wife. And that’s probably for the best as I will guide her as best as I can, even if at the moment she is a touch drunk on her power. Case in point… the fact that she will have to be very careful when it comes to Tommen, if he reached manhood before Margaery’s father arrives.”

“He… arrives?” Cersei managed to get out.

“Oh yes, I would say that he will be coming very soon. He is currently meeting with Daenerys Targaryen right now, to work out a deal that will prevent her from causing problems. It all depends on the rumors concerning her womb. If she is barren then he will simply need to neutralize her. Claim her dragons or kill them and leave her chained in Essos. But if the whispers are false then I suppose there is a chance she could be of use. Loras and Margaery’s son marrying Danaery’s daughter? Perhaps give her over to Willas. That could work rather well for all of us. Tie the entire bloodline back together quite firmly. But if he lingers we will need to decide how we will handle Tommen. A man has needs… and I must admit the idea of a dragon-lion has its merits in terms of the next Lord of the Rock… but there is the risk that such a child will have delusions of the throne. Always dangerous, you know. Always dangerous.

“But that is none of your concern. We will be handling such things since you have shown no interest in them. No… I think you will finally be given exactly what you’ve wanted, Cersei: a chance to be queen. You will move about the Red Keep. You will smile and nod to those that bow. And you will do literally nothing else. Won’t that be delightful?”

Olenna paused.

“Won’t it?”

Chapter Text

TW: An insulting term for certain people with mental disorders.

Jon

“Why are we doing this again?” Pycelle grumbled as the wagon continued on, rocking him back and forth and nearly causing him to spill out onto the wooden floor.

The wagon they were all sitting in… well, Jon knew that if he called it a ‘wagon’ he would get a lot of dismissive looks and sneers, even if he was Regent and Hand of the King. It was a grand thing, so large that even along the wide streets of King’s Landing no other wagon or horse could pass and thus they were forced to send out riders ahead of them to clear the street. It was 6 feet off the ground due to having multiple wheels to prevent the axle from shattering and was so tall that Jon could have placed Jiffsun on his shoulders and the man wouldn’t have been able to touch the very top of it. The benches were padded and there was a table in the center that, when the wagon was still, would allow them all to dine if they so wished. The windows could quickly be closed with colored glass if they so desired but at the moment were left open, allowing them all the ability to stare out at King’s Landing.

There was another bump and Grand Maester Pycelle was nearly thrown from his seat again but Ser Kevan managed to grab his arm in time though, keeping the old man from utterly embarrassing himself. Still, it was a near thing and had the Grand Maester shaking his head.

Jon wanted to shake his head too but for an entirely different reason. ‘Is it worth pretending that you are so feeble when you have to make such a mockery of yourself?’ He liked to think that he would have been able to spot that the old man was a fraud without Natasha informing him of that bit of information. He noticed how Pycelle made sure to throw himself about only when he thought people were watching. That he was careful to move his arms and legs in a way so that he wouldn’t actually be hurt by what he was doing but it would just look that way. How if he were startled he suddenly called upon wells of strength that shouldn’t have been there. But he could never be fully sure if he was noticing things just because Natasha had made him begin to look for them or if they were things that he would have noticed right away.

King’s Landing and its games… they hurt his head so much.

“It is a lovely day,” Varys said as he fanned himself with a Yi Ti paper fan that was printed to depict a large lizard fighting a furry creature holding an axe. “And for once the wind is shifting the right way to make the normal… well, the normal King’s Landing… airs far more tolerable.”

‘Varys pretends to be a giggling girl who gets vague whispers about what is going on, that he has a disturbing interesting in children, and that he fears fighting and finds it a horrid thing. But I’ve seen him and Nat fight.’ That had been an eye opener. Even in his robes (for Varys had said that by this point he was far more used to fighting in them than he was without) he had been able to match her blow for blow, dodging and ducking and weaving in ways that felt wrong for someone his size. ‘The worst he’s done to children is kill their abusive parents and gotten them out of King’s Landing. And that man has killed more men than I have and not just with his words.’

Mace Tyrell looked about, as if it were the first time he’d ever seen King’s Landing. “Such an interesting city… this is the Street of Silk, yes?”

“No,” Ser Kevan stated. “This is the Street of Steel.”

“Of course, of course.”

‘The Fat Flower. The Retarded Wretch of the Reach. A fool who has bumbled his way through life, laughing at a joke even though he doesn’t realize that it is at his expense.’ Jon forced himself not to narrow his eyes and glare at Mace. ‘At least that’s what the Court thinks of him. According to what Nat has found Mace Tyrell isn’t a fool in the slightest. People thought that Adrian of the Tombs was being paranoid when he claimed that Mace and the Tyrells were working against him, plotting every failure and misery he suffered. He might have been selling Mace short.’

According to Natasha there were certain things that made her rather… concerned… with Mace Tyrell’s power within Westeros. Men he had hired and taken into his confidence. They themselves weren’t a danger but they were friendly with others who were friendly with others… ‘plausible deniability’ is what she had called it, a fancy term for ‘if someone gets caught it will never be traced directly back to the lord’. She and Varys had looked into the wealth of the Reach and the amount of coin the Tyrells controlled didn’t match up with what was being brought in through the fruits, vegetables, and grains that they sold. Connections to Essos that would seem rather innocent at first until one truly began to look at them, searching for things and discovering that the ties were a bit… off.

‘That man is no fool. He just plays the role so well we can’t believe he is anything but.’ Even knowing all he did he had times where he wanted to roll his eyes at the man’s comments. And then he’d realize that was what Mace WANTED.

“Believe me, if we were on the Street of Silk with the wind blowing in this direction we’d be able to smell much fish,” Oberyn stated.

“That shows how little you know of King’s Landing,” Mace said smugly. “We are no where near the sea nor the Street of Flies.”

Oberyn had merely smirked at that and Jon saw several of the Small Council wince as they realized just what he had been getting at.

‘Everyone thinks that Oberyn is a hot headed fool who thinks only with his cock. He’s done much to make them believe that. The man studied at the Citadel and from what Nat says there are many there who mourn his leaving as they feel he had one of the most cunning minds of their time. They think he is full of rage and he is but the fact he hasn’t killed any of them… in fact he hasn’t done more than be disrespectful… should have made them see that Oberyn had far greater control over his emotions than anyone gives him credit for. Yes, he likes to sleep with anything that moves but considering some of the vices people have there is worse than visiting the whores. And none have ever spoken a bad word of him.’

Jon knew… he had checked, just in case, during Oberyn’s visit to Iron Pointe. All the whores,who had tried to get him to… ‘sample their wares’, had only spoken of the kindness of the man.

On and on and on it went. Everyone hiding themselves. Everyone creating fake personas. Again and again and again. Lies fell from their lips like the rains fell from the skies. Ser Kevan, Lord Otto, Jiffsun. He wondered what other lies they were telling. False versions of themselves that they were presenting to the world.

‘Like you aren’t?’ a voice that sounded like Tony taunted him but Jon brushed that off. He was lying to 1) keep himself from being brutally murdered by the Lannisters for several reasons and 2) keep the people from sticking him on the Iron Throne and forcing him to rule Westeros. But the rest of the Small Council? They lied about everything. And they enjoyed lying. And they seemed to find new reasons to lie every day. Spinning more and more lies. Treating their lies like a mummur putting on a new performance. Donning a new outfit and going onto the stage to pretend to be this person or that. The giggling eunuch. The bent back old man with memory problems. The passionate sex addict with anger issues. The Bumbling lord. The lied and they lied and thought that was all that mattered.

Thinking that their lies mattered because that was what was most important.

And THAT was why he was making them do this.

“What does the Small Council do?” Jon asked them, glancing at them from his seat, staring out the window rather than turning his head in their direction.

“Lord Jon?” Jiffsun said, confused.

“What does the Small Council do?” he repeated. “If you can’t answer that then my reason for asking is proven.”

Ser Kevan considered him for a long moment before responding, “We see to the rule of the Realm. Ensure that peace and stability is maintained.”

“Peace and Stability. For the people.”

“Well… yes.”

Jon nodded. “Tell me then, Ser Kevan… has peace ever filled a man’s belly? Has stability ever protected a woman from a rapist?”

“Such things come because of peace and stability,” Pycelle said, speaking slowly like Jon was a small child.

“You’re right, of course,” Jon said. “You know that. I know that… despite what you might think. Peace and Stability are important.” The Small Council continued to stare at him; Varys the most curious and Oberyn the most bored… or at least looking the most bored. Jon didn’t doubt the man was actually clinging to his every word. “But do THEY know that?”

Slowly all the members of the Small Council looked out the window.

“We like to think that the people of the Seven Kingdoms raise their glasses to toast their lords and their King. That they thank them for the lives they are able to live. That they understand that the laws are there to protect them and that the lords make sure that the complexities of the world are smoothed over. That they don’t need to…” he waved at Mace, “negotiate with the cities of Essos to sell their grains and goods. Or arrange for Maesters to be available for those that can see them for their healing.

“But the people don’t think about such things. They pray for fair weather and healthy children. They don’t know what we do and honestly they don’t care. They see this grand carriage-“ That was the name they preferred over wagon; carriage. It was fancy and royal and made them feel powerful. “-and they don’t look at it with merely awe. They instead feel rage that we have what they don’t and they desire nothing more than to rip us from these benches and take our seats. Same with the guards that march alongside and the man in charge of the horses. Oh, we pay them so we have earned a touch more respect… but they still see us as worthless.”

“I don’t know about that…” Mace said with a frown. “The people know how hard we all work for them.”

“They see our soft hands that have never held a shovel or a rake and our pale skin that has never been burnt by the sun during a hard day’s work and wonder why we have some much when they have so little.”

That made Lord Otto click his tongue. “You paint a rather dark picture, don’t you Lord Jon?”

“If I offered the smallfolk a choice… if I told them “Slit these men’s throat, no threat of punishment, and I will give you each a single gold dragon” do you think any of us would live more than 10 minutes?” Jon shook his head. “You overestimate how much we matter to them. If we all dropped dead tomorrow there would be a brief amount of terror in King’s Landing but the rest of Westeros would continue on as if nothing had happened.” He held out his arms. “That is our legacy, good sers.”

He could see they wanted to argue with him. Tell him how he was wrong and didn’t understand that they were so very important. That they mattered and the people respected them or loved them or feared them. But Jon didn’t let them spout those lies off as they had every other lie they had ever told.

“Do you why certain kings are loved and certain ones are hated? It isn’t because they did some grand deeds that are remembered for the ages. Plenty of kings have fought in wars that brought victory or created new laws or signed new treaties. What makes a king loved is that the people see them as a person rather than a far off object. Because when a man is just some distant thing, foreign to his people like the wild beasts of the Shadowlands, it is easy to turn him rather quickly into the source of all your pain and misery. Grand Maester, I am sure you can tell us of members of previous Small Councils that were hated despite being skilled in their roles purely because they were seen as ‘the other’.”

The Grand Maester murmured at that before finally bobbing his head. “Well… yes. Yes there have been plenty-“

Jon cut him off. “The great kings understand that they must be among their subjects, be seen as someone that is worthy of being defended and honored, if they wish to be honored. Aegon dined with the common soldiers. His heirs made their great tours. Alysanne earned the eternal love of the Night’s Watch not merely through selling her jewels but for staying within their walls, dining in their halls, and drinking their black beer and declaring it sweet. Even Robert understood that and good sers we all can say now that Robert wasn’t a good king-“ He heard someone gasp, ready to protest, but he pushed on, “-but he was loved.”

The argument never came.

“Tommen is too young to travel and meet with the people,” Jon said firmly. “But if we wish to give him a proper kingdom to rule he must be set up so there is no chance of failure. And that will only happen if we get the people to love those that represent him.” He glanced at Varys. “Yes, people do not loves Spiders. Nor vipers. Or octopuses. But we-“

“Octopi.”

Jon blinked at that interruption.

“What?”

Lord Otto smiled. “It isn’t Octopuses.” He worked his mouth, as if he had bitten into something sour and rotten. “It is Octopi.”

He stared at the men for a long moment before nodding. “We must show that we understand the people and are worthy of the power they have given us.”

The carriage came to a stop and Jon rose, moving to the door at the back and opening it. Steps were just being settled down but he leapt down without using them, bending his knees so he ended up in a crouch before he rose up, looking about and smiling at what he saw.

“We are ready.”

He heard the Small Council murmur to themselves as they looked about the large square. It was one that was normally used for mummur performances, festivals, and summertime feasts. Roughly three times the size of the throne room of the Red Keep, the square was unique in the fact that there was nearly nothing within it most days. King’s Landing was a cramped place that seemed to forever be pressing in on itself, trying to jam more things together. Alleyways felt like they were shrinking on a daily basis and houses seemed to grow upon each other. And what places had been forced to be kept open still ended up being filled with other bits and pieces of things. Fountains. Raised stone planters full of shady trees. Statues. So many statues. Jon had seen more statues of Aegon the Conqueror than he’d ever thought possible; apparently Robert had thought of having them all destroyed but had been talked out of it because of… well, he wasn’t for sure why. Varys probably knew.

But the square that they were in had been left empty for the many different events that were held in King’s Landing that were deemed not important enough for the Red Keep (and even then it felt like at times as if the castle were suffering the same problem as the rest of the city). A large open space to set up whatever one wanted.

And Jon had set up plenty.

“Did you order my men behind my back to come here?” Jiffsun demanded, sounding rather annoyed.

Jon hid his wince. “Only because I knew you’d say no.” Natasha had been rather angry with his plan, saying that it was far too risky for him to be out and about in the same place for too long. That was why he knew she was currently stalking about the rooftops, making sure no one with a crossbow was waiting to shoot him through the throat. “Hate me, not them.”

“I have plenty of hate for all of you,” Jiffsun replied.

“So, what exactly is this?” Otto asked as he adjusted his glasses; Jon winced, realizing that the light was probably not doing well for him. He was thankful he had at least thought to have covers put over all the tables to provide some shade. He’d need to make sure Otto’s wasn’t ever in the direction of the sun.

“Once the Targaryens held open air courts where all could come and speak with them. Alysanne had her Women’s Courts but there were also Open Courts where all could approach the king.”

“We have that at the Red Keep,” Pycelle informed him with a sniff.

“We have a grand castle that takes the smallfolk half a day to reach and then they must stand in line to find out if they will be heard. All of this is determined by servants who believe it is their right, and their right alone, to determine if their problems deserve to be heard. I was selected by Tommen to rule in his name… and all of you were selected to help me. Masters of our own domains. But can a lord, a Small Council member, or a king truly say they rule if they are coddled like children?”

“I don’t think people coddle me,” Mace said and Oberyn snickered at that, though he quickly hid his smile behind his hand… but also doing it in a way that made clear to all he WAS smiling because he wanted someone to comment on that.

Ser Kevan though frowned. “I do not like the idea that things are being hidden from us.”

“Nor do I like the idea that people can not easily speak with us,” Jiffsun said with a frown. “I’ve worked hard to try and make people more comfortable with the Gold Cloaks after what happened with Slynt…”

Jon didn’t miss how EVERYONE, even those that hadn’t actually met the man, glowered at the mention of his name.

“That is why I have set up this Open Court. We will each have a stall, with guards set up for our protection. But it will allow us to talk to the smallfolk, to hear their problems and determine just what we can do to help them. To understand what their real problems are. And in turn let them see that we are people they can trust with their problems.”

Pycelle began to sputter at that. “You… you can not be serious, Lord Jon. It is not our place-“

“Our place isn’t to serve the people of the realm?” Jon countered. “I would have thought you, of all people here, would have embraced this. Are you, or are you not, a Knight of the Mind, who wears his chains to show that he has bound himself with knowledge FOR THE GOOD OF WESTEROS.” He took a step forward, eyes narrowed, mouth twitching into a dark smile. “Westeros is its people. Without them we’d all die within a week. Do you know how to harvest grain? Bake bread? Obtain clean water? It is the servants and the smallfolk who allow us to live and we will do what we must to help them now.”

“I… that is…” Pycelle took a moment and puffed himself up. “This is below us. A good lord has others that do these tasks for them. You show your commoner roots, Lord Jon.”

“My brother Tywin used to enjoy catching his own fish.”

Jon glanced over at Ser Kevan, interested in why the man had finally spoken up.

“He liked skinning his own deer and boars when he took them. Found simple pleasure in preparing his own meals. Said it reminded him of what truly mattered.” Ser Kevan looked to Jon. “I do not think this is something my brother would have done… and perhaps that is a good thing. Too many saw him only as some creature from a story rather than a man and while that is helpful with one’s enemies it does not do well with one’s subjects.”

Jon nodded. “Joffrey’s mistake was that he was far too sheltered from the world. Aegon the Conqueror met often with the Smallfolk. Jaehaerys. Baelor the Blessed. Aegon the Unlikely. And if they could not directly then they sent family or trusted advisers to do so.”

Now it was Oberyn’s turn to speak up. “You say that we should delegate this to others? And what happens when they delegate it to others because they feel it below them? And those delegate themselves. On and on until it takes 20 minute to learn a simple message. But I suppose this can be forgiven… certain men clearly lack conviction to get their hands dirty… or the balls.” He purposely looked down. “If they take your cock at the Citadel then I truly am glad I left when I did.”

“You… they did not-“

“It is not a matter of missing such things that give him pause,” Varys said with a titter. “For I think this is a wonderful idea and look forward to it.”

Mace had been… very quiet… during the entire conversation and Jon had almost missed it. The man normally loved to thrust himself into any conversation but now Jon noticed how he had stepped back, remaining silent and allowing the others to talk. ‘Trying to see which way the winds will blow?’ he thought as Varys, Oberyn, and even Jiffsun began to comment about how they liked the idea. ‘With Ser Kevan on my side I now have the numbers. Lord Otto is too new to the Small Council to risk standing against them. And you won’t side with Pycelle because he offers too little. As such…’

“A fine idea, Lord Jon!” Mace said cheerfully. “Perhaps I should send a raven to my boy Willis, to suggest that he do this as well. After all, the Reach is vast and filled with many people and the trips to Highgarden are hard for farmers to make. I can see it now… a grand open air court in the middle of fields filled with ripen fruit. A throne room made of cornstalks with one of my strong and capable sons listening to our people…”

‘If I give him another hour he’ll claim this was his idea and he ‘inspired’ me to do it,’ Jon thought to himself with a slight smile. “You’ll be happy to know that the Kingsguard will have some representation here… Ser Loras of course will be at your side…”

But Mace shook his head at that. “Oh no… please no, Lord Jon.” He chuckled. “I would just embarrass him. A boy needs to be away from his father at some point, in order for him to grow. You understand that, of course. Please, honor him by having him protect you.”

Jon silently accepted and Mace moved to one of the covered tables, the other members of the Small Council moving to their own. Pycelle was one of the last to do so, muttering under his breath the entire time. That left him with just Lord Otto, who looked about with a slight smile.

“A good decision, Lord Jon,” he said.

“Just Jon, if you would.”

“Only if you call me Otto,” he replied back. “And it remains… this is a good idea. I’d rather enjoy not ending up like Jaehaerys the Wise’s most famous Master of Coin.”

“I hope that not be your fare as well,” Jon commented.

Otto though didn’t move.

“…you’ve made an enemy of Pycelle,” Otto stated. “He will not forget this insult.”

“Otto… everyone on the Small Council is my enemy.”

That made the bulky man smirk, patting him on the shoulder with a heavy hand that nearly brought Jon to his knees. Otto might talk in a cultured voice and look like a knight gone to seed… but he had power within his body.

“You might just survive us all yet,” he said before he moved to his booth, his servant that was forever a shadow following after him.

Jon shook his head, glancing up wondering if he could spot Nat and knowing that was crazy because his wife would never be spotted-

-and then he saw her, a flirty little smile on her lips as she stepped into view… just before she lifted up her shirt and flashed him.

“Gods damn it, Natasha,” he muttered to himself as the damn minx disappeared back into her little hideaway.

What followed was both better and worse than Jon could have hoped for. Better in that while people were at first nervous approaching them all, thinking this might be some sort of trap (he heard one mutter that it felt like an excuse to find people to imprison and he had to admit Joffrey and Aerys would have considered such a scheme… if not for the fact that it would mean that they would have to actually leave their gilded rooms and spend time with their ‘lessers’) eventually a steady stream of people began to move into the courtyard. It was also far more peaceful than he’d expected, having been prepared for pushing, shoving, and perhaps cowpies being thrown their way. He had heard about the riots of King’s Landing when Joffrey had foolishly gone for a walk after seeing his sister off and attracted the rage of the city. He had been ready to show that the new reign was not like the little bastard’s. But the people seemed more concerned about getting a chance to plead their case than hurling insults at him.

That said… the issues brought up weren’t pleasant.

Jon had gotten a scribe for each table, to take notes, and as the man at his own, Travor, rubbed his aching wrist Jon made a mental note to give him a bit more compensation for the trouble he was going through.

‘Its endless,’ he thought to himself bitterly as yet another citizen of the city spoke of the troubles they endured. ‘A million problems that need to be fixed.’ He remembered Maester Luwin talking about how King’s Landing had never been truly planned, allowed to just grow into the city it had become, and as such it had far more problems than most other cities had to deal with. Merchants, who had left their apprentices in charge of their shops when they’d learned of the Open Court, spoke of being unable to expand because the streets were too cramped and there was laws about how tall one could build a shop. Women spoke of the threats they faced, be they from neighbors, strangers, or their own families. Children left disappointed because somehow a rumor had spread that he was going to adopt one of them to become his heir and take them to a keep filled with treats and run by dwarves who were forever singing.

On and on and on.

‘I can fly,’ Jon thought to himself. ‘I have the ability to soar through the air. The blast out energy beams that can shatter stone. I am the Hand of the King and acting Regent of the Seven Kingdoms, with power and wealth grasped in my fingers.’ He listened on as an old man spoke of his grandson, too sick to get out of bed, and how the maesters that were supposed to travel and help the sick of King’s Landing never seemed to come to Flea Bottom. ‘And I can’t help them all.’

“The poor souls,” Ser Loras said as the old man shuffled away after Jon had assured him that he would look into why the Maesters weren’t doing as they were supposed to. Jon could see that despite his words the man didn’t believe a word he had said. A servant mentioned that Jon would be given a moment to rest and drink and he accepted a goblet of watered down wine, taking a sip from it. “They are told in their little villages that King’s Landing is a place where anything can happen and the smallest man can rise up to be wealthy and powerful. They arrive here full of hopes and dreams and end up ground up by the miller’s stone that is this place.” He glanced at Jon. “Something has to change, doesn’t it?”

“It does.” He could see near the back of the square some cunning merchants were setting up hastily made stands so they might sell food and drink to those waiting. Others would have grown angry at that, seeing them as taking advantage of the people that had come to the Open Court but Jon merely saw it as practical. If someone needed a drink or a bite to eat wasn’t it better that it was right there? If it cost too much they could either leave the line to find cheaper foodstuffs or wait til they were done. “Make sure that there is no price gouging,” Jon said to one of the Goldcloaks who passed by.

“My lord?”

“You must know how much a bit of bread stuffed with meat costs,” Jon said. “Or a wine skin. You patrol these streets and known what is a fair price. If anyone is trying to charge an unreasonable amount I want them brought to me. I am fine with men making a bit of coin but I will not allow them to rob these people blind.” He frowned when he spotted one woman reclining on a crate, purposely spreading her legs to reveal her lack of undergarments. “Remove any whore. Gently… but I will not have children scarred by their actions.”

“I will spread the word,” the Goldcloak whispered.

Jon glanced at Ser Loras who nodded in approval. “Fair, Lord Jon.” He was silent for a long moment. “…I wonder how much of this-“ he gestured at the hundreds that still waited to be heard, “-is because of old men that have not seen that their time is over and they must step aside. That is the problem with the old… they believe that because they have lived long lives that means they are wise and the rest of us are stupid. I have found, more often than not, that it means they are completely out of touch with the world and how it works.”

Jon merely nodded at that, knowing that Ser Loras was fishing for something.

“My father… he is a good man and has many dreams for our house… but I can’t help but wonder if it isn’t time for him to accept that while he might have such dreams… that doesn’t mean they are for him.” Ser Loras smiled at that, just as sharp as Natasha’s own smile just before she suggested murder wasn’t merely the easily solution but the best one. “That is the problem with dreamers, Jon… they don’t realize that sometimes the dreams they wish to be reality aren’t for them. They are the builders of the dreams… but not the ones that will benefit.”

Jon forced himself not to frown at that. ‘Does Loras truly feel that way about Mace? Or is he trying to get something from me? It could easily be the former… he and Margaery have been doing much to integrate themselves amongst me and Natasha.’ It had been happening more and more in the last few weeks, as people realized that not only did Tommen truly care for Jon but that Jon was, well, a damn good Hand. It wasn’t arrogance; Ser Kevan had flat out told him that Jon reminded him of a mix of Tywin and Jon Arryn and for that man that was high praise. Jon hoped it meant that he had Tywin’s steel resolve to control the purse strings and keep the Small Council in line while also having Jon Arryn’s ability to care for the people around him.

Not the other way around.

‘But its becoming clear that I am going to be stuck in this role for a very long time,’ Jon thought. There was little hope of his father and the rest of Winterfell rescuing him; Winter wasn’t merely coming it was at their doorstep and that would stop everything. There would be almost no travel when the snows began to pile upon them.

Things could change with Tommen as he grew older but Jon had his doubts. The boy had never truly had a father or a brother and Jon was finding himself fulfilling both roles.

‘Tommen will ask me to remain his hand even when he reaches maturity… and if I do step down it would only be if I agreed to remain in King’s Landing. Ser Loras sees that… sees that when Tommen reaches maturity and takes the crown he will be seeking young men to help him rule. So could all this be Loras actually preparing to move his father out of power?’ The Kingsguard wasn’t supposed to care about such things… but Ser Criston Cole certainly hadn’t minded using his influence to seat the wrong heir upon the throne. It had cost him his life, and his death hadn’t been grand but a miserable, pathetic thing. Even when he was alive he had been seen as betraying his vows and caring more for his petty revenge than he had the good of the realm (Jon, though he had been careful NEVER to let anyone know, had gotten a hold of ‘The Testimony of Mushroom’ and held that to be the closest to the truth). ‘Have himself be named new Lord Commander?’

In fact the more he looked at the Small Council in that moment the more he realized that it would be radically different by the time Tommen reached his 20th nameday.

‘Pycelle is old. He will cling to his position but in the end he will be forced out or death will take him. Oberyn doesn’t have the patience to remain. Ser Otto perhaps… but Ser Kevan WILL need to return to the Westerlands to oversee its rule during the winter. Jiffsun may wish to step aside as he grows older or at the very least begin training his replacement. And if Loras is being truthful the Tyrells may have a civil war to remove Mace from power…’ Jon mentally scowled. ‘Or all of this is just more games that are played!’

“Lord Jon!” a boisterous voice shouted and Jon broke from his thoughts only to mentally groan as he saw who was pushing their way to the front of the line. He held up his hand as the guards moved to intercept the Lord; while he would have preferred to just have the guard throw the man into a cell for disrupting things he also was smart enough to realize that such actions were EXACTLY what the man desired. “Lord Jon! I have a question concerning the Small Council and their continued failure to stop the Spiders!”

“Lord Jonah,” Jon said, keeping his calm. “There is a line,” he gestured at the smallfolk that Lord Jonah Jameson had forced his way through to get to him. “I would be more than willing to answer your question-“

“Then explain why nothing is being done-“

“-when it is your turn.”

“-about these web weaving menaces!” He paused. “no… no, that doesn’t work. Web Weaving Wastrels? Wantons? Give me a moment here, I’ll figure it out. Needs to roll of the tongue and instantly be memorable, you know? That’s how it sticks in people’s heads.”

“My lord,” Loras said, stepping forward. “The Hand of the King asked you to get back in line.” His hand dropped to the pommel of his sword.

“And I asked him what he is going to do about those web weaving warlords!” Jonah declared. He screwed up his face, bobbing his head back and forth, before shaking his head. “No, still doesn’t work.”

“Lord Jonah, many people have been waiting for their chance to speak with me,” Jon said, keeping his voice level and calm. “I ask you to respect them and return to the end of the line. I assure you that you will be allowed to ask your question then. I will promise nothing will be done to prevent you from asking then.” Jon had given orders that 2 hours before the end of the Open Court for the guards to stop the line-up; he didn’t want to cause any anger by having people wait in line only for him to declare they were done. After the first time that had happened at the Red Keep he had instituted the practice for regular court and he was doing the same thing now since it had worked so well there.

“And the people want to know what you are going to do about these web-“ Jon narrowed his eyes at that and Lord Joanh paused. “The Spiders,” he finally said, clearly not pleased he couldn’t come up with a catchy little name for them.

Jon though merely looked to the next person in line and nodded, the goldcloaks moving to firmly but gently shift Lord Jonah away.

“Well, you see Lord Jon,” the woman he had nodded to said nervously, “I’ve heard Winter is coming and I’m worried about the food.”

“I understand… I think of it often myself,” Jon said with a soft smile. “I am of the North originally and for all they have done against the crown-“ and he hated having to side against his family but he couldn’t keep his head if he did anything but, “-they understand Winter. And thus I understand it. I am working with the Queen’s family to ensure that proper food staples will be already in King’s Landing when the first snows hit. While we can count on the fish from the Blackwater-“

“I’ll pay you a gold dragon to ask him instead about the Spiders!” Lord Jonah called out.

“Never mind, I retract my question,” the woman said quickly, all her nerves gone as she suddenly straightened and stared Jon dead in the eye. “What are you doing about the web weaving warriors?” She paused before looking at Jonah. “You’re right, it is hard.”

“Oh, it so is!”

“Hey!” a man missing his left hand declared, jabbing his stump at the woman. “You already asked your question! You can’t claim that gold dragon!” he turned to Lord Jonah. “I’ll ask it for a gold dragon!”

“I’ll ask it for a silver stag!” someone else offered.

“It seems you have an auction,” Loras muttered as Jon let out a groan, watching as the people in his line began to bicker about who could ask the question. “ENOUGH!” Loras bellowed, startling Jon by the sheer power of his voice. The Goldcloaks moved in while Jon saw other lines still. “We will have order or we will have hands and tongues! Your choice!”

Jon grimaced. ‘Not how I wanted this to go.’ But it did get everyone to settle down at the very least, even if Jon hated the fact that it was fear that was cowing them into silence.

“This is not how we should be handling things,” a new voice called out and Jon raised an eyebrow when the High Septon, or the High Sparrow as many in court (never Jon) called him, stepped into view. He was dressed much as he had been when Jon had met with him in the Red Keep: a simple set of enclosed robes spun from the most basic of fabrics, his feet utterly bare and no other adornments upon his person. He did have a large sack that was hanging off his shoulder and he paused to reach inside and take out a simple apple, handing it to someone seemingly at random. “The Hand has saw fit the come down amongst us all, to listen to our pleas. He has only taken drink, and no food, and had only a simple chair to sit in. This is what we have all wanted and you now wish to ruin it for a simple gold dragon?”

“A silver stag now,” Lord Jonah said, not cowed by the High Septon’s comments. “Anyone want to go a bit lower? Some Stars?” He looked about and Jon could see that it was turning in the man’s mind that he could hopefully get the price to drop.

“So consumed with wealth,” the High Septon said, shaking his head.

Lord Jonah shrugged. “Some people like to stick their heads in the sand and pretend that the world isn’t the way it is. The rest of us understand EXACTLY how the world works and find ways to operate in it. And do some good.”

“Oh, you believe that you do good?” the High Septon asked. “We know of you quite well in the Sept of Baelor, Lord Jonah Jameson. You are a rumor monger who spreads stories that see people ruined.”

Lord Jonah merely smiled at that. “And I am sure the Sept has never declared, based purely on rumor, that a woman is a harlot or a man is a sinner.”

“We only preach what is known. You trust in anything you here, no matter the source.”

“I believe in the truth,” Lord Jonah declared. “What reality is. Unlike you.”

“Oh?” the High Septon asked, a bemused little smile on his face. “And what is the truth that I don’t believe in?”

“That the gods aren’t interested in your Sept or your faith. The Warrior landed on Dragonstone and allied himself with Stannis Baratheon.”

That caused the High Septon to merely chuckle. “Rumors, as I said.”

“You don’t get to call everything that doesn’t go with what you believe ‘rumors’.”

“But you do spread them. You are like a foolish young man who does not understand the glories of marriage and instead spreads his seed all about the whore houses, filling the bellies of unfortunate women with your bastards.”

“Have a problem with bastards?” Lord Jonah asked. “Considering no one knows who YOU are, High Septon, even your name, I wonder if that hit a bit too close to home.”

‘Odd that people are discussing bastards and my name isn’t getting thrown about,’ Jon thought to himself. ‘Somewhere Lady Stark is feeling very annoyed, I bet.’

“Perhaps,” Loras said, looking at how the crowd had shifted from wanting to talk to him to watching as Lord Jonah and the High Septon traded barbs, “we should begin wrapping things up. They may be here for quite a while.”

“I think you’re right.” Jon looked over only to spot one booth empty. “Where is Lord Otto?” Both him and his servant had disappeared.

“I… do not know…” Loras admitted.

“You’re probably working with those criminals, the Spiders!” Lord Jonah declared. “Helping them hide their misdeeds! They slip you some coins and you shield them? Let them make their webs in the Sept of Baelor?”

The High Septon shook his head. “It is a pity that you waste so much of the little air you have left on such fruitless claims-“

Whatever else the High Septon was about to say was drowned out by the screams of the crowd. Jon looked up, hands going to Shadowfang, as he watched first one, then another, then two more large tentacles appear at the top of one of the tall buildings to his left… before a hooded figure suddenly appeared, the tentacles merging into his back.

Chapter Text

Gwen

“Ayy, didn't know they doubted us. Makes it that more marvelous. Sign 'em up, 'cause ominous vibes and I get synonymous.”

Gwen glanced at Miles as he rocked back forth, his quiet voice somehow managing to pierce through the cluttered noise of King’s Landing and become the only thing she heard. He was sitting on the ledge, showing no signs of fear over the long fall that would await him if he happened to plunge fully over. Of course, considering how many jumps they did on a daily basis such a drop was nothing at all for him.

“What's up, danger? Ayy, don't be a stranger. 'Cause I like high chances that I might lose . I like it all on the edge just like you, ayy. I like tall buildings so I can leap off of 'em. I go hard wit' it no matter how dark it is.”

“What is that?” Gwen asked, confused. Unlike Miles she was further in the belltower, having been watching the Open Court with a myrish spyglass that Petyr had made… which had led to a small debate if they could even call it a ‘myrish’ spyglass if Petyr had made it. He’d argued that the design was still myrish so it was a myrish spyglass but Miles had said that Petyr had made enough changes that it no longer countered and it was Parker Spyglass. Gwen had just wanted them to shut up.“I’ve never heard that song before.”

“Something I’ve been working on,” Miles stated.

“A new song?” She was surprised by that.

“Yeah. How else do you think songs appear in the world? It’s not like they magically spring from the ground like mushrooms after a rain. Someone has to make them… why not me?”

Gwen had to admit he had a point. She knew that songs didn’t just… appear. Someone had to write them. It just felt like there were no new songs in the world. The newest one she could think of was the Rains of Castamere and she knew that Lord Tywin had requested is written, as the legends went, but that had been before she born. And the other ones, the classics one always heard played at weddings or feasts, had been old when her grandfather had been her age. “I don’t know I just… never considered you a bard.”

“Not a bard,” Miles said, crinkling his nose at the thought. “I wouldn’t look good in those outfits anyway. I’m not one for poofy pants.”

“Not all bards wear poofy pants.”

“The good ones do and if I were to be a bard I’d have to be the best. So that’s out for me.” Miles looked up, swinging his legs back and forth.

When Jon had said that he was doing an Open Air Court Natasha had gotten rather nervous and listed off all the ways he could die. At first it had made Gwen nervous, hearing how Jon could die because she had quickly realized that it could be literally applied to anyone. All it would take is one maniac with a grudge against the crown to decide to attack her because of who her father had been and her position now as Natasha’s lady in waiting. Or someone that hated Nat and wanted her to suffer. Or even just some freak who hated people in general and wanted to do as much damage as possible. King’s Landing had far too many vantage points and a skilled bowsman could fire an arrow from any of them and be gone before anyone knew who had done the deed. Lord Tyrion had found wildfire (and it had Jon sp nervous when he’d learned of it that he had ordered a full accounting of the wildfire stores… and subtly suggested to Natasha that they killed every pyrmomancer) and there was a possibility there was more of it floating around; perfect for someone to create a projectile that could kill an entire crowd. Cutthroat in the crowd. Poison fired from a blowpipe. Trained beast that had been taught to tear out throats…

But at some point Natasha’s warnings had gone from worrying to… silly.

Perhaps it was just that when you hit someone with so much terror of the death that awaited them it caused one to circle back round to humor. She’d heard rumors of a family from the Vale that was like that. But when Natasha had begun getting into poisoned potatoes and dunking Jon in the Blackwater and letting the Arrow Sharks to tear into him Gwen had been trying not to giggle.

Jon hadn’t been fazed. He had told her he was doing it and that she was allowed to protect him, keeping an eye on him to make sure he was safe. Which was fine… except she had become more nervous as time had gone on and, unable to talk to Jon about it because she knew he would just blow her off, Natasha had decided to begin telling Gwen about all the different threats that could come at Jon. All the new ideas she hadn’t spoken before.

And the terror had returned once more. The humor had dried up like Dornish Raisins, leaving her haunted by nightmares of the fate that awaited Jon. And while she had only known him for a short while Gwen had found herself unable to bear the idea of Jon not existing in the world.

He… he was like the uncle she’d never had. Not an old and grouchy one but a fun one, if stern. She could talk to him about things and he would listen. A week and a half earlier Gwen had gone to him and asked him about sex, wanting a man’s perspective on her and Petyr’s activities. Jon had been embarrassed but heard her out as she discussed how she loved sex, how it felt wonderful, but she wanted to make sure Petyr truly did want to be with her and wasn’t just going through the motions. Jon had given her some advice and helped her deal with her fears.

So, despite being told that they needed to stay at the Red Keep, the three Spiders had decided that they would keep an eye on Jon and his open court. They were alternating who swung around to patrol the area and at that moment Petyr was the lucky one getting to stretch his legs while Gwen hung back with Miles at one of the belltowers, waiting to see if Natasha had just been paranoid.

‘Nat’s already pegged us three times at least,’ she thought, knowing that the Dornish woman had spotted her swinging about. It was why she hadn’t bothered to hide what she was doing, knowing that Natasha already knew they were disobeying orders and thus they were already in for a tongue lashing when they returned to the Red Keep.

“I mean… I’d be all for people singing it,” Miles said and Gwen realized that she had been tuning him out. Luckily her friend had been so engrossed in discussing the art of making his song that he hadn’t actually noticed that she wasn’t paying attention. “I’m going for something new. Something no one has ever heard before. Half the songs people sing have the same rhythm. The same beat. Utterly boring. Most songs… its all about the instruments also. The strums and all that. Maybe you mix it up and make it about the drums but… well, that’s utterly rare. Its why when you try and sing the song its awkward because there are so many pauses in between lyrics. But the best songs? The ones that are remembered? It’s the vocals that matter. I’m trying to make a song where the lyrics are so smooth yet also so quick that you can’t help but focus on them even if you aren’t getting every word when you first hear it. So that it’s the words that are the music and the music just comes in at key moments.”

“It sounds like a tongue twister,” Gwen stated.

“That’s what makes it great. You have to have skill to sing this song.” He shrugged. “Just something I’m goofing around with. Not going to make coin off of that. My drawings are where the gold will come in.”

Gwen moved to sit down next to him. The day was rather nice out… a bit of a chill that spoke to winter arriving and all that would mean but Gwen wasn’t focused on that. Winter would bring so many problems for them. Petyr was trying to figure out how to make their costumes more insulated, to allow them to swing around without risking their mobility yet not freeze to death, but Gwen had her doubts. When the snows came so heavy that they would trap people inside of their homes she had a feeling their time as the Spiders would be at an end.

And she would miss it so terribly.

They had only just begun to make a difference and they would have at most another… year maybe? Petyr thought a year at most but more likely a few months shy of that. And then it would be done. Her father had told her that the first winter he remembered had lasted 5 years. The maesters debated just how long the last Winter had been, for thanks to the False Spring some said that it was two winters while others argued that it was a single long one. But according to Petyr a long winter always followed a long summer and they had just left a summer that had lasted a decade. 10 to 20 years of winter awaited them, according to Petyr.

Gwen would be well into her thirties by the time the winter ended.

‘By then Petyr and I will have been married,’ she thought to herself. There was little doubt the two would wed; even if their families hadn’t discussed it Gwen simply didn’t see herself with anyone else, same as Petyr. It was a strong match, far stronger than people realized what with them sharing their Spider abilities. They honestly could have been married already but after the loss of Petyr’s uncle and Gwen’s father Aunt May had said they needed to wait a bit more, allow for the grieving period to finally settle, before they formalized their union. ‘Which now might be a grander affair,’ Gwen thought. ‘Thanks to the honors King Tommen has given our families for their service and our connection to Jon it might be expected we marry in the Red Keep.’ It had happened before with honored, though rarely, and would be a boon to them both.

But…

‘I will be a wife. A mother. Will I be able to go out once more as Spider-Woman? Will I even want to?’ And there was also the question of where they would be. Jon had made clear that if they wished to come to Iron Pointe they would be most welcome… but Iron Pointe wasn’t King’s Landing and didn’t need Spiders. ‘The next time I would have a chance to put on my costume I might not need to.’

It was… it was a thought. Not depressing. Not joyful. Just a thought.

She pushed such things aside and said to Miles, “Your drawings?”

“Yeah,” he said with mild cheer. “Jon and I have talked and he thinks I could make a good living crafting portraits for great lords and ladies. I have a good eye for facial features… able to bring out the best in people, even if they don’t have the right faces for grand paintings. Will take some work to establish myself thanks to…” he gestured at himself and Gwen HATED that she knew what he was referring to, “…but I think I can make a serious go at it. Make it that every lord and lady in Westeros wishes to sit for me.”

“So… you would go to Iron Pointe.”

“Well, for a little while, sure. But after that I would need to travel.”

Gwen blinked at that. “You’d… leave.”

She hadn’t considered that.

Hadn’t considered the third part of their Trinity… wouldn’t be there.

It suddenly felt like a maester had walked up to her and told her that in a day’s time they would be lopping off her arm. That she had only a few hours to come to terms with it being gone and then was left alone to stare at the stump.

“You okay?” Miles asked her.

“Everything… everything is going to change soon, isn’t it?” She asked, feeling utterly bleak.

“What do you mean?”

“Winter is coming,” she said, looking out at the city. “When it does everything will change. No more swinging around stopping criminals. Probably won’t be able to train in the yard anymore because it will be too full of snow. If Tommen decides to name a new Hand when he reaches maturity or if Jon is able to convince him to allow him to resign his post then he’ll be heading back to Iron Pointe. You want to go but Petyr and I aren’t sure and even if we do go you’ll leave afterwards. And I have no idea what Petyr plans to do. He’s brilliant so maybe he goes to Oldtown and creates some new things that change life in Westeros? Or Essos… Pentos or Braavos would probably love him. That’s assuming that the King doesn’t keep him on, giving him a new position. ‘Mechanist For The Crown’ or the like. And we’ll be married and probably have a child or two before we even decide and we’ll have to figure out where to live and Petyr might travel to create new things and I’ll be alone in a Keep I’ve never-“

Miles grabbed her hand.

“Breathe.”

Gwen forced herself to do just that. Then forced herself to actually breathe naturally and not pant like she had just gone five rounds with the entirety of the Kingsguard.

“Of course things are going to change,” Miles told her. “That’s life. You predict a year ago or two ago we’d be where we are now? Able to swing through King’s Landing or deadlift a carriage? That we’d be fighting with the Hand of the King who had a suit of armor that allowed him to fly? Kings have changed. Lord Tywin is dead. The Others are apparently returning and Jon is doing all he can to get the people to trust him because when the Long Winter begins he will need to lead them.” He stared right at her. “Gwen… we might not make it to Iron Pointe. We might die at the Neck or Winterfell or the Wall trying to stop the total destruction of Westeros.”

Gwen felt him squeeze her hand harder and it grounded her.

“Everything is going to change in a year. Just like it changed from a year ago. I dream of painting portraits but in a year I might be fleeing to Dorne because it’s the last safe place left.”

“Then… shouldn’t ‘t we worry about it?”

“Fuck no,” Miles stated. “That’s the path that leads to madness. We need to focus on the here and now. What is happening at this moment. Otherwise you end up like Petyr after he’s had too much of that Essosi chocolate.”

Gwen grimaced; she loved Petyr but the young man could go on a deluded tear when he got amped up, worrying about a thousand different crazy things. The last time that had happened he had gone on a 2 hour rant about how there were secret demon wizards that were replacing people and could only be detected if he made something he had coined a ‘Neuralizer’.

“I’m not saying we can’t prepare for some things but… if we spend all our time looking ahead we are going to be… Doc Ock attacking the Open Court.”

“Yeah I-wait, what?”

Miles though was already on his feet. “Doc Ock just attacked the Open Court!” Gwen stared at the courtyard where Jon had decided to hold court and gaped at the sight of the tentacled man moving down to the street below, using his extra limbs to attack the Gold Cloaks that were being sent at him. Miles was already diving off the belltower as Gwen yanked on her mask, half tumbling over the edge as she fired off a webline.

‘Oh… Jon isn’t going to be happy,’ she thought as she swung towards the Ock. She spotted out of the corner of her eye Petyr changing direction, clearly having seen what was happening, and then saw a shape moving along the roofs and knew that to be Natasha. ‘Worry about the screaming later!’ Gwen thought desperately as she flung herself at Ock.

The courtyard was full of utter pandemonium. Smallfolk were either running about with their hands in the air, screaming their heads off, or trying to find shelter even as they didn’t actually do anything to look for it. Just… run about, suddenly stopping from going in one direction and heading to another. Those not running were instead openly staring at Doc Ock which Gwen kind of understood. After all, it wasn’t every day someone saw a man with tentacles coming out of his back climb down the side of a building.

The Gold Cloaks were trying to get the Small Council to safety but that was proving hard as some of them seemed frozen on the spot, much like the gawking Smallfolk. Others, like Prince Oberyn or Jon, had grabbed their weapons and were ready to fight.

That was something Gwen couldn’t allow.

“Hey Doc!” Gwen called out as she swung at him, knowing he would try and smack her with one of his tentacles. As such she quickly twisted out of the way and fired a webline at his face, smiling as she managed to get a hit. Yeah, it wouldn’t do much to him but it was still a small victory at this point, considering how things had gone when she’d last faced him.

Miles and Petyr swung down and moved towards Jon, who barked something at them but Gwen was too busy focusing on the tentacles that were trying to wrap around her and crush her. She twisted her body, avoiding first one and then the other, before she used her teleporting ability to appear away from Ock, landing on a roof across from him.

“Where you been?” Gwen asked. “I’ve been looking for you since our last fight.”

“You mean you wished to be defeated once more, you garish harlequin?” Ock, now fully in the courtyard, began to move towards her, using two of his tentacles to leisurely move towards her. But due to how much distance each one could cover what was leisurely for Ock was rather quick from Gwen’s point of view. People scrambled to get out of the way and Petyr and Miles began to fire out weblines to snatch people, realizing that with how crowded the courtyard was if they tried to fight Ock there it could mean smallfolk being injured or killed.

‘No… as much as I hate it we have to let him move freely and work on crowd control… and get him away from the people.’ Gwen grimaced under her mask. ‘But where could I even lead him to? This is King’s Landing… it doesn’t stay empty for long.’

She knew what most warriors and knights would suggest: Flea Bottom. Not because it wouldn’t be crowded but because they wouldn’t care about what was destroyed there. Which was why Gwen at once dismissed it. She would not have that many innocents coating her hands with their split blood.

“Yeah, you got the best of us that time,” Gwen admitted, trying to stall for time by chatting up Ock. That oddly seemed to work more than it should have, at least with pickpockets and thieves. “But thing is… we’ve still been active afterwards. Swinging around, stopping crimes. But you disappeared. Odd, really.” Just as he passed the halfway point in his trek along the courtyard Gwen fired off a webline, launching herself to another side. She made it look like she was trying to set up for an attack, firing of some webbing at his face again that he this time managed to block with one of his upper tentacles. She didn’t care though; the whole point was to make Ock THINK that she was trying set up attacks. That she was preparing for some plan and getting him to wonder just what it might be.

When in reality she was desperate to buy herself some seconds to think of a plan!

‘I need some place where we can fight and I’ll still have the advantage and he won’t be able to harm people,’ she thought before mentally rolling her eyes. ‘And maybe you also want a place where he will instantly surrender and all the crowds will cheer and Petyr can eat you out without anyone saying boo.’ She scoffed. ‘You can’t get everything Gwen… you need to figure out what is your best option.’ The problem was though she had no idea what that might be.

She considered the Blackwater. The shoreline would be empty at that point of the day, with plenty of docks and such. Yes, not as many buildings so she’d lose some advantage but it would be a more open area. And Ock couldn’t use the buildings either… while he had been casual in how he approached her during this fight and last time he’d stood out in the open she had a feeling that if he wanted to he could move about the buildings of King’s Landing rather easily. So she couldn’t count on that as a full benefit in her column.

‘But then there is the water,’ she thought with a grimace, wincing when Ock casually smashed one of the stalls that Jon had set up for his open court. ‘I have no idea what he’ll be like in the water.’ She instantly ruled out that option.

The Goldcloaks were still working to get people out of the courtyard, yelling at them to calm down. Ock looked around and she knew he understood what she did: if the people were gone then the Goldcloaks could swarm him and even if his tentacles were powerful and could crush a dozen men… there were more than enough Goldcloaks to hack and slash through his appendages. And when they did that he would be done.

“Yes, you have been active,” Ock said with a shrug even as one tentacle grabbed onto one of the statues that littered the courtyard and flung it towards one of the exit points for the courtyard.

The people pushing through that one at once screamed and reversed course. Even though only a few of them were crushed by the statue that was enough to cause them to panic and surge back towards the courtyard itself, hindering attempts by Jon and the soldiers he was rallying to try and make towards Ock. Petyr and Miles both glanced at her but she flashed one of their hand signals: NO. She would keep Ock distracted. They were doing more good trying to make sure everyone that was still trapped in the courtyard stayed alive.

Petyr, suddenly hitting on one of his mad genius ideas, landed on a building and began to fire off webbing, snagging at times bits of wood from the broken stalls. A few in the crowd realized what he was doing and moved towards the makeshift ladder he was creating, scrambling up to the building where Petyr motioned for them to begin moving away; Gwen for once was thankful that King’s Landing had allowedvtheir alleys to become so small as it meant that the smallfolk could easily jump the gaps between buildings and make a haste retreat.

‘Going to be a pain to get them all off the roofs but we can worry about that later,’ she thought.

“Yes, you have been active,” Ock stated. “But you see… I have been active too. I have my normal duties, as you know. And other plans. So many plans. I would explain them to you but I doubt that your feeble little mind would be able to understand them.”

‘One of the Streets maybe? Street of Steel would have plenty of strong men with swords and hammers… they could easily attack Ock… no. No, if I do that then he will probably take to the roofs.’

Gwen forced her voice to sound chipper. “Maybe… but I think its because I wore you out. You are getting up there in years Doc and it is hard for you to… keep your tentacles up?” She smirked under her mask as she saw him pause. Just for a moment but she had managed to land a verbal blow.

“I assure you… I can take on many and not get tired.”

“You sure? Because I think I left you so winded you had to go drink a lot of juice and rest up your aching bones.”

And even as she made the innuendo… she hit upon the idea.

The perfect place for the battle.

“Prove me wrong, Doc,” Gwen taunted. “I’m all sweet and innocent and limber. Catch me.” And she leapt to the building behind her, twisting in the air in a show of needless acrobatics. All done to showcase how flexible she was. “Unless you need to lie down and let your heart-“

Doc Ock surged forwards her, abandoning the courtyard.

“He’s following me. Yay,” she said sarcastically as she swung through King’s Landing. She couldn’t swing as she normally did, through the alleyways and along the streets, firing weblines out that allowed her to gracefully arc through the maze of buildings. She couldn’t risk Ock losing her and going back to the courtyard… or worse him suddenly surging forward and forcing her to stop at HIS chosen battlefield. So instead she began to run along the rooftops, firing weblines to catapult her through the air. The few times that she was able to actually swing it was more about building up enough speed to do a massive jump, rocketing into the sky before coming down like a shot arrow, catching herself at the last moment and then returning to the run.

But… it was keeping Ock focused right on her.

‘I won’t have the Goldcloaks to rely upon… Jon won’t be able to get them to follow quickly enough. And he doesn’t even know where I am going. Miles and Petyr don’t know where I’m going either.’

The truth hit Gwen right in her gut, nearly making her stumble.

She had managed to get Ock away from the smallfolk… but now she was leading him to a battleground where it would just be her and him.

No backup.

No plan.

Just the two of them.

‘Oooooh fuck,’ she thought even as she continued on. ‘Worry later… worrying can be done when you aren’t dead. Proof you aren’t dead. Best part about being alive is you can worry about the stupid mistakes you make!’

But that worry also made her realize that there was an option. Something she COULD do.

Keep stalling.

Gwen purposely slowed down. It was tricky to do, to make it look like she wasn’t actually trying to slow down. One’s first reaction would be to stumble or to fake a bad landing. Gwen knew Ock was too smart to fall for that… he had to have already figured out she was leading him someplace and was trying to figure out how to redirect her himself.

So… she would use that.

She slowed just a touch, waited till they reached a section of King’s Landing where the low roofs they were running on met high ones… and Ock suddenly attacked, slamming his tentacle at her.

Gwen saw it just before it reached her and as such she was able to adjust her body so that the blow wouldn’t hurt her BUT would carry her away from what she wanted him to believe was her true destination.

“Fuck!” she cursed as she landed, moving forward like she was trying to get back on course but Ock, just as she had hoped, moved to block her. He opened his mouth to say… something… most likely with too much flair and a bunch of big words to make him sound smarter than he actually was, but Gwen fired some webbing at him before taking off again. She purposely tried to make it look like she was looking for some way to turn back in the direction Ock was blocking but in the end was ‘forced’ to continue on.

‘Jon is going to have to shell out a bit of coin to repair the damage,’ she thought as Ock slammed into one building, making the wooden beams that made up its roof crack and break, nearly sending him crashing through the structure. But he yanked himself up and continued on with the chase. ‘But this is better… hopefully it will give them time to actually get word out about what is going on and alert the Goldcloak patrols.’

Gwen began to take Ock on a tour of King’s Landing, taking the long way towards their final destination.

They passed close enough to the Blackwater that she could smell the stink coming off of it, making her nose twitch in disgust; despite what Natasha or Miles would say her feet did NOT stink worse than that place. Then it was onto the Street of Steel, the blacksmiths pounding away on their anvils, never looking up to see the two impossible people as they hurried overhead. Another sharp turn when she allowed Ock to believe he had prevented her from going where she wanted led them through Flea Bottom and Gwen heard the screams of the innocent as they passed… but then they were out and Gwen cut right across King’s Landing towards where she wanted to go.

The manses.

‘Rich and powerful lords keeping estates just in case they decide they want to spend some time in King’s Landing,’ she thought. ‘Some may have a bit of staff but otherwise the areas will be empty; they know Winter is Coming and they are making for their holds and lands to prepare them. The perfect place to finally deal with Ock. And because they belong to the rich and powerful word will get out quickly that we are there so Jon can hopefully get the Goldcloaks around fast… maybe even as some personal soldiers already there. Some with bows and arrows.’

That was Ock’s weakness, the fact that he wore no true armor. Petyr had suggested they try using bows and arrows themselves but Gwen and Miles had talked him out of it, worrying about the accidents that could happen. While they fought hard and broke bones with their punches that was different from attacking with arrows that could easily hurt an innocent person.

Launching herself into the air she allowed herself to, for a moment, forget about the chase and enjoy the brief moment of weightlessness. She was able to actually take a moment to calm herself, feeling better that she not only had a plan but was so close to pulling it off.

‘This is perfect. Plenty of places for me to hide, ducking in and out of. Get Ock distracted and-‘

Gwen’s spider sense went crazy and she turned in time to see two screaming horses flying right at her, legs flailing as they cried out in terror.

She tried to twist out of the way but because she was just on a webline it was hard to change her trajectory. And she wasn’t close enough to any buildings to fire off another webline and yank herself free.

‘This is going to suck,’ she thought just before the screaming flailing horse hit her.

She went down HARD, the wind knocked out of her as she suddenly found herself plunging down. She tried to shove the horse away from her and got a hoof against the side of her head for her trouble. Gwen’s vision swirled and she briefly had the sense of the other horse…

…and then her body crashed into something and she briefly stopped before whatever she had hit gave way and she fell down again.

Gwen slowly rolled onto her side, coughing so hard she wondered if she was going to hack up a lung. She heard shrill screams and not of the Horse Kind and shook her head, trying to get her vision to work.

Only to suddenly feel cold steel pressed against her throat.

“Who the fuck are you?” a voice growled and Gwen slowly looked up.

“The Hound?”

“Fuck you,” Sandor Clegane said only for a white hand (truly white; freakishly white) to grab his wrist.

“Come now, my knight,” the tall woman said. She had to be as tall as the hound… perhaps taller. Limbs that were just a touch too long, a body a hair too thin, a face too finely sculpted. Like an ice sculpture, or at least what Gwen assumed one would look like, based on the tales she had heard. Pure white hair, blue lips, dark eyes… all brought together the figure before her looked more monstrous than Ock. “She is clearly startled to find you here. And considering she fell through the roof I would imagine that she is injured. You must show some kindness.”

And then the pale woman suddenly lashed out, slamming her bare foot down on Gwen’s neck.

“Unless, of course, she refuses to tell us what she knows.”

Gwen choked as she struggled to try and toss the woman off but much to her shock the figure was far stronger than her. And thanks to her greater size it was like a bag of sugar had been dropped onto her body. Gwen desperately grabbed at the woman’s toes, trying to peal them away from her throat, which only caused her new captor to laugh.

“Oh, are you trying to escape?” The woman leaned down. “Perhaps I should keep you. I have need for more w-“

And then the foot lifted off of her and Gwen gasped for air, rolling away… and saw Ock staring at them from the hole in the roof, a tentacle wrapped around the pale woman.

“Well… aren’t you an interesting one,” Ock said. “Just who are you?”

“Your death,” the pale woman said before she broke free of the grap.

Gwen laid there as the two lunged at each other.

Chapter Text

Sandor

While many things could be said about him there was no a single person who could ever say that Sandor had led a boring life.

His brother was the Mountain Who Rides and the first legend about the bastard was how he had scarred Sandor purely because he was playing with one of Gregor’s toys. Had it not been for his brother Sandor also would have been seen as the largest man in all of Westeros and that height and size had ensured that he gained attention wherever he went. The fact that he was, as shocking as it was to consider, the far more ‘considerate’ of the Cleganes meant that many people wanted to talk to him, even when he told them to fuck off, so he had managed to hold conversations with many powerful people within Westeros. Tywin Lannister had once even admitted that it would have been interesting if Sandor was the Lord of Clegane Keep, rather than his brother.

Sandor had walked the halls of the Red Keep. He had traveled with the Royal Family. He knew secrets about Casterly Rock that only a handful knew because they forgot that just because his name was The Hound didn’t mean he was a dumb beast. And through Sansa he had experienced the return of magic, seeing her resurrection before she had used her powers to heal his maimed face.

But… the battle that was taking place before him? That was new even for him.

“What the fuck is that thing?” he demanded of the weirdly dressed little girl that had crashed through the Oyster. She had begun to get to her feet but Sandor had come upon her quickly, keeping her at sword point as he demanded answers. Across from them the strange tentacle man was making a great show of tearing apart the opulent whore house, ripping out chunks of the wall and hurling them about. But Sandor was focused on the first figure that had come bursting him… mostly because his first attempt at trying to fight the squidy bastard had resulted in him being tossed about like a child’s doll. His ribs were still smarting from the blow the strange monster man had given him and Sansa had told him to stay back and allow her to give it a try.

People might have thought that insane, as she was a woman and he was a man, but he had seen Sansa tear men apart with her bare hands. He wasn’t about to risk his own fucking hide by mocking her strength. So that left dealing with the other intruder, the one that had brought the threat to them.

There was no doubt who she was. A tiny little thing, more like a dolly that some pampered princess would carry around than a human, with barely any breasts and thin little arms that, despite him seeing some muscle on them, still would have been like twigs if he got his hands around them. She wasn’t meek though, he could also see that. She was a squirming thing, lithe and limber, which would have made men all throughout the Seven Kingdoms gleefully offer up all the coin they had for a chance to be with her. She was wearing a garish outfit; white and black mixed with some very bold seafoam and deep pinks, tight to her body in a way that made a man’s own pants tight. And despite the fact that she had been sent through a roof she was already getting up, shaking off the blow.

She was one of the fucking Spiders.

All of King’s Landing had been talking about the fuckers. Debating if they were good or bad. Apparently they liked to swing about on webs and deal with pick pockets and catspaws and the like, snatching them up before they could harm the stupid and the weak. All sorts in King’s Landing, especially in the poorer neighborhoods, were singing their praises and claiming that they had been sent by the Gods to rid the city of its corruption. Someone had even found a reference to spider bites being used to deal with injuries (and Sandor wondered what poor fucker had been the test subject for that demented little experiment) and claimed that as further proof that the Spiders were a blessing.

But others claimed that they were criminals themselves, eliminating the competition that had flowed into King’s Landing after the disappearance of the Vulture King. They were thieves that stole from other thieves, killers who killed other killers… and then their victims. That if they truly were noble and good they would work with the goldcloaks… which only went to show how fucking stupid some people were, believing that any of the gold cloaks were noble and good and cared about the people of Westeros.

Sandor didn’t give two flying fucks about any of them. All he wanted to know was what the fuck was going on.

“I said,” Sandor growled, reaching for her only for the slippery thing to avoid his grasp, “what the fuck is that thing?!” He gestured to where Sansa was currently fighting the strange tentacle man, jabbing his sword at the unusual being before bringing it back towards her throat before she could even think of scurrying away. Sansa was darting about the room, not even trying to move just on her legs and instead leaping about on all fours like the direwolf that had once been her sigil. But the tentacle man wasn’t letting her get too close, batting away her attempts to get to his human form with his wet slimy tentacles. And when he wasn’t doing that he was snatching whatever he could and throwing it at her, forcing her to stay on the move. Already there were multiple holes in the walls, floor, and ceiling from the battle and Sandor dimly realized they’d have to find a new place to stay when all was said and done.

The whores that had been with them were, surprisingly enough, not running about like startled chickens and instead had begun to grab the decorative weapons that covered the walls of the Oyster, rushing forward to try and help out Sansa. It would be pointless, of course, but Sandor had to admit that fighting was better than panicking.

“Doc Ock,” the Spider girl declared even as she looked about wildly for… well, Sandor wasn’t for sure what she was trying to find. “He attacked J… Lord Jon’s Court. I was trying to lead him away from people-“

“You did a fucking good job of that!” Sandor snarled, watching as one whore, Kyllie, leapt at Doc Ock, a knife clenched in her hands as she let out a shrill warrior cry that reminded him of eagles as they dive bombed on field mice. But Ock lazily batted her aside with one of his thick wet tentacles, sending her crashing into one of the canopy beds that filled the suite. The entire thing collapsed, reduced to a pile of kindling and fabric. Sandor let out a huff; she had been one of the good ones, able to fit him fully in her mouth without gagging. A fucking waste, that was what her death was. “I am going to gut you like a fish for bringing this fucking trouble-“

“By the Gods!” the Spider exclaimed and Sandor, for once, didn’t blame her reaction on the weak nerves of a fragile woman. No… the whore Kyllie slowly stood up, a length of wood nearly 3 feet long and 2 inches thick jutting through her right breast and out of her back. But rather than scream the whore merely grabbing another one of the broken bed posts, testing its weight before she raced back to attack Doc Ock, the only issue with her injury being how her right arm refused to swing up and thus she was forced to switch her weapon to her left hand. She didn’t even try and remove the wood. “What the fuck?!?”

Sandor didn’t have an answer. ‘That shouldn’t be fucking possible!’ he thought to himself, his sword lowering a bit. ‘I’ve seen men four times her size take arrows to the chest and go down, never getting the fuck back up. That cunt just had her tit reduced to jelly and her lung popped and she’s running about like she only nicked her fucking finger!’ He shook his head, half expecting that when he looked again the woman would either be on the ground screaming and clawing at the shaft of wood as she slowly bled out or there wouldn’t be any cries at-

Blood.

Sandor blinked.

“Where is the fucking blood?” he wondered.

It was a universal truth. One that was drilled into every lad who ever had at any time held a sword, a dagger, or even a fucking butter knife: if it bleeds it can die. If it can die you can win. And if you didn’t know how to use a blade you STILL fucking understood that. It was why the pompous little lordlings loved to have their first blood duels. Why bottom feeder trash always nicked a man they were trying to rob with their blade, just to show them they were serious. Why the best sellswords learned where to stab. Why warriors debated the best armor when it came to protection vs. mobility and comfort.

If it bleeds it can die. If it can die you can win.

What the FUCK did it say that the whore was running around with a shaft of wood through her teat and not letting a drop of blood fall onto the ground!?!

Sansa let out a deranged laugh as she easily leapt over one of the tentacles, a dark leer on her lips. Her dress was half torn from her body, showing off the hard muscle underneath that always surprised Sandor whenever the two of them were together in bed. She didn’t show any embarrassment over that, merely rolling her shoulders before taking a step forward, beckoning with a single black nailed finger for Doc Ock to come at her.

“You know… I have been wondering when one of you pathetic little wretches would decide to finally come after me. It’s almost been boring how all of you just let me do whatever I wish. Make any claim, run about without any restraint… it was making this all so boring. Its like you want me and my Court to slaughter you all. That you have no idea what to do if we are not dominating you. To finally have someone step up and try and stop me? Mmmm.” She ran her hands along her breasts, mauling them viciously. “Its intoxicating.” She dodged another tentacle, her body bending back with almost the same flexibility as the Spider girl. “I know what my dear husband would say, of course. He would claim that fun isn’t something one considers when balancing the universe.”

She suddenly stomped down hard, driving the heel of her shoe into a tentacle and pinning it in place. Doc Ock moved to try and pull free only to find that he couldn’t; Sansa had him firmly locked.

“But me personally?” she said with a dark smile, eyes practically GLOWING with power as she leaned down and began to cut into the tentacle with her fingers, tearing out chunks of spongy flesh. “I have found that nothing should be done if it doesn’t bring you joy. And my joy… is killing each and everyone one of you pathetic little humans.”

The whores began to move towards her and Sandor realized that it wasn’t just the whore who had taken the wood bits to the nipple that was injured. One had her shoulder completely shattered so that her arm hung at a horrible and painful angle. Another had been struck by a wine pitcher and there was glass embedded in her face, though that did nothing to stop her leering smile. Two others had various gashes and cuts along their features, marring their pale white flesh.

And not a single one of them were hindered or affected by the wounds.

Not a single one… was bleeding.

“What the fuck?” the Spider girl said again and Sandor shook his head, agreeing with her assessment.

“This isn’t right,” he said, blinking his eyes. It was like when you were walking through a hall talking to a maester and you realized the maester was long dead, the hall was a single circle, and you could almost see your own body as it moved like you were outside of it. Only then, right before you opened your eyes, would you realize it was just a dream.

Suddenly so much that had happened over the last year… shifted. What he had accepted as fact, of the reality of the world, was revealed to be utterly strange and twisted and wrong. He looked at Sansa and the image as she had been, of the little bird that simpered after her ‘beloved Joffrey’ and looked at the world with stupid naïve eyes shattered, revealing that the woman before him wasn’t her. Couldn’t be her.

She was over 7 feet tall and built like a warrior. Gleaming white hair, so bright it hurt to look at it, cascaded down her back like a frozen waterfall. Her skin was pale as chilled milk and her veins were all blue, far more visible now that she was in the middle of a fight. Her lips were a bluish-black, as were her nails, and her eyes glowed with power. The way she moved… it wasn’t like a human at all. And not like a beast either. There was an unnatural fluidity to her movements, like her bones were snapping apart at the joints to allow her to twist and turn in ways that simply SHOULDN’T be possible. And she was cold. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d touched her skin and felt any warmth. No… he could remember. Before she had died. Joffrey making him yank her about, force her to go where he wanted, drag her to her father’s botched execution. Then she had been warm. But now she was always cold. When she brushed her hand along his chest. When she stroked his hair. When he plunged into her.

Cold.

This wasn’t the Little Bird. This wasn’t Sansa. This… was something else.

“The Night’s Queen,” the Spider said in horror and Sandor dimly remembered Sansa… the woman before him, when she’d first awoken from her… death… declaring that he was ‘the queen’s knight’ and she would be ‘the Knight’s Queen’. But suddenly he had a feeling that title wasn’t about him at all.

He looked at the whores and saw that they too were different from how he remembered. One of the newest ones, a spritely yet scared girl of barely 14 who had come to them only a few weeks ago, needing coin desperately, had lost nearly all the color in her skin. In fact the only color on her that wasn’t white or blue or black was from the exposed muscles in her back from where Doc Ock had grabbed her, suckers ripping off her skin. But that was wrong too… the layers underneath her skin should have been a deep red and bloody. Instead they were… gray.

Like old rot.

‘Sansa is dead,’ the Imp had snarled at the Small Council the first day he’d come to King’s Landing as the Hand of the King. Everyone had told him he was wrong, that Sansa had come back to life.

He had been wrong when he had claimed she was some whore that Joffrey had dressed up as his betrothed. But… what if they were wrong as well?

What if Sansa… had never come back to life?

“Well, I’m afraid you are quite mistaken,” Doc Ock said and suddenly the tentacle that had been trapped… just pulled away. It didn’t rip. Didn’t tear. Just pulled itself free, whole and full. And Sa… the Night’s Queen hadn’t been knocked off balance or anything like that. She just had stood there, one minute holding him down and the next finding him free, staring at him in surprise. “Quite arrogant of you to assume as much, my dear. You see… I’m not after you at all.”

And then he suddenly lashed out with two tentacles, slamming whores away, crushing their bodies against the walls and floors. He saw one’s jaw come flying off and another’s ribcage shatter completely and still they stabbed and slashed at his tentacles. The limbs thought continued on past them and wrapped first around the Spider, causing her to struggle and attempt to fight back only for him to squeeze, the girl letting out a strangled cry before she went limp.

The second went around Sandor.

He let out a savage roar and tried to hack himself free but Ock merely squeezed and Sandor found it was his turn now to cry out in pain, fighting against the blinding agony of the compression. Doc dragged him towards him even as he once more moved to bat away the whores, the Night’s Queen watching on, unmoving. Sandor had a brief glimpse of her staring at him with a gaze filled with… curiosity… and then he was forced to look Doc Ock right in the eye.

“I hadn’t planned to snap you up so soon but this will work out rather well. I’m afraid I must make my way out of the city so its best not to have any loose ends.”

And with that one of his tentacles raced past the Night’s Queen and wrapped around a beam, the woman looking up almost comically before Doc Ock ripped the wood free and sent the entire ceiling crashing down on her. The last sight Sandor had of her was of the Night’s Queen lifting her hands up even as the Blue Oyster collapsed, smashing the whores around her into a mushy pulp.

Sandor didn’t even have time to figure out how he felt about that before he was yanked away, Ock making his way towards the Blackwater.

“Girl… Girl!” he snapped and the Spider began to groan. “Wake up girl!” He struggled but only one hand was free and he’d ended up dropping his sword at some point; he wasn’t exactly for sure when it had happened but he was now unarmed. “Fuck hells wake up you cunt!”

But the Spider remained still, only letting out the occasional groan as Doc Ock moved out into the waters of the Blackwater. Up ahead Sandor saw a boat, upon which was perched a winged figure who stared at them the entire time.

‘The Vulture King,’ Sandor realized; even though he had never laid eyes on him before he knew that it could only be the Vulture King that he was staring at. There was no other being it could be.

Spreading his wings wide the Vulture King dropped down onto the deck as Doc Ock laid the Spider out onto the boat, considering her for a long moment. “Do you think we should unmask her? I must admit I am curious about her.”

“No,” the Vulture King said. Sandor took a moment to study the man. He was wearing mostly leathers with a few bits of armor stitched into the outfit but his helm was the most unusual thing. While vaguely bird-like it wasn’t the full on beaked helm one might have assumed. Rather it was far more practical, even if it did cover his entire face and Sandor wasn’t for sure how the bastard managed to see through it.

“Oh? I’m surprised. I thought for sure you would be interested in finding out exactly who she was. You know, after how she humiliated you and led to your defeat?” He lowered himself down to the dock, one tentacle still holding tight only Sandor, and reached out with a gloved hand towards the Spider’s face, tugging on her mask to begin to expose the pinkish flesh underneath.

The Vulture King grabbed Doc Ock’s wrist, forcing him to stop.

“Or is there another reason you want to protect her?” he asked. “A… connection? Some tragic tale of a father and their estranged daughter forced to fight against one another, loving each other despite being on opposite sides of a conflict.”

“You are an overly dramatic fool,” the Vulture King said coolly. “She is for our King, not you. Unless you wish to explain to him just why you decided to unmask her without him present.”

“…very well,” he said with a sigh, pulling away. But then he drew Sandor over to them, a smile forming on his flabby face. “But this one… this one will earn us our king’s good graces.”

“Perhaps,” the Vulture King said. “If not for the fact that Kraven and Carnage are seeking to bring his true target to him.”

“You believe that he cares for the carnal desires of the flesh?” Doc Ock said with a scoff. “No… our king is beyond such things. Revenge is a tastier dish.”

“We shall see,” the Vulture King said, turning his back on the tentacled man. “Get them in the holding cell with the other one. We need to get moving before anyone can give chase.” He paused. “I will be leaving you with them soon… and I will report how they are to the King. If they are not as I describe you will pay.”

“But of course,” Doc Ock said and he dragged Sandor over to a hatch in the dock, another tentacle grabbing the girl as well. “Don’t dwell too much on your accommodates… after all, with what our king has in store for you this will be a sweet comfort.” He chuckled at that, throwing open the hatch and tossing Sandor and the girl inside.

The fall was far longer than he had been expecting and Sandor gasped as he hit the wooden floor, rearing up in pain. It look several moments for his vision to clear of the starbursts that suddenly exploded in front of his eyes, the pain was so blinding. When it did though he saw he was in the bowels of the great sailing ship. The ‘cell’ was actually just the cargo hold and, from the scent of it, had either been used to transport fish or cunts. He was guessing the former was more likely. The hatch closed even as he stood up but it didn’t matter because even if he had gotten a running start he would have had no hope of touching it, let alone opening it.

‘We must be below the water line,’ he thought as he began to inspect the area. ‘If we try and break our way out we’ll fucking drown. Damn it!’

“So… I see our hosts have decided to give me a bit of company.”

Sandor turned… and stared in confusion at the figure that was sitting in the corner. He was a heavy set man with squinting eyes, dressed rather fairly and richly.

He was also the spitting image of Doc Ock.

“Who the fuck are you?” Sandor asked.

“Lord Otto Octavius,” the double of the tentacle man stated. “Master of Coin for King Tommen. And you… resembled Sandor Clegane. Or at least half of him.” Sandor cursed as he touched his face; the magically imposed scars were gone, leaving his face healed. “I imagine you have quite a tale… and we have plenty of time.”

“Why the fuck do you look like Doc Ock?”

“I don’t,” Lord Otto said. “He looks like me. Or rather he chooses to disguise himself as me. I would be rather impressed… if he weren’t using my face to commit is wanton destruction.”

“Come now, my Lord!” Doc Ock called down to them though the hatch remained closed. “I thought you would be flattered. I dare say my impression of you was quite good.”

“Quintin,” Lord Otto said, looking up at the still closed hatch. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because it is the role of a lifetime,” Doc Ock replied. “And it isn’t Quintin… not anymore. Nor should you call me Doc Ock. That is the title reserved for your face.”

The hatch opened once more and Sandor frowned as he stared at the sight before him. Doc Ock wasn’t there and instead he saw a man in green scaled leathers with a deep purple cloak around his shoulders, his head completely covered by an opaque orb.

“I… am Mysterio.”

Chapter Text

Daenerys

She glanced over at Domino as she helped her into her leathers. “More people are coming?”

“More people are coming,” Domino answered.

“It feels,” Dany said with a sigh, “as if all the world is coming to Meereen. It is as if all of Essos is emptying out to see me. I never knew there were so many people in the world.” The lands around Meereen had become a great city in and of itself, thanks to all that were arriving. She had just the day before launched herself high into the sky, choosing to do so when the sun was at its highest so not to draw too much attention, and seen that all around her city were other cities, made of wood and cloth and all manner of other things. It seemed to her to almost be a competition, to try and see just who could make the grander spectacle of waiting for an audience with her.

There were of course the basic tents, made of cloth and barely high enough for someone of her height to stand in, let alone some of the tall and mighty warrior men that had come. But far more had erected great billowing tents 10 times the size of those field tents, and made up of brilliant colors and designs that could only be properly seen from Daenerys’ vantage point. Others had actually set about building wooden structures, disassembling their wagons to create great wooden buildings where they could rest. Others had kept their wagons together but added to them, so that at a moment’s notice they could leave but still have large areas to rest and do their business and trade.

For it wasn’t just for waiting that the city was growing. No… there were those that had come, per the reports, with no intention of seeing her at all. These people wished to do business with her guests and Daenerys didn’t mind that all that much because it saved her the worries of how to feed and manage the people. There were open pits for the cooking of meals and blacksmiths selling swords and loomsmiths who weaved new garments better suited for the climate Meereen. Logan had shown her, much to his own amusement, some of the trinkets being sold that were meant to be gifts that fathers would gives their children and husbands their wives. Flags that crudely represented the banner of House Targaryen, only with the wrong number of heads (ranging from a single one to nearly twelve). Small drawings of her in various states; Wade had commented that they were selling rather lewd ones and while disgusted Dany had realized she could not stop that from happening. A small little doll that looked like her that she had to admit was rather cute and that she had placed in her room.

Even the waters of Dragon’s Bay were not free from growth. Like mushrooms after a rain boats seemed to pop up every morning, pushing and jostling for position to create a great bobbing city of decks and planks. She had given command that there must be a clear path to the docks after receiving reports that one small fishing vessel had nearly been shattered thanks to two large Penoshi barges deciding to lash themselves together just as it was passing between them. Thus when looking out she saw a great lane of clear water for ships to pass through… and on either side hundreds of other ships forming twin walls.

‘And within those walls are the far more unsavory businesses,’ she thought darkly. She had commanded that there would be no slaves anywhere near her city and after she had sent Logan, Wade, and Ser Jorah to strike the chains off of any slave they found her guests had gotten the hint. More than a few had suddenly left only to return days later, suddenly with a lesser entourage. So she knew that the pleasure barrages were filled with willing whores rather than slaves. That the gambling ships only sought to take a man’s money and not his freedom. That the fighting tournaments that sprang up were of free and willing men (Logan had won one himself already).

But it still bothered her.

‘I can feel control slipping away from me,’ she thought. ‘That at any moment things might collapse completely into chaos and I will have little way of regaining control.’

Except… that wasn’t true. There was a way for her to easily gain back control.

Her dragons.

‘But I dread doing such a thing,’ she thought. ‘My family fell because they relied too heavily on their dragons as the source of their power. When the Last Dragon died so too did my family die… it was just a slow death.’ She shook her head at that. ‘Had Rhaegar had dragons the Usurper would have never managed to steal our throne from us. But he shouldn’t have been able to do that anyway. The Usurper should have never been able to strike out against us… but we made them fear the dragons, rather than us.’ And while Dany now held the power of flames she knew that if she unleashed her dragons to bring peace that would be all that people saw.

“There are far more in the world than just this,” Domino said, breaking Dany from her racing and rapid thoughts. “What you see is merely a cup of water taken from the ocean.”

“And it is still deadly to drink from,” Daenerys muttered as she finished putting on her armor. The sword that Klaue had given her was the last and as she ran her hands along the front of her leather top she was pleased to see nothing soft and sweet about her.

That had been a rude awakening for many of the men that had come to meet with her and make their arrival known. They had swept in expecting her to be dressed in silks and sitting on a padded chair… instead Dany wore leathers and sat a throne of stone. They always got so flustered when they saw her like that, even though she knew that if they had encountered a king doing the same thing they would have been charmed and pleased.

Stepping out of the room she nodded to Ser Barristan who was waiting at the door, the old man falling at once in step with her. “What have you heard so far?”

The old man smiled; Dany had quickly learned that despite his position as Head of her Queensguard (of which there was only him though she did need to rectify that soon) people tended to forget he was around and let their lips flap with all sorts of information. It was the same with all servants and Dany had commanded Domino to become her Mistress of Whispers, creating a network of former slaves and smallfolk who would pass on information to her. Already she knew that Domino, upon breaking away from her, was off to gather info for her that would be present at her midday meal.

“Many things, your grace.”

“Are our visitors still keeping the law and order?” she asked.

“They have. Greyworm has not needed to do much other than send out a few Unsullied to patrol the edges of the encampments. The lords, magisters, and other gathered leaders have come to realize that you will not take kindly to lawlessness, especially if it was brought by them. Or seen by you to be brought by them. They have been very fierce in dealing with thieves and the like.”

“Good,” Daenerys said. “They bring this trouble then they should deal with it.”

“But that is not what concerns me at the moment,” Ser Barristan stated as they made their way down the stairs.

“What troubles you?”

“Did you see the shooting star last night, your grace?”

“I did not,” she admitted. “I was tending to my dragons when it appeared. I think Rhaegal might have seen something as he did seem oddly unfocused but others…” She gave a shrug.

Ser Barristan’s jaw worked. “There are reports, your grace, that the star was not a star at all.”

Daenerys raised an eyebrow at that. “And what, pray tell, are they claiming it to be?”

“They claim it is a man. Others though a god.”

“A god?” She was about to roll her eyes at that only to pause. “I suppose, to some, my powers would make me a god.” She quickly shot Ser Barristan a look. “Foolishness, of course.”

“Of course,” he said quickly but she could detect that he was relieved to hear her say that. He was always on the lookout for the madness of her family to rear its ugly head, something she allowed for; thanks to Viktor’s tales of her father Daenerys had suffered through more than one nightmare of her burning friends alive while gibbering madly.

“I suppose we can not dismiss anything, nowadays,” she commented. “I can’t decide if that makes life far more complex or simpler.”

“Something for the maesters to decide after we are long gone,” Barristan stated with a faint smile. However that smile fell when she turned right. “Your grace?”

“I will break my fast later,” she stated, reaching down and patting the sword that Klaue had given her. “If I wear this on my belt I must know how to use it, Ser Barristan. It is said that you are one of the greatest swordsman in Westeros.”

He slowly nodded. “I have never reached the title of greatest; Ser Arthur Dayne was better than me even as a lad and after him was…” He trailed off.

“Jaime Lannister,” Daenerys said. “Quite. Well, I can never hope to rival Arthur Dayne but I can at least know how to wield this blade.”

“I will try my best,” Ser Barristan stated. “Though I do worry that you will find difficulty. Not because of your gender, of course, as there are plenty of women in the songs and tales who learned how to wield a sword, but rather that I am not used to the Dothraki style of weapons… and I fear the build of it will not match your own.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, curious and taking no offense to his statement.

They arrived in the great interior training yard of the Great Pyramid of Meerren to find many already setting about their morning exercises. When she’d seized the city she had quickly set about having her advisors alter what they must in order to make all of them more comfortable. As such Logan had selected amongst the 5 different great dining halls one that would become their new training ground. It was set to one side of the Pyramid; he had chosen it because the great blocks that made up their new home were able to be moved thanks to a series of wheels, allowing for fresh air to blast through the area and ensure they didn’t need to light a million candles and choke the yard with smoke. Where once great tables had sat now were training dummies and sand had been brought from the shoreline to make the floor more comfortable for those training when they took a fall. Straw too, and heavy packed dirt. Any type of surface one wished to fight on; at that moment she saw several Unsullied throwing buckets of water onto the stone while four of their members trained, providing them with a slick surface so they could continue to master their footwork.

“Every young boy dreams of holding a broadsword longer than he is tall and swinging it in a single arc to cleave a foe in two. They scoff when they are given short swords to try, believing it to be an insult. And then after their first time in the yard they collapse in exhaustion and wake up to find their arms burning in pain. One’s body greatly determines how they are able to wield a blade. The length. The width. The heft of it. The style.”

They moved to an area currently not in use and Ser Barristan selected two wooden training swords, handing one to her handle first. Daenerys nearly toppled over due to its weight but quickly caught herself, shooting a dark look at Ser Barristan but the old knight didn’t react at all; it made her feel suddenly bashful and ashamed that she had allowed such petty emotions to come over her.

“I could never hope to wield a massive great sword. I am better with a bastard sword, for that is proper for my build. Just as a Braavosi blade would leave me defenseless for it requires the fluidity that I simply lack in my old age.” He began to circle her, looking her over carefully. “You have flexibility and speed, your grace, but also a bit of muscle on you.” Dany smiled at that; while she knew there were many that saw her bare arms and frowned at the hard muscle that she had developed there thanks to her time with the Dothraki she was rather proud of her current build. It was a constant reminder that the weak little girl, Viserys’ timid baby sister, was long dead and in her place was a true dragon. “I worry about the length of your arms when it comes to that blade but I admit I don’t know enough about it to be sure.” He paused. “I can begin you on the basics and serve as a starting teacher but we will most likely need Logan to train you in how to wield a Dothraki blade.”

Daenerys nodded at that. “Then begin teaching me the basics, Ser Barristan.”

What followed was an hour of learning all the uses for a sword. Not just swinging and killing, as that was to be expected, but also how one could defend with it. She had never really noticed how a man would twist their wrist to bring the flat part of a blade up to defend themselves; sword fights were always so quick that she could barely follow them. But Ser Barristan, much to her embarrassment, had commented that the idea of a sharp edge striking a sharp edge was NOT a good strategy at all. Rather it was one that would ensure most blades (save for Valyrian Steel) would become notched and damaged.

When it had been her turn to strike him she had assumed that he would be able to block her blows easily enough. What she hadn’t expected was how he was able to redirect her strikes, causing her to stumble and fall as she suddenly found her balance thrown completely off, her momentum continuing when she had expected it to stop. After the first time it had happened and she’d ended up flying in the hard packed dirt of the section of the yard that they’d selected for their training, spitting out a mouthful of gunk and feeling her body ache from the scuffs and scrapes she’d just received, she’d looked up to see Ser Barristan considering her with a challenging look.

‘Are you going to lie there and give up? Throw a fit that you are ‘the queen’ now your fair skin is marred? Or are you going to get up and fight back?’

Daenerys hadn’t just gotten up but she had smirked at him and risen to face this new challenge, knowing that it would make her stronger. Able to defend herself. More worthy of taking back her family’s throne. And Ser Barristan had nodded at that, pride flashing in her eyes before they had begun again.

She had truly worked up a sweat, feeling as if every part of her was utterly damp like she’d dived into Dragon’s Bay, when Ser Jorah had approached her. She looked at him in his full leather armors and wondered how the man was able to handle the heat. ‘I can control flames and still this work out has me longing to guzzle five pitchers of water! And yet her stalks about in that heavy armor…’ Ser Barristan signaled for them to halt, going over to a bucket that sat near by and grabbed two wooden cups, filling them with water. They weren’t elegant chalices filled with fine wine but the wooden cup still was the greatest drink she’d ever had.

“Slowly,” he warned her. “You’ll make yourself sick. That’s also why you must be careful with how cold the water is… men have ended up losing the entire contents of their stomach because they drank from chilled water on a hot day. The body can not rapidly reduce its temperature… you with your flames…”

Daenerys nodded and heeded his advice, taking slow sips of the water before looking to Ser Jorah. “What brings you here?”

“A delegation from Braavos has arrived, your grace, and wishes to speak to you.”

Dany nodded at that. “We expected the Sealord to arrive at some point.” She was hopeful that she would find an ally in him. While Braavos had no love of those of Old Valyria, having been a constant thorn in their side as the Hidden City, they were also a city formed by former slaves. She hoped that they would see that while she bore the name of a Valryian family she was not attempting to bring back the Empire of old.

Bruce’s words of the monster they had unleashed, the creature known as Apocalypse, haunted her thoughts for a brief moment.

‘No… Valyria is dead and must never return. And my ancestor fled Valryia before the doom. There are no reports of them holding slaves on Dragonstone… I do not know much of them before they arrived in Westeros but perhaps they weren’t slavers. Perhaps there can be common ground here.’

She needed Braavos. They had a mighty navy that would serve her well, if she was able to negotiate rights to use them, even if to merely land her troops and supplies. And the Iron Bank was there too… and it worried her that they hadn’t sent yet a representative to seek her out and discuss what they might do for her.

‘They should have already come to me. Should have sought me out to discuss what money I wished to borrow from them. The Iron Bank supports every cause unless it is a lost one… if they do not seek me out soon then people will begin to whisper that they do not have faith I can reclaim the Iron Throne.’

She would have to reach out to them herself, apparently. Perhaps that was what they wanted, yet another part of the game…

Ser Jorah broke her from her thoughts. “I wanted to warn you that those that are coming to speak with you…”

“What is it?” Dany asked.

“I have heard ill things about many of them.”

That made Dany scoff. “If I refused to meet with every person that had an ill rumor about them I wouldn’t even be able to talk to either of you.” She gestured at Ser Jorah and Ser Barristan.

But Ser Jorah shook his head. “With these ones it is different.” He took a step closer. “The Sealord, Charlus, is a good man. Fair and kind. It is said that he invites into his home those with… gifts.”

“Gifts?” Dany asked, knowing from his tone he didn’t mean presents.

“Powers, such are your own. I wouldn’t be surprised if that is a greater concern to him than his brother.” Ser Jorah shook his head. “But it is his companion that worries me.”

“And who is that?” Daenerys asked.

“They call him Magneto,” Ser Jorah said, jaw working over the name, like he was chewing of a particularly hard piece of gristle. “But it is his true name that concerns me, if it is true.”

“Ser Jorah…” Dany said, tried by the games.

“Blackfyre. Erik Blackfyre.”

At once Ser Barristan stilled.

“Impossible,” he hissed with a rage that Dany had never seen before in the man. It was startling just how fierce his voice had gotten, a growl nearly tearing itself from his lips. “They are long dead, the last of their line slaughtered. I killed Maelys the Monstrous myself!”

‘Maelys Blackfyre,’ Dany thought with a shudder. ‘He was said to be so wide and broad that he could block a wagon from sight. On his neck was said to be the head of his never-formed twin brother, a stunted shrunken skull that was forever screaming.’

“Apparently it was not,” Ser Jorah stated. “I have asked around… Erik Blackfyre claims to be the son of Daemon, hidden from Maelys so he might survive.”

“A fraud and a fake,” Barristan snapped. “Those have come before. No different from those that claimed that Maegor had a secret daughter whose line prepares even now to return or that Ned Stark’s bastard was really your twin brother, your grace.” He let out a dark huff. “Robert had the wastrel that sang that little song jailed for months. People are always seeking out hidden Targaryens and Blackfyres and they never prove to be real.”

Ser Jorah was not shaken by Barristan’s cold refusal to believe his words. “Be that as it may he has gathered to himself powerful allies. He and the Sealord are brothers in all but blood. And…” Here Ser Jorah paused.

“What it is?”

“And… he apparently has allied himself with Lord Antony Stark of Iron Pointe.”

That made Daenerys frowned. “Lord… Antony? I was under the impression that it was Lord Eddard Stark who ruled. And that it was Winterfell. His heir is named after the Usurper, is he not?”

“He is,” Ser Jorah said. “Lord Antony is a cousin of Lord Eddard Stark. His keep is in the Westerlands.”

“The… Westerlands,” Daenerys said slowly.

Ser Barristan, having regained some control after his outburst moments earlier, said, “He is an ally of the Lannisters.”

“It is said that by now he is more Lannister than Stark,” Ser Jorah added.

Daenerys pondered that. “A Lion in a Wolf’s Cloak,” she muttered. “That… is troubling.”

“They are ready to meet with you but I have informed them that you will need time to bathe and change-“

But Dany shook her head. “Bring them here.”

“Your… your grace?”

“I want them to see me not as some pampered child but as a warrior,” she informed him. “I imagine that this Erik Blackfyre will attempt some show of force… I will be happy to meet him in spectacle. Bring them here, Ser Jorah.” After only a moment’s hesitation Ser Jorah did as she commanded, Dany turning to Ser Barristan. “I need more training dummies.”

Ten minutes later Dany heard a new group enter the training yard, those working on their skills with their chosen blades pausing to stare at them. Daenerys waited until they were closer before finally turning her gaze in their direction and she had to admit they were an odd group.

Erik Blackfyre was an old man with a deeply worn face, large nose, and silver white hair. She could tell that had one time he had been dashing and handsome but the years, as they did with everyone, had worn away what had drawn the young women. But he still had strength in his limbs, having never gone to seed, and while he may not have charmed the young maids like he used to there was a commanding presence that clung to his form. He work a deep purple outfit with a long cloak and carried an open faced helmet in his hand.

Most worrying for Daenerys was how he at once commanded all attention in the room. Daenerys had met many men that dominated all when they entered into a building. She had learned under Viktor, after all, and had molded much of how she herself strode about on how he demanded attention without a word. Lords and Princes and Magisters and men with other fancy titles had all come to her, all trying to be the dominate force in the room. And while they had managed to gain some attention they had never been able to fully wrestle it from her.

Erik Blackfyre did.

He walked with a confident step and a smile on his face. All eyes moved towards him, even those with the most discipline. Wary of him. Interested in him. Intrigued in him. Dany herself found herself fighting the urge to bow to him. He was like a king from a lost age, returned once more.

Next to him, wheeled in a rolling chair (she had never seen such a thing before but at once saw the brilliance in it and was determined to commission some made for those old, enfeebled, or lame who could make use of such a device), was the Sealord of Braavos; she had been told that he didn’t have the ability to walk. And the lack of proper legs was truly a disgrace because she could tell at once that if he could walk he would easily rival Erik in commanding a room. He had a shaved head and sharp eyebrows that sat above kind yet intelligent eyes. He was dressed in fine clothing but one got the sense that where Erik reveled in his garments Charlus only wore them because that was what was expected of him.

Behind them was a truly massive man with thick curly hair on his head, sharp teeth that were more like fangs, and long black claws that tipped his fingers. He seemed to pause for a moment and snap his head towards where Logan was had been training but seeing him not there (Logan having left after Dany assured him she would prefer him to prowl about the pyramid, to make sure there was no risk of attacks happening during the meeting) he finally turned back to focus on her. A woman of Yi Ti descent with incredibly long fingernails was on the brutish man’s other side, looking at Daenerys with a condescending sneer. Her every step screamed how she believed she was the greatest being in all of existence. But where Erik drew people to submit and follow him her arrogance made people what to tear her down.

To counter them there was a strikingly beautiful woman with red hair pulled back away from her face thanks to the dark blue fabric headpiece she wore. Surprisingly she wasn’t wearing a dress but instead favored, much like Dany herself, leather britches but hers were dyed orange and over this was a sleeveless dark blue tunic. She was pushing the chair that the Sealord was in and when they came to a stop before Dany Charlus reached up and patted her hand.

Next to her was a handsome young man in blue leathers and yellow boots, gloves, and belts. He had brown hair and a face that would make women swoon if not for how stern he was. He was a leader as well but she could tell that he was still growing into it; a force of nature when he mastered it but not quite there yet. His features reminded her of Ser Jorah. But what was truly striking about the man was the strange… well, she didn’t know what to call it… upon his face. Much like the woman next to him he wore a headpiece that covered the back part of his head while keeping his face and hair free. But unlike her there was a large golden visor that wrapped around his eyes, a solid piece of ruby lining the center of it. She didn’t know HOW he was able to see in it but she could tell that he could.

The final group of three were, to be honest, the most normal. A dark skinned man with a short yet broad sword strapped to his back, a red haired woman in a dress… and a battle axe which for some reason made Dany a touch nervous though she didn’t know why, and the man leading them. He had dark hair and a neatly trimmed beard and while there were elements of him that reminded her of Ser Jorah (and thus pegged him as being originally from the North) he also held the Southern grace she had seen in both Viktor and Barristan.

This… was Antony Stark.

At once Daenerys was on edge.

“Greetings, Queen Daenerys,” Charlus said with a smile, speaking before Erik could say a word. The Blackfyre barely glanced at the man beside him but she could tell he wasn’t angry… more amused. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with us.”

“Of course,” she said politely. “This matter is closest to you, I would imagine, seeing as the Juggernaut is your brother.”

“Yeah, yeah, big and brutish is really important,” Antony said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “And I’m sure all of us have a ton to say on that and a much of other things. I know I do. So if I were you I’d run down and go get cleaned up, unless you want to spend the entire day all hot and sweaty. Which, hey, up to you on that, whatever floats your boat. Which, uh, you kind of are in need of, now that I think about it, especially if you are in the mood to begin sailing towards Westeros at some point. Hey Mags, you got any thoughts on that?”

Erik merely raised an eyebrow at that but once more Charlus was speaking. Which was good because after only listening to Antony Stark blather on for a minute Daenerys was debating if she could get away with taking his tongue.

‘Honestly it might make the people of Westeros far more likely to support my cause if they are used to him and his rambling.’

“As you are clearly already aware I am Charlus, the Sealord of Braavos. Allow me to present everyone.” He paused and Dany got the oddest sense he and Erik were talking despite not a word being said.

“Very well, Charlus,” Erik replied. “There will be enough time for Daenerys and I to speak.”

Charlus nodded at that and continued. “First my companions. These are my wards… my adopted children: Scott the Summer Knight and his wife Jeen.” The two nodded politely to Daenerys and she wondered at how that relationship had formed. They weren’t blood related, she could tell that, and as a Targaryen she had no place to speak when it came to marrying within the family but thanks to Viserys she had always found the idea of brother marrying sister to be… odd. Even adopted ones. “This is Lord Antony Stark of Iron Pointe. With him are his wife, Lady Vyrgina Stark, and his sworn sword Ser Jaime Rhodes.”

“That’s right,” Antony said, wrapping an arm around the dark-skinned man. “Me and Vyrgina here are madly in love. Give us a kiss.”

“Get the fuck off of me, Tony,” Jaime complained.

Charlus merely smiled, bemused by Antony’s actions while Dany wondered if the man was ever serious about, well, anything. “And finally, but certainly not least, may I present my dearest friend Erik, along with Yuriko Oyama and Viktor Creed.”

“Trying to hide who I am, Charlus?” Erik said with a shake of his head. “I imagine that isn’t needed; Daenerys surely must have heard by now who I am.”

“Erik Blackfyre,” she replied.

“Son of Daemon,” Erik said with a smile that she was sure was supposed to make her feel comfort. The smile of an old man welcoming their grandchild to them, asking them to come over and sit a spell and hear stories of the olden times.

‘But I have no grandfather living and all the old men that stared at me like that have wanted to fondle my breast and stick their hands between my legs,’ she thought darkly.

If the fact she didn’t instantly simper at the sight of his smile bothered him he didn’t show it. Instead Erik merely continued on, voice pleasant. “I am also sure that you are aware of our family’s long history. And I do mean that in the singular.”

“Because we are descended from the same ancestor?” Dany asked with a single raised eyebrow. “We may both share the blood of the Conqueror but that doesn’t make us truly family.”

“That wasn’t quite what I was referring to,” Erik stated. “We are related in another way, one that ties us far closer as family. My wife is Ravan Targaryen, daughter of Prince Duncan Targaryen.”

“Liar,” Ser Barristan hissed at once, startling Daenerys. “Prince Duncan died at Summerhall!”

“And Jenny of Oldstones died in childbirth,” Erik stated. “Born amongst salt and smoke, saved by a witch who became a ghost. Your cousin… and thus…”

“And… what?” Daenerys asked. “You’ve come to ask for a place in my court?”

Erik laughed at that. “Oh… no no no. Quite the opposite: I offer you a place in mine.”

She had been expecting that. Readying herself for it. And still it was a blow when he said the words.

“Do you know how many Targaryens have been born? Far more than have sat the throne. For every king or queen of our house there have been 10 more who never held the Iron Throne. It is arrogance to believe that you deserve to sit upon it purely because of who your father is.”

Dany set her jaw at that. “My father was king. Yours was a sellsword.”

“True. But sometimes it isn’t our blood that matters.”

“When you just countered that it is blood that matters. Does it hurt to speak out of both sides of your mouth?”

Erik though merely laughed even as Ser Jorah and Ser Barristan moved to bracket her. “My dear, you can not hope to win this battle. I have far more years on you. I have a wife already while it is said that you are barren… Westeros will never support any ruler that can not produce an heir. I already work to stabilize my hold on Westeros… my allies are powerful and can slay any army.”

“Not mine,” Dany said with a cool glare.

Erik sighed at that. “The follies of youth.”

“Erik…” Charlus admonished. “We are here to discuss other matters-“

“Yeah, important ones,” Antony said, cutting in. “See, I haven’t told these two old biddies yet but the whole Iron Throne thing? Doesn’t really matter. Worthless in the face of what’s coming.” Erik turned to stare at Antony, surprised, and Dany was feeling the same way. She had expected the loudmouth man to say many things but not… that.

“And… what exactly is so important that all of us should ignore this discussion concerning my birthright?” Daenerys asked.

Antony locked eyes with her, his smile falling. “The Others have returned.”

Dany… just stared at him.

“…you have no idea who the Others are, do you?” He looked at Erik and Dany saw he was just as befuddled as she was. Even Charlus seemed a touch confused. “Okay… fuck, this is going to take a while to explain and I am the wrong person to do it because honestly I only half believe it myself-“

“Not making the case any easier,” Vyrgina said and Dany had to agree with her. If he thought this was winning her over he was sadly mistaken.

Antony let out a huff. “Alright, everyone pay attention. So thousands of years ago the Children of the Forest-“

Viktor Creed suddenly stiffened before a dark vicious smile formed on his lips… just as Logan entered the training yard, flanked by Benjen the Grim, Johnny and Sue Storm, and Rickard Reed. Greyworm, Domino, and Wade trailed just behind.

“Figured you might need some backup, your grace,” Logan said gruffly only to freeze and slowly turn towards Creed. “You… I remember your stench.”

“Hey there runt,” Creed said snidely. “Haven’t seen you since I tossed you into the Sunset Sea-“

Logan let out a roar, popping his claws out and leaping at Creed.

And with that all hell broke loose.

Chapter Text

Scott

Once, during one of the many dinners that the Sealord held, a visiting merchant had walked up to Hank and said, with the shake of his head, “This manse contains some of the most exotic and marvelous beings in all of Essos! How is it then that the fiery and beautiful Jeen, ward of your Sealord, could choose one such as that plank of wood The Summer Knight as her husband? Forced too, I might understand, but…”

The merchant had had no idea that Scott was nearby, listening. And even when he had noticed he had recovered rather quickly, smiling and acting as if nothing were the matter. Of course it had helped that Scott had shown no anger over the man’s words. He hadn’t ranted or raved or demanded the man’s apology. Hadn’t walked over to Jeen either and given her some passionate kiss that would show all that he had a fire in his belly too and that lightning ran through his veins. No… he had merely stood there, staring at the man who had laughed and told him it was a wonderful feast.

Scott knew his reputation. He was the steady one. While all the others were able to cut loose and have fun he was the one always thinking about what came next. Where others were able to relax he was always thinking about what would happen and what could be done about it. He found enjoyment in that. Oh, he had his pastimes. There were several games he enjoyed, including Rakkem, which was all about angles and lining up one’s shots. Though, admittedly, he was the only one that played the game as even Jeen refused to face him as he could run the table with ease, to the point that the game was more about challenging himself with what shots he could make.

But where Hank could move away from his experiments and draw people to him with his many funny anecdotes… Scott preferred to stay quiet and listen. Where Ororo could lounge in the gardens of the Sealord’s palace, soaking in the sun, Scott liked to pace. Where Warren laughed and joked with others Scott remained by himself, thinking about what might happen for good or ill in the next few days and how he and the other members of the Sealord’s house would deal with it.

That was just who he was.

Dependable.

And while others might have not understood it the fact remained… dependable won out the day.

The moment Sabertooth leapt at the man he had called ‘Runt’ all Hell had broken loose. Daenerys’ sworn swords had seen it as an attack on them and drawn their steel and in response Magneto had held out his hand and ripped the swords from their grasp. But the Unsullied did not only train with swords and spears and at once they grabbed the wooden training weapons that lay about and Magneto was forced to claim the very weapons he had taken to try and defend himself. There was a flash by Daenerys and when Scott turned he saw that she had bathed herself in flames, rising in the air to meet Magneto who had done the same. Lady Deathstrike extended her bladed fingers only for the man that could only be the known mercenary Wade Wilson to smirk (even with his mask on Scott knew he was smirking) and make his presence known by throwing a chalk bag right in her face.

Sabertooth and the Runt were violently going at it. Anthony, his wife, and his sworn sword were looking about wildly, trying to decide just who to attack. The Unsullied were moving to bracket them all and pin them down.

Scott… did what he did best.

“ENOUGH!” he bellowed, projecting his voice, and that caused nearly all to stop. Everyone did in fact stop once he reached up and touched his visor, unleashing the concussive power that was forever held within his eyes and only contained by either his own eyelids or the special ruby lenses the Sealord had commissioned for him. The blast struck Sabertooth right in the side, throwing him from The Runt and sending him crashing along the training yard. But if there had been hope that The Runt would take that as a warning to end the fight Scott was sadly disappointed as the clawed man snarled and moved to attack Sabertooth, forcing Scott to fire upon him, sending him back.

And that caused the Runt to focus in on HIM.

“Scott…” Jeen said.

“Logan!” Ser Barristan shouted, naming the Runt.

But Logan merely snarled with a berserker’s rage and leapt at Scott. He was clearly prepared for the Summer Knight to shoot him again so Scott decided to show him he was more than a single trick. He fired but not at Logan but rather the ground, sending up a cloud of dust that blinded the feral man and also served to move Scott out of the way by a few feet. He then lashed out with his fist, striking Logan in the side and confirmed that the rumors about the man having a skeleton made of metal was true for there was no give in his ribs. That would make things tricky… but Scott could handle it. He opened fire, this time right at Logan’s feet, and caused the man to stumble so that Scott could grab his arm-

Logan sheathed his blades only to pop them again, nearly skewering Scott right in the arm.

‘He’s not brainless,’ Scott thought to himself as he let go of Logan. ‘He acts like he is but he is paying attention to the entire fight.’ He whipped around and glared at Magento, not that the man could tell with the visor. “Keep Creed from interfering!”

“You do not-“

“Just do it!” Scott snapped and Magneto, probably just as much to his own surprise as everyone else’s, did as Scott commanded. “Your grace, is there a way to get this one to stop trying to kill everyone?” he asked, realizing that if Logan served Daenerys then she knew his ways.

Unfortunately that’s when Wade decided to insert himself once more into the fight.

“Hey Peanut,” Wade said, moving to stand in front of Logan. “Need you to take a breath and calm down, okay? Don’t want to be hurting our new friends here… I hear this one is friends with a blue hedgehog.”

Scott frowned at that; Hank had been called many things but never a ‘hedgehog’.

“So… why don’t you slide those claws back into your wrists or your arms or whatever and we can have a long conversation about how it should be physically impossible for you to move your wrists when those blades are retracted.”

Logan snarled. “Get out of my fucking way, Wade. This one is gonna get what’s coming to him for interfering in my fight and then I’m gonna finish what I started with that hairy bitch over there.”

So… not a berserker’s rage. He just wanted to take out Scott. Wonderful.

“Come on now, we know ya like’em hairy!” Sabertooth called out, slowly getting back to his feet. “How is Maege, by the way?”

Logan took another step forward and Wade thrust his hand out at him while the other was held in Sabertooth’s direction. “That’s enough, Blue!” Wade declared. “You too Delta. I don’t know which of the rest of you is Charlie and Echo but that is enough! We need to take a deep breath and be calm and you know how fucked up it is for me to be preaching calm?” He tilted his head. “In fact why am I stopping this anyway. You two have fun.”

And with that Wade stepped aside and made a sweeping motion with his hand in Sabertooth’s direction.

Logan nodded, storming forward… but taking the time to slam his claws into Wade’s throat. Pepper let out a cry of shock at that but oddly enough Daenerys and her sworn swords just rolled their eyes even as Wade began to roll along the ground, clutching at his neck. But Logan didn’t head towards Sabertooth but instead turned his head in Scott’s direction and glowered.

“Stay out of this, bub… me and that bastard have some things to settle up.”

“Yeah, stay out of this Scottie!” Sabertooth said with a laugh… just before Scott fired a blast at Sabertooth’s left shoulder that sent the man spinning about before he crashed to the ground, snarling and cursing over the shattering of his shoulder blade.

“We are here to meet with your Queen,” Scott snapped off. “We are not here to fight.”

“Ya have a funny way of showing it,” Logan growled.

But Magneto spoke up at that point. “You attacked my man.”

“That ain’t no man,” Logan snapped back. “I don’t know what’s wrong with ‘im, but I can smell it.”

That made Sabertooth smirk. “Oh, you know what you are smelling on me, runt.” But when Logan merely growled at that Viktor paused, considering him for a long moment before throwing back his head and letting out a thunderous laugh. “You don’t remember me! You don’t remember any of it!” He howled his amusement and Logan moved to tackle him only for Daenerys to wave her hand and call for several Unsullied to restrain him. Logan growled and snapped at them to let him go but they refused, even as he nicked them with his claws, causing the men’s arms and legs to bleed. “I thought that blow to the head had scrambled your brains up pretty good but I didn’t realize it had ripped everything you had out! Ya just lose your memories or you also forget how to shit and piss properly?”

Daenerys stepped forward, stilling burning with the flames, but Scott could tell she was glowering at Sabertooth. “You know him.”

“Yeah, I know him. Jaime and I go WAY back.” Sabertooth smirked. “Ol pals, me and him.”

Logan took just a single step forward before he was yanked back. “We aren’t nothin’, ya creep!”

Sabertooth pressed a hand to his chest. “See how he is to his old pal? I was going to help you out, tell you everything that you didn’t know, but now you’ve gone and hurt my feelings! I’ll need time to recover…”

“Enough,” Daenerys said, her voice just as frosty as her flames were burning hot. The air rippled around her and the ground baked, what water might have been left in it dissipating in the face of her heat. “You come here seeking to speak with me and I allowed you an audience against my better judgement. Then you,” she pointed at Magneto, “insult me, demand me to stand down from my birthright so you can continue the Blackfyre tradition of attempted theft and usurpation, and then allow your man to attack my sworn sword?”

“Your man lunged at mine-“

“And yours continues even now to try and get him to fight.”

After a moment Magneto nodded. “Sabertooth. Enough.”

It took several seconds and Scott actually wondered for a brief moment if Sabertooth would refuse. But he finally calmed himself and nodded, moving back to stand behind Magneto. Scott knew that wouldn’t be the end of it though for any of them. ‘When Sabertooth gets it in his head that there is easy prey he refuses to back down. He’ll want to try and find a way to get to Logan again… their attempt at a fight here was just a warm up, I can tell.’ He glanced subtly at Magneto and while the man had his features schooled in a look of banal warmth Scott knew there was more his thoughts than that. ‘He and Sabertooth will have it out and it won’t be pretty,’ Scott thought. ‘Magneto won’t kill him… he’s of too much use. But he is going to make clear that he isn’t happy with what happened.’

Magneto, with either a boldness or a calmness that far few possessed, stepped forward once more and dipped his head. Not in a sign of submission… no, this was him showing Daenerys a touch of respect. A touch… that was it.

“I come to you, cousin, out of respect. Our family has become far too fractured and there are so few of us left with the Blood of the Dragon. Would it not be better for us to settle our disagreement so that we might reclaim the Iron Throne? We are more powerful together, you must see that. And there is a place for you-“

“Yes,” Daenerys said, cutting him off. “There is a place for me: upon the Iron Throne. It is my birthright.” Her brow crept down. “I know what you are seeking, Blackfyre. You wish for me to bend the knee and submit to you so that you might legitimize your claim. So long as I live no one will take your claim seriously.”

Scott didn’t know about that. Yes, there would be questions about Magneto and his claim to the Iron Throne… but there would be plenty that took it seriously and consider him worthy to rule the Seven Kingdoms. ‘She’s either trying to downplay him or she’s underestimating him… for her sake I hope that it’s the former and not the latter. People don’t do well when they underestimate Magneto.’

“Do you believe you are the first to tell me to give up? That I am dreaming an impossible dream? I was supposed to be Viserys’ forgotten sister. Khal Drogo’s meek exotic brood mare. The foolish Khaalesi who died in the desert. The prisoner of the Undying. The bleeding-heart ruler crushed under the might of the Three Sisters. And yet now I sit as a queen, ruling over all of Dragon’s Bay. Time and again I have shown that when I put my mind to gaining something it becomes mine. And the Iron Throne will become mine. I will claim it, and the Seven Kingdoms, and I will restore my family’s honor and birthright. And you, Erik Blackfyre, will stay out of my way or I will crush you as I have all others.”

Lady Deathstrike took a step forward but Magneto held up a hand and at once she stopped. “You will find, Daenerys Targaryen, that it is easy to claim things when you have the weak and the feeble as your only foes. You think claiming the Sisters was difficult? I could have conquered them in a single day and with far less than you ever did. You have lived your life surrounded by those that have deferred to you so long as you never pushed too hard in the wrong direction. I warn you now... standing in my way will be a direction you will regret turning towards.” He flashed a kind soft smile. “Has there not been enough bloodshed?

“You must see to reality. What you have done has been impressive… to most. But not to me. And what you seek now… perhaps you can do it. Perhaps you can claim the Iron Throne. But you will never actually keep it. Westeros will never accept a woman as a ruler and a barren one at that?” Scott wondered where THAT little bit of information had come from but the way Daenerys leaned back Scott knew at once that it was true, “Well, you are seen as forever broken. The Line of the Dragon would die with you, Daenerys.”

“I can not have children, I am told,” she said simply… before lifting up her hand, watching the flames dance along her fingers. The message was clear: women weren’t supposed to master flames either. Daenerys had proven that the impossible happen.

Magneto let out a patient little sigh at that. One Scott had heard from many old men when dealing with wild and energetic children that refused to listen and thought they knew best. From the way Daenerys was glowering at him it was clear that she recognized the sigh too.

“I see we are at an impasse and I have found in such situations that the best course of action is to step back and allow hot tempers to cool down into more rational thought.” He smiled once more and dipped his head; once again just shallow enough to be clear that he was not submitting. “We will seek out an audience with you again.”

“I will decide if I will allow it.”

But as Magneto turned Charlus spoke up, and it wasn’t missed to Scott that the Sealord could have stopped all of this with a thought. “Erik.” The Sealord’s friend turned to stare at him. “While you came here to play your little games I came here to discuss my brother. I am not finished.”

“You are welcome to have your conversations, Charlus, but I don’t believe I am needed for them.” And with that Magneto strolled away, Lady Deathstrike right behind. But Sabertooth took one last chance to look at Logan, smirking in such a way to show off his sharp canine teeth, before finally turning and following after the leader of the Brotherhood.

If Magneto or the rest of his group noticed that Tony wasn’t following after him they didn’t say a word.

“I am sorry for Erik’s behavior,” Charlus stated as Jeen pushed him towards Daenerys. “I wish I could make excuses for it but I rather get the sense that he was looking for this exact kind of confrontation when he arrived him.”

“I got that sense as well,” Daenerys muttered.

“Let us do this properly,” Charlus stated. “I am Charlus Xavier, Sealord of Braavos. These are my wards Jeen Rivers and Scott the Summer Knight.” Jeen flashed a gentle smile and Scott did as well, adding a small nod as well. “We have come to discuss Cain Marko.”

“The Juggernaut,” Daenerys stated.

“Yes,” Charlus stated. “And… I believe that we have other things to discuss. Nothing concerning the Iron Throne… that is of no concern of mine.”

“You won’t support your friend?” Daenerys pressed.

Charlus shook his head at that. “Erik and I agree on many thing and disagree on just as many. I have never thought the Iron Throne should be something he try and claim. It has spilt too much blood… it simply isn’t worth it.”

“Would you suggest the same to me?” Daenerys pressed.

“I do not know enough about you to make such a statement,” Charlus commented and Scott decided that was the perfect response to the situation they found themselves in. It was clear that the Iron Throne was a sore spot for Daenerys but Charlus also didn’t want to fully turn against Magneto. As he had done many times the Sealord chose caution, refusing to rush into any situation and instead slowly sifting through it into the proper answer was found. “And I am not here to advise you on that. My brother is my mine concern.”

“We have kept him alive because he is your brother,” Daenerys stated. “But I do fear his release. He proved himself to be very dangerous when we fought the last time.”

“All of us are dangerous,” Charlus stated. “You are dangerous… were you to wish to harm the people of this city I dare say you would be able to burn them all alive before anyone could stop you. Scott is dangerous. Your sworn sword Logan is dangerous. I am dangerous.” The younger of the two knights that stood behind Daenerys frowned at that and Charlus, with a smirk, suddenly projected into all their minds, ‘You believe you are the only ones with gifts?’

Daenerys started at that before narrowing her eyes. “You can speak in other people’s minds?”

“And read their thoughts, yes,” Charlus stated, “though it isn’t something I do unless given no other option. It is a dangerous power, after all, and I refuse to become lax when it comes to its use.” He paused at that. “Your power is dangerous… tell me, who trained you to use it?”

“I trained myself,” Daenerys stated. “I have learned how to control the flames on my own.”

“Impressive,” Jeen said.

Charlus nodded in agreement. “It most certainly is. But I must warn you that there is a danger in being complacent. Do not believe that because you have learned to do what you can do now that you have full mastery of your powers. There might be still far more you could do… and far more you might do without meaning too.”

“What are you suggesting?” Daenerys pressed.

“I have made it my life’s work to teach those with gifts. We must remain here until an answer to what to do with the Juggernaut is found. But that doesn’t mean that we must remain idle. Allow me to help you master your powers, Daenerys Firestar.”

“She has a mastery of them already,” the younger of the two nights declared. “I’ve seen her burn down the House of the Undying, wipe out the Kind Masters.”

“Fair Masters,” the dark skinned woman who had been silent for much of the confrontation stated. “I think.”

Wade gurgled something; Scott still found it odd that no one seemed to mind him laying on the ground with his throat stabbed.

“Listen here, Chuck,” Logan said and at once Scott bristled. “We don’t need your help. We’re handling things more than fine on our own.”

“Oh, is that what you call randomly attacking people?” Scott muttered under his breath.

“Yeah, when they stink of death, Pretty Boy.” Scott started at that and Logan smirked, flicking one of his earlobes. “You have to be very quiet if you get something past me.”

Scott felt his cheeks heat up at that but he squared his shoulders and refused to be cowed by the savage man before him. “You have no discipline. You could have talked to Sabertooth to try and figure out who he was. You could have told your Queen you didn’t trust him and let her decide. Instead you decided to just attack without a thought. If your training is like how you handle situations like that then we’re lucky that Meereen isn’t in flames.”

Logan took a step forward. “You get off a cheap shot and think you can talk down to me?”

“It wasn’t a cheap shot,” Scott said, moving to meet Logan. “If you hadn’t been going off without a care you would have been able to dodge it. Don’t blame me for you being sloppy.”

“The only thing sloppy here, bub, is you and your pals makin’ demands of us. Daenerys is Queen… Chuck over there is just some Sealord, whatever that is.”

‘Can’t get too close… normally I’d be willing to try and engage in some hand to hand but those claws of his are far too sharp. And they looked like Valyrian Steel.’

He hadn’t seen much of the metal in Braavos; Gambit had often bemoaned the fact that he had once had a single plate of Valyrian Steel that he was able to throw like one of his playing cards but wouldn’t be destroyed when he used his charges, making it a handy weapon. He had wanted to find someone that could make the plate into something else but had ended up losing it… somehow. The story always changed. But those that had been trying to sell Valyrian Steel in Braavos always turned out to be frauds; Jeen could sense their delight in pulling off another con without truly needing to focus on their thoughts.

But he had heard the tales. The ripple of the metal. How it seemed to hold the flames that forged it forever in its surface. The edge that was always razor sharp. The brief moments he’d seen those claws out he’d realized that it was very likely that Logan had Valyarian Steel claws.

‘He has no way to fight at a distance,’ he thought to himself. ‘He’ll probably claim that makes me a coward, not getting in close and attacking him… but that is my best option when dealing with someone like him. I need to take him out-‘

‘And then what, Scott?’ the Sealord said in his head. ‘Will you attack everyone else?’

‘Sealord,’ Scott said; he’d always been respectful of the man when addressing him, despite him basically being his father in all but blood.

‘We are guests here… what Logan did was wrong but Sabertooth only made the matter worse. We have been given a chance to connect with Daenerys… to prove we aren’t the Brotherhood.’

‘If I stand down she’ll think I’m weak.’

‘…yes, I sense you are correct.’ The Conversation was happening lightning quick, so fast that no one realized it was going on. ‘But we can’t just act recklessly.’

‘I have an idea,’ Scott said and he knew that at once the Sealord agreed, for Scott’s mind was open to him and the moment he had had the idea it had appeared in Charlus’ mind as well. Out loud he stated, “I suppose you would want to settle this in a fight… no surprise attacks or the like?”

“Ain’t gonna surprise me again,” Logan replied.

“Meereen once was known for its fighting pits. Why not a showcase for the Queen? You and I in an official battle.”

“I don’t-“ Logan began but Daenerys suddenly spoke up.

“That would be more than fair,” she stated. “I do not wish to bring back the slave fights… they were horrific and barbaric and vile. BUT… I would consent to fights being done by warriors who agree to my terms and with the proper safety measures in place.” She narrowed her eyes though. “This, though, isn’t the time to discuss such things.”

Scott nodded and backed off first, Logan doing the same. He could tell that the short man thought he had won some victory but Scott was fine with him having that; he knew the truth.

‘Most likely get a stern talking to back at the camp though…’ he thought.

“As for your offer, Sealord, while it is appreciated I do not know if it is proper,” Daenerys stated. “You want to influence me in determining what happens with the Juggernaut. I have agreed to hear out all with claims to him. But if I gave you, or even those under your care, private time with myself or those of my court it would show the others that I am already leaning towards you, even if that weren’t the case.”

“I assure you-“

Daenerys though held up her hand. “My decision is made. I will not work with you on this until after I have decided what to do with the Juggernaut.”

‘And see if the offer still stands if she goes against us,’ Scott thought. ‘Clever.’

“Yeah yeah, this is all well and sweet and kind and all that,” Tony said, reminding them all that he was still there. “But, uh, none of this really matters? The Iron Throne isn’t going to save humanity when an eternal winter is brought against us.”

“You mentioned that before, Lord Stark,” the older of the knights stated. “You claimed that the Others had returned.”

“Claim nothing. I have it on good authority. That’s why I’m here to get The Queen of Dragons or Slaves or whatever she’s calling herself to get a move on.”

“’She’ is right here,” Daenerys stated, her tone making it clear that she wasn’t pleased with Tony being so flippant with her. “And ‘she’ would like to know why I would ever listen to a Stark.”

“…okay, admittedly our families have some bad blood between us,” Tony stated. “I mean-“

‘Scott,’ Jeen said telepathically to him, ‘you must be ready in case Tony reveals a dangerous truth. It could result in Daenerys becoming enraged.’

‘What are you speaking of?’ he thought back. ‘Did you get something from Tony’s mind?’

‘Not Tony,’ Jeen informed him. ‘Lady Pepper. Her terror is making her thoughts like screams in the middle of the night.’

‘What is it?’ Scott asked.

‘Tony has an heir… Jon Stark. In Westeros he is known as the Bastard of Winterfell, the only time that Eddard Stark forgot his honor.’

‘He is the one that we heard is now the Hand of the King?’ Scott asked.

He could sense her worry as if it were his own. ‘He is. But it is a lie, Scott! Jon Stark is not Ned Stark’s bastard… he is the legitimate son of Lyanna Stark… and Rhaegar Targaryen.’

Scott had to force himself not to react to that. Tony was still blustering and blithering on, Daenerys clearly growing more and more peeved by what she viewed as a waste of her time. Scott was honestly glad for once that the man wouldn’t shut his mouth is it gave him time to process just what Jeen was telling him. Because she had been, if anything, underselling it.

Though everything he remembered, his earliest memories, were of Essos, Scott knew he was most likely a Westerosi. He didn’t know which part of the Seven Kingdoms he came from though he was reasonably sure he could rule out Dorne. But the other Six were all possibilities and as such the Sealord had made sure that he knew all about his homelands. It helped that Jeen was the bastard daughter of the Riverlands (though she did not know who; her only memory of her father, according to the Sealord, was a muddled thing involving a river and a dark trout, most likely from when she was an infant) and just as interested in her homelands. As such Scott was more than well versed in the conditions and events in Westeros.

‘Jon Stark is said to have been very close with his brother Robb. That will bring the North to him, even if Eddard Stark wouldn’t side with him. While Catelyn Stark is said to not hold any love for him her father is dying and her brother is weak… he would quickly seek to make an alliance with Jon out of a desire to strengthen his standing. If Tony were to bring Renly back to Westeros he could hold the Stormlands easily, as Renly was already acting as Lord Paramount of those lands while Robert was on the throne. The Vale is tricky… they remember that Eddard was like a son to Jon Arryn but Lysa Tully is said to be half mad. Jon is married to Natasha Martel… Doran and Oberyn perhaps may blame him for their sister’s death but if they know the truth then they have set that aside in the name of having their blood sit the throne.’

He looked at Daenerys who continued to glower at Tony as he continued to prattle on about her titles and about Others and about other mad things. Scott only caught bits and pieces of it but the fact he was claiming that Tywin Lannister’s dead brother was the one that had told him all he did was… concerning.

‘Jeen… Jon Stark need only close his hand and he could claim Westeros.’

‘Yes. It wouldn’t be bloodless but he would be able to do it. And that would cause Daenerys to move against her nephew.’

‘And with her dragons…’ He swallowed. ‘Does Charlus know?’

‘No,’ Jeen said. ‘I have placed one of my most subtle shields around Pepper’s mind… she won’t accidently reveal it as she did to me.’ While the Sealord had more power than Jeen she was better at picking up such stray thoughts, for the Sealord had to worry about so much more. Thus it wasn’t surprising that she had sensed what she had before he did. ‘I want to believe that he would do the right thing…’

‘But he and Magneto once dreamed of the Iron Throne,’ Scott thought to her. Despite what he had told Daenerys once Charlus HAD hoped of helping Magneto claim Westeros. It was only with age he had put that dream away. Not that Daenerys would accept that. ‘No… you’re right. We can’t let him know about this. Or Daenerys.’

“And then there is the whole Night’s Queen taking over Sansa’s body… I mentioned Sansa-“

“Enough,” Daenerys said. She didn’t snap or snarl the words but her tone made it clear to all that the conversation needed to end that instant. “I grow tired of this. You claim that some ancient enemy, ones you admitted only moments early are seen as only myth even in the North, are moving to invade Westeros?” She took a step towards Tony, eyes flashing brightly before she finally let her fires retreat away from her face; the rest of her form burned however. “Even if these didn’t sound like the delusions of a madman then what you are claiming is only more proof that I must act to claim my throne.”

“Act, yes,” Tony said. “But see, I am thinking-“

“I said we were done,” Daenerys said coldly, eyes narrowed in frustration.

“Technically you said ‘Enough’ and ‘I am tired of this’ and then a whole bunch of-“ Pepper grabbed Tony’s bicep and squeezed. “Ow. Why are you doing that?”

Daenerys continued to glower at him. “The only reason I am allowing you to leave this place is because I do not wish to deal with any claims that I mistreated a guest. But I will not waste a moment’s more time with Tywin Lannister’s lapdog.”

“Your grace,” Pepper said, “I am sorry but-“

“You heard the khaalesi” the younger of the knights stated.

But Pepper pressed, though not in Daenerys’ direction. “Ser Jorah… you are of the North. You know the tales and stories well. The Others HAVE returned. They march on the Wall with an army of the dead.” She took a step forward, Rhodey moving to grab Tony and keep him from ruining things with his overactive mouth. “The stories never spoke of them being destroyed. Only defeated. You know that an enemy that retreats is not an enemy that has been dealt with. Only when they are broken completely can one rest easy. Despite what Tony said we aren’t saying you shouldn’t act as you wish in terms of the throne. But you must be aware of what you will face. Please…”

Ser Jorah considered her for a long moment and Scott could tell that he wanted to say something… but his loyalty to his queen and khaalesi silenced his tongue.

“There will be no more talk of their fanciful fairy tales.”

“They are the stories of your homelands,” Rhodey pointed out. “The one you claim to desire to rule? I am sure that will bring the people to you… mocking their culture.”

Daenerys did her best to hide her flinch at that and Scott knew he was right. The Westerosi would see Daenerys as basically Essosi… and she had just proven them right. “I have far better things to do than to entertain this madness. All of you, go.”

Scott wanted to point out that they weren’t done yet; there was still much to discuss when it came to the Juggernaut, after all. The Sealord wished to see his brother and attempt to reason with him. But Daenerys’ dismissal was clear and after a moment Jeen turned Charlus’ wheelchair and began to push him out. Tony and his group followed right behind them and despite the blacksmith’s blathering Scott refused to engage him. Jeen was also utterly quiet, which was a bad sign as she could be friendly with anyone and everyone. For she to go silent was a sign of just how frustrated she was… and being on Jeen’s badside was NOT a good idea.

It was only when they were out of the city proper that Scott finally spoke.

“Well, if you were looking to make her angry you did a wonderful job.”

“Thanks, I thought so too!” Tony said with a grin.

“You WANTED her mad at you?” Jeen pressed, startled.

Tony turned to him and smirked. “Anyone can have a good time with a king or a queen. Simply pay them some compliments, tell them how they are the greatest that ever ruled, give them a few gifts, and they will be pleased as wine to aid you. But you only understand a ruler when you have angered them. When their frustrations have reached a point of action. That is when you learn their measure. Daenerys is the daughter of the Mad King… there was never a chance I was going to align with her without making sure she wouldn’t burn me alive or toss me in a pit to starve or any of the other ways that Aerys tortured his enemies so his little Blackfyre could get erect.” Tony shook his head. “No… I needed to see her mad at me… and I got that. And I am rather pleased with what I saw.”

Charlus slowly nodded at that. “It is an… interesting course to take,” he commented. “But now you have made it rather difficult on you to deal with her. She won’t soon forget this.”

Tony though waved his hand. “I have charmed worse. I’ll get myself back in her good graces, you just watch!”

Scott wasn’t entirely sure about that. ‘You might think you understand power, Tony… but you don’t understand ego very well. You have bruised Daenerys’, making her feel as if you were talking down to her. All her life, I suspect, she has felt like that. And now you are going to have a very tall mountain to climb to make her forget that.’

Chapter Text

Benjen

He had been expecting many things when he and his group learned that it was at long last their turn to meet with Daenerys Targaeryan. He had known that someone would come to bring them to her but he had been expecting one of the Unsullied to be given the task, a reminder of all she had done and a warning that they should remember her strength. Perhaps one of her Dothraki, to make clear that this wasn’t Westeros. A former slave, seeing as they knew the city well and would be able to guide them quickly to the pyramid that had become her seat of power.

What he didn’t expect was one of the most famous knights in all of Westeros to come to him and ask for a quiet word.

“You are surprised to see me here, Lord Stark?” Ser. Barristan Selmy said.

“Not Lord Stark,” Benjen found himself saying, it an automatic response at that point. More than one Northerner, upon arriving at the Wall, had addressed him as such. It didn’t help that the Old Bear remained ‘Lord Mormont’ due to him being the ‘Lord Commander’, thus making the entire thing all the more confusion for the poor lads who were worried about insulting him. “Just… Benjen.” He glanced at Selmy. “And I admit I am. Not you being with Daenerys… we had heard that you had sided with her, of course. Many speak of her stealing away Robert Baratheon’s Lord Commander.”

“It is hard to steal something that was tossed aside,” he said with a touch of bitterness. “Joffrey threw me aside, blaming me for his father’s death and claiming that I was too old to lead the kingsguard. Never mind that there are knights who have served decades more than I have… the Boy King wanted boy Knights. Or better yet knights he and his mother could more easily control. A man should not say such things about men that were their brothers but… but the kingsguard has become utterly corrupt. Oh, there were always games played with who was selected to be a part of it. Where Aegon sought out the best knights and Jaehaerys welcomed those high of birth and low the kingsguard I have known since my joining was one of utterpolitics. Rich families with deeper pockets than their enemies paying for a son to be given a white cloak. Kings and queens worrying about how to reward their neighbors rather than protecting their families. Wanting men that will nod their heads and say whatever the king wants to hear… I once told Ser Jaime Lannister that the kingsguard does not judge a king but protects him. I had forgotten though that once the Kingsguard were the trusted allies and friends of the rulers.

“Can you imagine me trying to train Joffrey how to use a sword? Or teaching him like a beloved uncle? Taking him on hunts or giving him advice on how to better romance his queen? No… no, that boy was wrong in the head and thus would never accept that because he would see it as a weakness on his part. He was told he was perfect from the moment he was born, just like his mother. The kingslayer had a chance… he actually was forced to listen. But those two…” He huffed. “So there was no room in the kingsguard for one that wouldn’t see him as perfect.” He shook his head. “And now the kingsguard is filled with boys playing at war and corrupt men only there to tell the king what he wishes to hear and plead for their families. Once… once a king would charge out into battle with his kingsguard and all eight of them would be seen as the true commanders. Now I dare say only one or two of them might not piss themselves in a true battle.

“We haven’t reached the taint of Ser Crispon Cole but… well, if allowed to continue I dare say the kingsguard would be little more than the goldcloaks in different cloth.” The old man shook his head. “How sad it is to admit that with the death of Ser Jaime the last man that might have had a chance to fix the kingsguard is now gone?”

Benjen was startled by how the old knight sounded during his entire conversation. None of the bitterness he would have suspected entered the old man’s voice. He didn’t sound angry or upset. Not even mournful. No… he sounded just… resigned. He accepted that what he had spoken was the truth and nothing would change that. It would be always that way and that was simply that.

“And Daenerys is different?” Benjen asked as they moved through the camp. He had waved off Steve and Thor (who had apparently decided to join their group, much to Benjen’s surprise), knowing that while it might have been dangerous with anyone else he could trust Ser Barristan not to harm him. The man was from another time, a better time, when honor meant something. He would not stab him in the back. ‘Even if his queen demanded it?’ a soft voice whispered in his head. ‘He stood by while your father was roasted alive and your brother strangled himself trying to save him. Can you trust a man who saw such evils and still allowed his sword to be used in the name of the man responsible?’

Benjen didn’t have an answer for that, despite how much he desperately wished he did.

“Yes… and no,” Ser Barristan admitted. “To those that have earned her trust she will listen. More than once she has changed her path because one of her Small Council members has preached to her that she is headed the wrong way… and she listens.”

“And the no?” Benjen pressed.

“When she has it in her head that you look down upon her or that you do not have her best interests in heart she will not listen to you. Which would be fine, as there are many who don’t trust her because of her age and her gender… but there are plenty of others who she sees as untrustworthy who are anything but.” He sighed, clearly troubled by what he was about to tell Benjen and it was clear to the Ranger that Ser Baristan was weighing carefully his choices.

‘He is wondering if he might be able to tell me what he wishes me to know without breaking his vows to his Queen… or if he is able to protect his Queen only through telling me the truth.’

What a horrible position to be in.

“I… know what it is like,” Benjen said softly, thinking of his sister’s pleas and purple eyes staring at him with hope, “to find yourself torn between two vows. I can only tell you that I have found that silence leads to all being silenced. The Eternal Silence.”

And suddenly Benjen found himself wondering just how Ser Barristan would react if he knew the truth. He had aligned himself with Daenerys because he believed her to be the last Targaryen… but that wasn’t the case. Even removing Maester Aemon from the equation another existed. One that held a far greater claim to the throne. What would Ser Barristan think if he learned that the Prince he had been so loyal to that it was said he still mourned for him even after agreeing to serve his killer… had a son? That Jaehaerys Targaryen, Third of His Name, and the Rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms, existed. Existed… and made by Tommen the Hand of the King and acting Regent. Would he remain loyal to Daenerys? Or would he be on the first ship leaving Essos by the moon’s rise, desperate to get to the son of his friend and Prince?

Of course Benjen couldn’t say a word. Ser Barristan wouldn’t believe him at best and believe it to be the cruelest of jokes as worst. But it made him realize how strange his life was that the two of them should be the closest of allies… but he couldn’t reveal why to the man.

Ser Barristan nodded after a moment, drawing Benjen from his thoughts. “Yes… yes you are right.” The old knight sighed. “You have been asked to meet with her highness. I know you and your companions have been waiting a long time. I must suggest you find a way to decline.”

“I… pardon?”

“You must decline the invitation.”

“And why would I do that?” Benjen asked before he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. “Are we in danger Ser Barristan?”

He pulled at the cord that was wrapped around his throat, desperate to find a way to remove it. He dared not run towards the sword that was placed cruelty just inches away from his fingers, knowing that he would never be able to grab it and attempting to do so would result in his strangling. In front of him the great bonfire burned, Daenerys screaming at her dragons to add more flames, and above the fires Edd dangled… with a smile on his face, his feet twitched back and forth.

“This reminds me of a song my grand-da used to sing!” Edd declared. “Always look on the bright side of death.” He whistled several notes. “Just before you take your terminal breath.” More whistling as he swung back and forth in time with the music. “Life’s a piece of shit, when you look at it. Life’s a laugh and death’s a joke, its true! You’ll see its all a show, keep’em laughing as you go, just remember that the last laugh is on you!”

“What?” Ser Barristan said, eyes widening in shock. “No… no of course not! You are not in danger, I assure you.”

That made Benjen frown. “Then why would you say that we must turn down her invitation to speak? We have waited to speak with Daenerys for days now…  it is important that we talk with her.”

“I imagine your cause is important, for you to come here. And I know that you are not here to preach for her to turn her eye away from Westeros. You are with the Night’s Watch… you will not break your vows to remain out of the politics of the realm.”

“Of course.”

“But that is the problem, Benjen. Daenerys… she will not take it kindly that you refuse to bend the knee.”

That startled him greatly. “Surely… surely she will not demand that the Night’s Watch swear to side with her over any other. You must tell her-“

“I have,” Ser Barristan stated. “I have explained this all to her. But I fear the events of today…”

“What happened?”

Ser Barristan told him all. Of the Brotherhood of the Blackfyres and how their actions had led to a battle amongst their sides. Of Tony’s brash words that had heated up the fires in Daenerys’ blood. Of Magneto’s demands that she give up all claims to the Iron Throne and accept HIM as the rightful ruler.

At once he saw why Ser Barristan was afraid. Daenerys’ pride had been bruised and he had been taught that a lord’s pride was easily damaged… and a king’s pride even more so. Would the same not be true for a queen? She had been wounded and now, like any wounded animal, she would lash out if she was cornered. The smart thing to do would be to back down and give her time to calm down.

But… he couldn’t do that.

"No... we can't risk it," Benjen said with a shake of his head. "The news is too important and we can't risk that we will not get a chance again to speak with her."

Ser Barristan frowned at that. "I will speak with her-"

"And she will not listen," Benjen said, cutting the old knight off, which felt like a blasphemy. Ser Barristan had earned for more respect than that but he could not stop himself from speaking. "If you could make her see reason in this you would make her see reason when she spoke with us. You would tell her that what we had to tell her was important and she must keep her ears open and her mind even more so. The fact that you are preaching caution tells me that you know her heart will not listen to your words, not on this."

Ser Barristan puffed up for a moment, clearly insulted... only for his body to wilt after a few moments more. "Yes... I hate to admit it but yes. I told you that she will take council from those close to her but I fear that there are others closer to her than I that will speak against me if I try to get her to side with you." He shook his head. "Logan has been with her since her marriage to Khal Drogo and it was he who was enraged today. I sometimes think those two are more brother and sister than she ever was with Viserys. They have a connection that can only come with time. And then there is Viktor... he is one that I simply can't get a read on. The ruler of Qarth, or as it is now called Latvaria, he may warn her heed your message... or may dismiss you outright. One can't tell which way he might go until he speaks. But the worst is Ser Jorah."

"Ser... as in Mormont?" Benjen asked in surprise. "Lord Jeor Mormont's son?"

"Yes. The one that your brother exiled."

"Ser Jorah wasn't exiled," Benjen said fiercely. "He sold men into slavery and rather than take the black or face Ned's sword with dignity he chose to run. That has assured him that should he ever step foot in Westeros again he will die... I would never trust him to have my back. A man that stains his honor is a hard man to trust when times are dark."

"And Ser Jorah will sing a different song," Ser Barristan stated with a sad shake of his head. "He will claim that your brother was cruel. That he didn't help Bear Island like he should and it is his fault that his fortunes turned downward." Ser Barristan held up his hand before Benjen could say a word. "I don't agree with him. In fact it bothers me greatly that her grace keeps such a man so close... he is a dangerous one. I informed her that Ser Jorah even was Robert's spy against her and she still has allowed him to remain. Perhaps... perhaps that has weaken his sway over her. But..." and her the knight's voice grew stronger even if there was hints of remorse within them, "...the Starks and the Targeryens are not friends."

"No... we are not," he admitted even though he knew that was a lie. 'In another life we would have been far closer than that. We would have been kin. Jon might not have sat the Iron Throne but he would have been a prince. A fine and good and just one. With the might of the Dragon, the Spear, and the Wolf, along with the Falcon and the Trout, the rest of Westeros would have been brought to heel.' He let out a mental huff. 'Seven Hells, in another life Jon and Danerys might have been promised to each other.' It wasn't unheard of... Daemon Targaryen wed his own niece, after all, and despite how the story ended from all accounts it was a good marriage...

He forced such thoughts from his mind. That was a life that would never occur. The Spear and the Wolf were united through Jon and his bride Natahsa Martell. He could not see Jon ever taking a second bride; both because he was too Wolfish to accept that and because both women would most likely kill each other. From what he had gathered both were HIGHLY possessive of what was theirs.

"It doesn't matter," Benjen said with a shake of his head. "We must speak with her. If we refuse this audience she will see it as a slight and at best we will be never allowed to speak to her again, though it is far more likely she will seek to avenge her lost honor upon us. The message must be gotten to her, even if she refuses to listen at this moment... when our words prove true at least she will have been given SOME warning."

Ser Barristan, seeing that Benjen refused to be swayed, finally nodded his head and told him to gather those that would be coming with him.

In the end it turned out that none would be left behind. Steve of course would go for he was the greatest proof that the Others WERE walking the lands of Men once more. Ygritte refused to be left behind, throwing a fit before Benjen could even suggest it. She claimed that he thought her weak even though she could now lift him up with just the tips of her fingers and throw him the entire length of Meereen and that was why he didn't want her to go. He’d finally, when allowed to say a word, told her she was of course coming just to get her to be silent. Rayne was someone he wanted to come anyway, to represent the Freefolk, but her brother demanded he come too.

"You are going to have these two alone with the Dragon Queen?" Tormund had said with a laugh. "They will either bath the world in a war of ice, fire, and wolves before the sun sets or become the best of friends. I can't decide what would be worse for all of us."

Thor had simply asked when they were leaving and Benjen had accepted that while he was a ranger, Thor was a god, and there was no way he would be able to command him to do anything. Sam had been ready to say he would stay behind but Thor had declared that the Summer Islander MUST come with them, to represent his homelands. Sam, still unable to find the man he was looking for, had agreed after a few moments.

"I'm happy to stay back here," Edd said with a smile. "Far away from dragon fire and potentially enraged queens? Sounds delightful."

"Get going," Benjen had groused. "If I have to suffer then you do to."

"Huh. That was what me da used to say to get me to come to supper each night after a long night of making shoes for fat women."

The walk to the Great Pyramid was a long one and the walk through it to Daenerys' throne room felt even longer. He didn't know of Ser Barristan was purposely taking them the long way of if that was simply how the pyramid was designed but it felt to Benjen as if he had climbed the Wall three times before they finally reached the doors. There they waited, Steve reminding Tormund, Ygritte, and Rayne that while they didn't have to kneel to her it would be helpful if they, at minimum, showed Daenarys some respect. The smile that Tormund gave at that made Benjen regret all of his choices in life.

Finally, after each was questioned by a servant about their names and titles, they were asked to enter and the first thing Benjen noticed was those gathered. A squadron of Unsullied, if he wasn't mistaken, all with spears at the ready to go from rest to defense with one command. Upon a dais was Ser Jorah Mormont and it annoyed Benjen to no end to see the man in Westerosi steel plate; he didn't deserve such an honor. Why Ned hadn't demanded his title of knight be taken from him, Benjen would never know. He certainly wouldn't address the coward with that word. Next to him was a figure in odd yellow and blue leathers that he managed to pull off quite well; his bare arms were nearly as covered as a bear's and the hair on his head was shaped upward to resemble wolf ears. After that was Ser Barristan and a small man that looked very much out of place amongst such warriors, both in terms of strength and mood. He was the only one projecting peace. Off to the other side was a man in a black and red outfit who was staring at Thor with open shock, his hand reaching down and... well, Benjen hoped he was merely adjusting himself. Beside him was who could only be Viktor, the Doom as was whispered in Meereen and the camps around it, wearing an emerald cloak and full plate including a grim mask over his face. A swarthy looking man with scars upon his face and a patchy beard looked at them with muted interest from the back of the group, it clear that while slightly intrigued he wasn’t fully interested in the meeting at all.

And upon a large yet simple stone throne, in the center of them all, sat Daenerys Firestar.

"You enter the throne room of Queen Daenerys Targaryen. The Firestar. Khaalesi. Queen of Dragon Bay." This was all spoken by a dark skinned woman with a white tattoo overlaid upon her right eye. "Presenting Benjen Stark, First Ranger of the Night's Watch. Captain Steven Rogers of the Knights of the Dawn. Ygritte..."

And here the woman paused.

"...Skullfucker."

Ygritte flashed a sharp smile at that and Benjen let out a groan, not bothering to stop himself from holding his head in his hands.

“I like her,” the red-and-black garbed man said.

"Tormund Giantsbane," the woman said, managing to recover quite quickly, "and his sister Rayne Wolfsbane. Edd of the Night's Watch-"

"I have no fancy titles," Edd said cheerfully and Benjen wondered what deities he had enraged to end up with THIS lot. "Isamalwi Iso Malsosia of the Summer Isles, And Prince Thor Odinson of Asgard."

Daenerys took them all in before settling her eyes on Benjen. "You are of the Night's Watch?"

"I am, your grace," Benjen said with a dip of his head.

"I have been told that the Night's Watch is a penal colony, where the prisoners of Westeros are sent when the dungeons are too full. What have you done to be allowed to end your sentence early, Stark?"

"That isn't fully true, your grace," Jorah stated at once, before Benjen could be startled by her words. His tone made clear that he was just as shocked by her comments. "While the South sees it as such the North sees it as an honor to volunteer to serve, so they might protect their kin from the wildlings. Many great houses of the North send their sons to serve."

'Remembered that your father was one of us in that 'penal colony', did you?' Benjen thought darkly, thought he forced his face to remain grim and unmoving. What he found odd was that Tormund, Ygritte, and Rayne seemed just as upset as he was; he didn't know why, considering that the Free Folk had accused the Night's Watch of the same things Daenerys did. 'Maybe its because she wears a crown and is saying their words back... they don't know how to feel.'

Daenerys slowly nodded at that. "Then I was given... incorrect information. My apologies."

Benjen didn't believe she was truly sorry for a second.

"My time with the Night's Watch has not ended, your grace," Benjen said, forcing himself to remain polite. "My Watch will only end with my Death."

"Then why are you here, rather than at the Wall protecting my Kingdom?" Daenerys asked.

Benjen didn't rise to the bait of disagreeing that it was 'her' kingdom. "There are Black Brothers who travel Westeros and beyond, when the need arises. Mostly to gather recruits, yes, but other times in order to deliver messages."

"And you wish to deliver a message?" Daenerys asked coolly.

"Yes," Benjen stated. "A message that is also a warning. Your life is in danger, Daenerys Targaryen. There is-"

But the queen cut him off. 

“My life has been in danger from the moment of my birth,” she said coldly. In fact all of her was cold, so that with the expression she was wearing had her hair been dark and her eyes gray she might have been one of the Stark Queens of Old, who could shatter stone with a dark look and with a single world halt an army storming towards her gate. The only thing not cold was her eyes, which blazed with the flames that were said to be forever a part of her now.  “The moment I came into this world I was hunted. Chased by the assassins of your king, Robert Baratheon. The usurper stole my throne and sent killers after me time and time again and now you come here trying to be my friend and ally and warn me of a danger?” She shook her head. “The only danger I suffer is from you.”

“Purely because he is from Westeros?” Steve said, stepping forward. “If that is the case then I can only assume you will be sending half of your Small Council from your sight.” He looked first to Ser Barristan, then to the small peaceful man, then Viktor, and finally Jorah. Benjen wondered when Steve had learned of them all, for he hadn’t realized that Viktor and the peaceful man were Westerosi (though in the peaceful man’s case he should have, thanks to his features even if they were hidden by a deep tan). “Benjen was with the Night’s Watch before the proclamations of Robert’s crowning were announced, I am told. Is the same true for all the men here?”

“They have proven themselves to me to be loyal.”

“We serve the true Queen while you bow to the usurper,” Jorah stated with a grim and condescending look that had Benjen’s wolf’s blood boiling.

“You bowed to Robert for many years, Jorah,” Benjen said, refusing to even honor the man by addressing him by his last name. “You were knighted because you helped put down the Greyjoy Rebellion for him. And then you became his spy. Tell me, did Lord Varys command you ever to put anything in Daenerys or Viscerys’ drinks?”

Daenerys’ eyes flashed at that. “Ser Jorah has told me all about his past. And he has worked even now towards forgiveness.”

“So Benjen,” Steve continued on, for Benjen had found the wolf’s blood was screaming for the time of words to be over and the time of swords begin, “purely because he holds the name of a family that harmed you, is not to be trusted. Never mind that no Stark ever killed a Targaryen but your own father killed two and your brother’s actions led to the death of a third… HE is the one that shouldn’t be trusted? Yet this one-“ Steve gestured towards Jorah, “-is given your trust?”

“Ser Jorah told me of why he served Robert… and how soon he renounced him.”

“And he told you how he made men into slaves?” Benjen snapped. “What do the people that cry out ‘Breaker of Chains’ think when they learn the Khaalesi takes advice from a slave monger. You killed the Wise Masters and the Kind Masters and the Great Masters. Made a show of wiping them from Dragon’s Bay. And yet this man, who sold men, is allowed to live? What will they say when times are tough and Jorah’s last actions in such times was to sell free men?”

“Yeah, people forget about that little bit,” the red and black man said with clear laugh in his voice.

“They came onto my lands-“ Jorah began.

But Benjen cut him off, taking a step forward. “You were looking for an excuse!” he thundered. “You were desperate for coin and grabbed the first men you could! Had it not been them you would have found someone else for a lesser crime than poaching to enslave! What will happen then when your Queen discovers that wars gobble up gold dragons and silver stags? Will you suggest that the prisoners she takes be sold to pay for her conquests?”

“You dare suggest I would-“ Daenerys said, rising up from her throne.

“He has the right of it,” Viktor stated, causing all to turn to him in shock. Daenerys turned her angered gaze on him but Viktor didn’t back down, staring at her with the intensity of a tidal wave that doused her flames. “It is something that will be learned and you will need to answer for, especially as you prepare to march for war. You claim to be of Westeros but you have never walked those lands… to them you are Essosi. And slavery is a common thing in these lands. You think your enemies will not whisper this? Every soldier will be told to fight to the death because should they be captured you and Ser Jorah will put them in chains and sell them off in order to fatten your purse.”

“I would never-“

But once more Viktor cut her off, dominating the conversation so completely that Daenerys’ words died on her tongue. “A good queen thinks over such things and has answers. Ones that are better than merely ‘I trust this man’. And ruler who believes their word is good enough without force to back it up doesn’t belong on the throne. Just as any ruler unwilling to even hear those that claim they have messages of warning purely because of grudges from ages past… and slights from others unconnected to current conversations… does not deserve their crown.” The disappointment was clear in his tone and, for a moment, Daenerys showed herself not to be a khaalesi or a queen but a young woman being scolded by a beloved mentor. She settled on her throne but suddenly it looked too big for her, making her look small. The leathers she wore that allowed her to look like a warrior now made her appear to be a child playing pretend. She was sullen and moody but also chastised. “Benjen Stark… if you are able to do so without hurling insults… what threat do you wish to inform us of?”

Benjen took a moment to settle himself, reaching down and smoothing his shirt with his hands. He hadn’t been that angry in… well, a long time. A very long time. Perhaps the last time had been when he had come to Winterfell for Robb’s 4^th naming day and caught one of Catelyn’s maids striking Jon for no other reason than he was ‘in the way’. He had told Ned and while at first he had dismissed the woman the next day Benjen had discovered her still in the castle, on orders of Catelyn.

“That is Ly’s son!” Benjen had thundered as he had made to leave Winterfell early, Ned begging him not to go. “She will NEVER forgive you for how you have treated him, Ned. You promised her and you have broken it!”

He hadn’t returned to Winterfell for 3 years and it had taken the Greyjoy Rebellion to finally get him to return. And the first words out of Ned’s mouth when they were in private were that the woman was gone.

“An assassin is coming for you, your grace,” Benjen finally got out, pleased his voice didn’t tremble or raise. “One that seeks to make your death only the least of your suffering.”

“And just what does this assassin desire then?” Daenerys said,

“To torture you,” Steve said, “for all its existence. To inflict pains upon your soul as it twists your body into a weapon to destroy all you care about.” He moved in front of Benjen, the ranger stepping back until he felt Tormund’s hand on his shoulder, giving it a slight pat. “The Ancient Enemy has awoken again. The Others have returned and the Night’s King is preparing to march on Westeros, to bring about another Long Night. He knows you and your dragons are a danger to him, your grace, and thus he seeks to turn you from a danger into a strength. One of his Council members, the Red Skull, is coming to Meereen and aims to steal your body, twisting it into an Other and use your soul to fuel one of his loyal minions.”

Daenerys stared at them in utter bafflement.

“The Others,” Ser Barristan finally got out, utterly befuddled by what Steve had revealed.

“This… they are but children’s stories,” Jorah said.

“Your father doesn’t think so,” Benjen growled only for Tormund to squeeze his shoulder. Jorah looked utterly thunderstruck by the reminder of his father’s serve on the Wall and didn’t say another word.

“You come to me and claim I must be wary of some… fantasy?” Daenerys asked. “This is why you waste my time?” She let out a huff. “What is your true goal in this then, I wonder, for there must be something else driving you. Hoping to see if I am as mad as they say my father was? That I will jump at any terrible boogin that exists?”

“Oh, the Others are VERY real,” the red and black man said.

“You can’t fucking believe this, Wade!” the hairy man said, speaking up for the first time.

“Believe and know it, Wolvie,” Wade replied. He gestured at them. “Others are back and one of them wants inside of Daenerys. Sounds about right to me.”

“They are but… a myth,” Ser Barristan stated. “A fairy tale told to children on Theon’s Night.”

“Oh?” Wade countered, bemused. “And a woman that can eat fire and shit out flames isn’t? Or a man with metal claws? Or who can do this?” Wade took out a knife and, to Benjen’s shock, stabbing himself through the hand. “GAH! Why did I think that was a good idea!?!” He ripped the knife out and after a moment the wound sealed up; only the blood that dripped to the ground showed that he had stabbed himself. “Why didn’t I bring up the Hulk?!?” Wade whined, waving his hand.

“He… has a point, your grace,” the peaceful man said. “Considering what all of us can do can we deny that these Others might be real?”

“I have seen many things,” the swarthy man commented lazily, “that people snapped at me weren’t real. It wasn’t until I forced them to come face to face with them that they accepted them to be true and many times even beyond that they believed it to be a mummur’s farce.”

“What, exactly, is an Other?” the dark skinned woman asked.

“An Other,” Steve said, “is a Child of the Forest who takes over a human body and alters it in order to walk freely upon the Earth. They control ice and snow and the bitter cold and can raise the dead as their servants.”

“Fantasy,” Jorah murmured. “A ghost story.”

“I am no fantasy,” Steve said and suddenly his eyes blazed and Benjen shivered as a cold wind filled the throne room. “I am Steve Rogers, Captain of the Knights of the Dawn… and if not for a good man I would have been one of the Thanos’ Council. Instead I maintain control of my body, as does Ygritte.” The wildling woman, who had been watching everything happen with clear delight on her face, stepped forward. “We are real.”

“Ye best begin believin’ in ghost stories, Ser Jorah,” Wade said, using for some reason an Iron Island accent, “you’re in one!”

“The Others are real. Gods are real.” Benjen moved back into the conversation again. “And they have turned your sight on you, your grace.”

But Daenerys merely rose and suddenly her body was bathed in flames. “You manipulate the cold. I manipulate fire. That doesn’t make you some mythical threat come again. I have seen a man that can twist metal with a wave of his hand. Another who could punch through stone with beams that came from his eyes. No… this is Magneto’s doing, I can tell it. You are more of his servants here to try and distract me while he attempts to claim my throne and I will not play your games. Leave this place before I throw you in cells-”

Suddenly a great boom rattled the pyramid.

“A storm!” someone screamed and turning towards the open windows to the right of them Benjen saw that the bright sun of Meereen had disappeared and black storm clouds were now rumbling, lightning lashing out and striking the pyramid.

“Thor…” Steve said, turning towards the Asgardian… whose eyes BLAZED.

“You have proven to be far lesser than I had hoped, Daenerys Targaryen. I had been told you were a great woman, of cunning and guile. A worthy ally. Instead I find a petulant child. We will leave, as you have requested, for it is your right. But should you seek to harm my companions again-“

Lightning suddenly came crashing down, arcing INTO the throne room, blinding them all. Benjen threw up his hands to shield his face and when he was finally able to lower them he saw that the lightning had carved into the rock the words ‘Beware the Thunderer, Daenerys’ right into the rock wall to their left.

With that Thor turned and after a moment Benjen and the rest followed him.

“And we were gonna fuck things up?” Ygritte said with a laugh.

Chapter Text

Daenerys

She could feel the glare as she walked into the private council room and did her best to try and remain dignified. But when she realized that it was more than one glare she felt herself nearly stumble. Dany had been expecting the glower from Viktor; she had known that his judgement was coming rather soon. But she hadn’t been expecting the likes of Klaue or N'Jakada to be shooting her annoyed looks. The same with Ser Barristan; his gaze was hot on the back of her neck, reminding her of her wanderings through the desert after her husband’s death. Susan Storm’s face was an utter mask, giving away nothing; though her brother Johnny was smiling at her warming.

Even Bruce was looking peeved at her and Daenerys grit her teeth in frustration.

N'Jakada especially annoyed her as he had no right to be there. He wasn’t part of her Small Council so she didn’t understand why he was even there… and looking so utterly comfortable as well. It wasn’t right that Daenerys should feel awkward and offput while he sat there like it was his home.

“I was unaware that we had offered more seats in the Small Council,” she said to N’Jakada and Susan.

“Doom invited us,” Johnny chirped.

“I did,” Viktor replied.

“And who are you to offer these people a chance to sit on my Small Council?” Daenerys asked. “You don’t rule Meereen.”

“I may very well rule it soon if the last few displays you have presented out there are an example of your grace under pressure,” Viktor stated.

Daenerys just shook her head. “I do not wish to discuss it.”

“You can desire the sun not to rise, the oceans not to churn, and this conversation to never occur. They will still happen. Wishes are for children and I was under the impression that you were a woman grown. Was I wrong?”

Her nostrils flared at that and she narrowed her eyes as she took her seat, Domino bringing over a pitcher of cold water. Ser Jorah and Ser Barristan moved to flank her and Daenerys, though she didn’t need their protection, appreciated it all the same. It was a show of strength and that was something she felt she needed at the moment in front of the Small Council and their guests.

“I am surprised to see the Storms here,” she stated, acting as if the two weren’t even in the room. It would remind them that she hadn’t asked them to be there. “I would have thought you’d want nothing to do with them.”

“Susan is intelligent and level headed. Her only flaw is her choice in companion.” Viktor narrowed his eyes. “And you will not distract us from the point at hand.”

“Which is?” she said slowly.

“Your abysmal showing today and how it affects all we have done.”

“We?” Daenerys asked, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t remember you here when we took Meereen and captured the Juggernaut.”

“But you remember the wealth I gave you for the Unsullied… which you have yet to pay me back.”

Dany winced at that, unable to stop herself from reacting to his words. ‘I… hadn’t forgotten to send back the gold he gave me,’ she mentally thought. ‘I just didn’t have a chance too. The roads are dangerous, the seas even more so, and we were on the move…’ The excuses sounded hollow even in her mind and she refused to say them aloud. Nor did she instantly snap to tell Viktor that he would be repaid at once; that would be handled later. To do it now would put her even more in his power. ‘Right now he is reminding all of the hold he has on me. But if I move to repay him right this instant then they will believe that he can command me to act as he wishes. I can’t afford that, not with them already looking at me warily after this morning.’

“And you all feel that I have been in error?” Dany asked, wanting to get fully on the record how they all felt about her actions.

Klaue was the first to speak, surprisingly. “He is the master of Magnetism. I would have loved to hear what he had to say. He knows metal like mothers know their babies. I am… courting the metals and could have used the help to make the match.” Somehow Daenerys wasn’t surprised by that. “As for Antony Stark… he is probably one of the Top 3 greatest blacksmiths in all of the lands. It is said that anyone who secures his favor will never lose a war. And he is now aligned with Magneto. Making an enemy of either of them was bad but both?” Klaue shook his head.

“Well,” Dany stated, “I suppose it is a fine thing then that I have you on my side.” That caused Klaue to smirk and dip his head. “And the rest of you?”

“It was… wrong how you treated Benjen Stark, your grace,” Ser Barristan stated. “You came to him angry about something he had nothing to do with.”

“He is a Stark,” Daenerys stated coolly. “They betrayed my family.”

“Yeah, they sure did,” Wade commented lazily. “How dare they not support your family after daddy burning their father alive and strangled their brother. They should have thanked Aerys for not taking a piss on the ashes to put them out.”

Daenerys pressed her lips together at that. “My father-“

“Was wrong,” Bruce stated. “Unless the next words out of your mouth are to condemn him for such barbarism then you are not the queen I thought you were.”

That startled her greatly. She hadn’t been expecting Bruce to give her such an ultimatum. “You would abandon your queen?”

“I would abandon anyone that thought the Mad King’s justice was true justice,” Bruce replied and Dany felt her hackles rise at the insulting moniker. All her life she had been taunted with that, even in Essos. Daughter of the Mad King. King Scab. Aerys the Jibberer. Servants had whispered such names in hushed tones when they thought she couldn’t hear them. The powerful of Essos had openly used such titles.

Once, when she had been little, she had asked Viserys about it and he had flown into such a rage that Maester Illyrio had been forced to give him dreamwine just to keep him from hurting himself. He had screamed and raved about how it was all lies, that their father was a good king, kind and favor. That the Starks had betrayed them. It was the right of their brother to take any woman he desired, for men had needs that women couldn’t understand and the Dragons were more than men. Who was Brandon Stark to dare to march to the Red Keep and slander their brother with lies? Who was Rickard Stark to not rush at once and fall to his knees and beg for the crown’s forgiveness? Who was Jon Arryn to not surrender Ned Stark and Robert Baratheon? Their father had known the two were traitors and they had proven it by their actions. He was in the right!

‘Ser Barristan and Viktor told me of what really happened. The tales of my family’s mistakes. But… were they truly telling me the truth? Ser Barristan bent the knee to Robert Baratheon and only came to me when Joffrey cast him aside. Had the boy never done that would he have ever come to his senses and served me? Or would I find him facing off against me on the opposite side of the battlefield, declaring that he stood with the Usurpers? And Viktor… he was a childhood friend of Jon Arryn. Has he been using me? Manipulating me away from Westeros out of some misguided desire to protect the family of his old friend?’

“Even in Essos we have heard tale of what your father did to Rickard Stark,” Susan stated, cutting through her thoughts. “To be roasted alive in one’s own armor while your son slowly strangles himself in the vain attempt to free you? It is not a way any would wish to die. And it certainly isn’t a way for a king to act.”

Daenerys wanted to speak up in defense of her family but as she looked around the room she found herself feeling guilty for such thoughts. Not a single eye looked to her in agreement. No one was staring at her ready to offer support. Horror and disgust colored their features and it struck Daenerys even more greatly that she wanted to find a reason to justify her father’s actions.

‘I would not support such a thing if it was done by a Wise Master to one of their slaves,’ she thought. ‘So why am I so quick to defend my father? The tales Ser Barristan and Viktor have told me… how he treated my mother, abused her and made her terrified to live in her own home. The same with my goodsister. So… why do I feel the sudden urge to defend him?’

She knew the reason why, she just hated to admit it.

“Of course not, Bruce,” she said with a weary sigh. “I would never say that.”

Viktor took a step forward. “Where is Logan?”

“I sent him to cool down,” Daenerys stated.

“And what will be his punishment?”

“His punishment?” Dany asked, hating how dumb she sounded.

Viktor nodded. “He disrupted a meeting and attacked a guest. Had Creed been offered bread and salt and given guest rights Magneto would have full rights to demand his head be taken from his shoulders.”

“I kinda want to see that,” Wade admitted. “I mean, what with the metal skeleton you’d only be able to saw through the goopy bits before you had to stop. Maybe just cut a ring and then… pull? Brain would still be in his skull though so I suppose he’d be able to heal from that. Though I have heard of some Essosi who prepare their dead by taking a red hot poker and shoving it up the nostril to scramble the brain-“

Bruce looked a bit green and it had nothing to do with the Hulk. Dany didn’t blame him and with a dark look Wade shut up.

“I will discuss it with Logan,” Daenerys said, her tone making it clear that was the end of that conversation.

And yet N’Jakada decided to speak up.

“If you believe this will go away you are quite mistaken. Even now you can be assured that Magneto is in the tent city, telling all of how your sworn sword attacked one of his men. How will anyone believe that you can rule when you can not control a single man?”

“I-“

But N’Jakada continued on, not letting her finish; the arrogance of it had her jaw clenching in frustration and rage at the disrespect. “The people of Essos… they are either slavers, slaves, or come from the blood of the first two even though now they are free of such practices. It is in their blood to know that only one who can fully control those under them are fit to lead. Magneto wishes to paint you as a weak creature who isn’t able to lead and relies upon others to hold onto power. Your Logan has given him an opportunity.

“Word will spread quickly and it will spread throughout not just the tent city but the lands beyond. Magneto came to talk to you and you were unable to control one of your warriors. All that come to meet with you now will bring an armed guard and they will need every assurance that you will be able see them safely when discussing their business with you.”

Daenerys tried hard not to scowl. “You think I do not understand how important it is to maintain a proper image? I am a woman trying to rule. I am a foreigner in these lands. Every day I am judge and must maintain my hold on power and work ten times harder than a man to prove myself.”

But N’Jakada merely narrowed his eyes. “Don’t try and claim the mantle of Most Oppressed from me. Even with your powers taken into account I have walked through more flames as my people’s homes were burned to ashes. Breaker of Chains… where were you the last 2000 years as my people wept and begged the gods to explain why they had to know the feeling of iron on their wrists every damn day. Your burden is you are pretty… we’re not the same.”

Dany stared at him for several long moments then broke her gaze away; she knew from the few Wise Masters that she had managed to capture, as well as the slaves she had spoken to, that in Essos different kinds of people were more or less desirable for different roles. That Slavers prized those that showed the traits of Old Valyeria in the pleasure houses. But the same people were seen as lesser stock for those seeking field hands to toil picking fruits and grains. The pale skinned people of Yi Ti also did well in the pleasure houses but also made for good house servants, seen as a status symbol; Master Illyrio had had three such slaves in his household. Exotic lithe things that moved silently and with grace.

But most desirable for all slavers, no matter their focus, was those of the darkest skins. Domino had told her that it was said those of the Summer Islands and other lands to the south were “gifts from the gods to the slavers” for they could do anything. They made for powerful warriors, able to dominate most foes. They were also exotic looking and thus made for much requested pleasure slaves. They could be quiet and work well within a home or labor far longer under the hot sun seeing to the fields. They could pick up nearly every task very quickly and perform them with such skill that they amazed their masters. Man or woman.

Dany, after having been told that, had wondered why such people were not seen like the Targeryens, who were viewed as being superior to all other people.

Domino had merely smirked.

“You answered your own question, Khaalesi.”

N’Jakada seemed to sense the place her thoughts had gone because he then said, “The people out there? They don’t know you. Aren’t sure what to think about you. For all their lives they were told what the pure breed stock of Valyria was like. The aloof bastards who held themselves as superior so it was their right to dominate. The slavers who would march into cities and claim everyone that lived within purely because they felt they deserved to own yet another man. The blood thirsty tyrants who didn’t listen to any council but their own, willing to burn the lands and salt the earth so nothing would grow again if someone dared to insult them.

“But you seem determined to do the opposite of what they expect of you. You mingle with your bloodriders and your servants, treating them as friends. You break the chains of the slaves rather than slap new iron on them. You are open with those you trust and we have heard from them of your grace and joy and laughter. You have only taken three cities and now halted to actually deal with the aftermath of your war. People… people don’t like this.”

“They don’t like that I am not a tyrant?” Dany asked, arching a single eyebrow.

“They don’t like that you aren’t what they expected. People don’t admit it but they like things to make sense. They like it when they understand exactly what is going on and why things are happening. They don’t like change and they don’t like their expectations to be shaken. When they are they seek out a reason; they want to understand why this is happening and try and find some solution. And if they can’t find that then they try and force the odd thing to fit their views. You are a square peg trying to go into a round hole and they’d rather whittle round than change the hole. Because they don’t want to change themselves.”

“Even if it means better things for them.”

“They don’t care. Because that means changing themselves.” N’Jakada shook his head. “Today though? You just gave them something that fits their world view. Your sworn sword attacked a man and you did nothing to stop him. Seemed to encourage it too. ‘Ah, now here is the Valyrian we were expecting!’ If you don’t think the slaves are now wondering if you breaking their chains was a trick-“

Daenerys was horrified and startled by such a claim, unable to believe it. “They would doubt me, after everything I’ve done for them, over this one incident?” She shook her head quickly. “No… I think you do not give them enough credit.”

“I think you are blind to how things are. How people are. You spend some time with a few of them and think that makes you one of them. One of us. You aren’t. You free the slaves but why did you? Because it was right? Or because you like having them worship you like a goddess, cheering your name and bestowing yet another title on you. The lily white savior who freed the dark skinned brothers and sisters from their chains and only asks that they be completely and utterly loyal to their new Dragon Queen. That’s what they are wondering right now… and they’re wise to think it.”

‘He’s wrong,’ Dany thought to herself. ‘He is completely and utterly wrong. I did it because I saw what had happened to them… what was happening to them… and knew that it couldn’t continue on. That it was wrong that they didn’t know freedom and they deserved it.’ But even as she thought that she wondered, deep in the back of her mind, how she would have reacted if every slave she freed thanked her… and left. Would she have demanded payment from them for what she did? That the scales be balanced?

Was that what she was doing now?

It was, of all people, Johnny who spoke up. “Magneto is known to us all. Many in Essos know of him and his Brotherhood. That earns trust, even from his enemies. “Hey, that guy might be a festering pig’s anus that was left out in the sun for too long but I KNOW he’s a festering pig’s anus. So I know where he is coming from and what he says is true or a lie. I don’t know anything about this Daenerys. She might be a beautiful water flower… or she might be a rotted sheep’s taint.” That means something, to be known.”

Susan stared at her brother. “Sheep’s taint?”

“I was trying to be colorful with my metaphors. Like you and Reed.”

“Don’t try. Ever again.”

Viktor nodded. “I agree with Susan, Storm.”

Johnny held up his hands. “But I am right. People know Magneto and what his deal is. They don’t with you. So they are looking for anything that they can grab onto, to help them get a lock on what you’re like. And yeah, you’ve done amazing things but N’Jakada here is right: people don’t like it when someone doesn’t fit the mold so they will try and force you to break the mold. That whole fight with Magneto and you snapping at the Westerosi? That’s gonna fit. That’s gonna be talked about.”

“And then there is Westeros,” Bruce stated. “Its one thing to be here in Essos and say that the Starks are traitors who deserve to be punished for what they did to your family. It’s another to go to Westeros and say it. When they hear how you treated Benjen Stark it is only going to support what they fear about you. Especially you mocking their beliefs. Even if they openly say it themselves… that the Night’s Watch is a penal colony and the Others aren’t real… you haven’t earned the right to mock such things. And that will make it all the harder to win any allies in the Seven Kingdoms.”

“The people will support me,” Daenerys stated.

“Like they are now?” Wade asked. He stood up and began to mimic pushing through a crowd. “There are… so many of them here! I can barely move trying to get through all the Westerosi rushing here to pledge themselves to you and your cause!” He began to throw mock elbows and kicks. “Make way! Make way! Whoever just tried to finger my butthole… do it again, I liked it!”

Daenerys narrowed her eyes at him. “They will come to me when I arrive on the shores of Westeros. They will see my dragons-“

“And that is how you want it to be, then?” Ser Barristan pressed and Dany felt like she was going to have a sore neck by the end of the conversation, having to constantly twist to look at someone else who was doubting her. “You want them to fear you?”

“No… I…” Daenerys shook her head. “They will see my power and they will flock to me. They will realize that I am the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“They will see you as someone only interested in revenge,” Susan pointed out in a soft, kind voice. “They will hear what you think of the Starks and all those that stood against your father for his horrible acts and they will believe that you only desire to bring fire and blood to Westeros. And it won’t matter what you have to say. What you’re true goals are. They will only hear their own fears and they will stand against you.”

“Are they right?” N’Jakada asked.

“What?” Daenerys said, now turning back to him.

“Are they right? Because I’m beginning to think they are. You haven’t said a word about what you are going to do once you have claimed your Iron Throne. Why your rule will be better than whatever little whimpering bitch is currently sitting on the throne. All we’ve heard about is how your family was done wrong and how you are going to make it right and those that hurt your family need to pay.”

“I… of course I will help Westeros!” Dany complained.

‘Will you?’ a little voice whispered. ‘You know so little. Of its people. Of its lands. And you want to rule it?’

She smashed that voice down.

“We’ve gotten off topic,” Ser Jorah stated and Dany mentally thanked her Great Bear for being the voice of reason. Their conversation wasn’t about Westeros or the slaves or anything like that. It was about what had happened today. Not what would come later. “We need to discuss Magneto and his actions.”

“We need to discuss Logan and his,” Bruce countered. “I like the man… he doesn’t get worried about me getting a bit… heated… but he was wrong to attack that guy and its gonna cause problems.”

“You have to come out strong, your grace, if you wish my opinion,” Susan stated. “You must be proactive. Command that Logan do something to earn back your good graces. Send out others to tell of your decision.”

“And I won’t look weak because I am bowing to the mob?” she demanded.

Viktor spoke up. “It is because of that mob you have your throne, or have you so quickly forgotten that?” She hated how he made her feel like a child… and hated that she sensed he was right. “I wish to speak with Daenerys alone.”

She opened her mouth to protest before deciding that Viktor had the right of it. “Yes… leave us.” The Small Council and those that Viktor had invited all rose and quickly made for the doors, within a handful of minutes allowing the two to be utterly alone. “So… now there is no audience to my embarrassment,” she said bitterly.

“Embarrassment is a good thing, in the end,” Viktor stated. “It teaches us much about ourselves. It is the ultimate instructor.” Viktor moved to stand before her. “Logan made a mistake but so did Magneto. We can use that. He could not control his own man and he was far too bold in his demands to you. Too disrespectful. With the right whispered words we can make him appear as he truly is: a grasping old man who knows you are his better and thus is offering anything he can to try and win a game he will lose. He will be right now preaching to all that listen that you are too young and too emotional to be a ruler but we can quite easily counter this. He is too old, having wasted his life in Braavos spending time with his little band of misfits, and now that he sees a better ruler with a stronger claim he is doing all he can to try and claim what is yours.”

“And there is the fact that he’s going to the Essosi to demand this when our feud is over the Iron Throne.”

That made Viktor nod, it clear from his posture he was rather pleased with her insight. “Exactly. Exactly. He has lost sight on who he must win over to his cause. Because, and let us be clear here, the likes of Pentos and Braavos and the like will claim that they care about Westeros but they truly don’t. They see the people of the Seven Kingdoms as at once cultureless swine that bumble their way through life and also as aloof nobles out of touch with reality. There are some, like Illyrio, who will pledge aid because they foolishly believe it will be good for business but the people here have only come for two reasons: to try and claim the Juggernaut and what your next step will be. Shall you sail to Westeros or will you remain here and rule… and if the latter will you seek their cities next. That has them very nervous.”

Dany slowly nodded at that. “I’ll admit… I have begun making the same mistake as Magneto. I forget that Essos is not Westeros.” She shook her head in annoyance. “It is all these meetings. They have made me unfocused on what truly matters.”

“They matter, though,” Viktor countered. “Because you are not in Westeros yet. And currently we are surrounded on all sides. You hold great power but also are in a fragile state.” He paused. “Have you decided on what will happen to Meereen, once you finally set sail?”

That made Daenerys sigh. “I have hoped that someone amongst the former slaves would rise up to be a leader. That there was someone with the will and the drive to speak in a clear voice for them. Then I would be able to begin molding them into a proper leader, to hold Meereen and keep it safe. None of the Dothraki will do… it isn’t in their nature to remain in a single place and already I can sense my bloodriders have grown anxious for battle. And while I have done what I can with them… the Dothroki are still a slave-taking people. No… it must be a former slave but none have risen up.” She let out a bitter sigh at that and, more to herself than Viktor, wondered aloud, “Is it true? Have I merely changed their chains for ones not easily seen? Does their love for me…” She trailed off, not even wanting to speak aloud the words. “I don’t know.”

“It is something you will need to decide,” Viktor told her firmly. “You in fact have a great many things you will need to decide, sooner rather than later. The Juggernaut’s fate, who will hold this city… and what will happen to all those that cheer your name.” He shot her a cold stare. “War is no place for the innocent. The women, the children… they must remain here, in Meereen. And there will be brothers and sons and husbands who do not wish to leave their families just to fight for you. They might not speak that aloud…and that is a danger for you. Something you must be aware of. Because when you declare that you set sail many will move to stand with you because they believe they have no choice. And they will hate you for that.”

It all made Dany feel very tired. The thousand little things that she had to worry about. That she had to dance about to ensure that all were pleased and happy. Something must have shown on her face because Viktor glowered at her so darkly that it had her wanting to curl up in a little ball. His stare was more powerful, and more painful, that the strikes of his fist might have been.

“This is the cost of rule,” Viktor said. He didn’t raise his voice but it still felt like Daenerys had been struck by one of Drogan’s roars. “You have been made to believe by your foolish brother and the likes of lazy men like Illyrio that power is being able to sit on a grand chair, give a few commands, and then bask in the praise of your subjects. That is not power. Not true power. Your brother didn’t understand it and had he lived, given the Iron Throne and domain over all he desired, would have seen all rebel against him. Illyrio’s power is of his wealth… he does not command a kingdoms.

“You wish to rule Westeros? Every day, from the moment you set foot in Westeros… no. Not even then. Before that. Right now, as you plan your invasion-“

“It isn’t an invasion,” Dany said, cutting him off. “I am not some foreign invader, come to some strange new land. I am returning home-“

“You never stepped foot in Westeros,” Viktor said, taking a step forward, his every movement speaking of anger. “You were born on the island of Dragonstone and whisked away to Essos. You have been taught by Essosi, your favorite foods are Essosi dishes, your choice of garb is Essosi design, and you lead an Essosi army. I remember Westeros. I grew up there. Have seen its lands. You are an Essosi girl whose only ties to Westeros are her mad father-“

“Do NOT speak of my father that way again!” Dany thundered, her fires beginning to churn around her. “I am tired of people making a mockery of my family! My blood!”

“Then you will die in Westeros because they will say far worse than me,” Viktor said, still refusing to bellow. She hated that so very much. “They will say and do far worse and if you can not handle my comments then you might as well put aside any hope of taking the Seven Kingdoms.” He took another step forward, showing no fear for her fires despite his burns. “You are an invader, Daenerys. You must embrace that because you can’t show weakness here. To delude yourself into thinking that you will arrive in King’s Landing to find the people throwing rose petals in the air and waving Dragon Banners is to show you are nothing more than a delusional child playing games.

“They will hate you. Fear you. They remember the actions of not just your father but all the Targaryens before you. The people of Meereen… you have seen how they are. They will never accept chains again after being freed; you truly believe that the Westerosi, having been freed from your family, will line up to be ruled by you again? Now all have hope of taking the Iron Throne… and that will drive them to repel you.”

“It is my right!” Daenerys shouted, so very weary of all of this. “My birthright!”

“You don’t even know what the chair looks like,” Viktor countered and Daenerys winced at that.

Back in Qarth, before she had set sail to claim the Unsullied, Daenerys and Viktor had discussed her next steps. She had spoken in great lengths of her arrival in Westeros and the Red Keep. During it all she had mentioned her dreams of her arrival. How she would walk to the home of her ancestors and throw open the red door of the Red Keep and make her way to the Iron Throne. Viktor had been rather clear that there was no ‘red door’, embarrassing her greatly for assuming as much.

And he had done so yet again that hour.

“You have never felt a Westeros winter touch your skin,” Viktor continued on. “These leathers you wear… they will not protect you. Your blood will freeze long before you have reached the North and taken Winterfell. You will become lost in the Neck and that is assuming you managed to ford the many rivers of the Riverlands. The Mountains of the Vale and the Westerlands will stand stronger than any walls you might find and the Red Waste will be like a well floraled park when you encounter the Dornish Sands.” He took another step forward and now they were so close together that they could touch one another.

She had never felt so apart from him, even when he had remained in Latvaria.

“The first true representative of Westeros comes to meet with you… and you mock him. Insult him and belittle him. Many will scoff at those that take the vows of the Night’s Watch but none will deny that Benjen Stark is an honorable man. He forsake a life of leisure to protect his homeland from the threats Beyond the Wall. And you called him a criminal and reminded him of all the sins of your family. You must pray that you can reach him before he leaves Meereen. You must hear what he has to say.”

“He spoke of the Others,” Daenerys argued. “A child’s fancy.”

“You wield and consume flames,” Viktor countered and Dany winced at that. Yes… put like that she herself was something of a nursemaid’s tale. “You have allowed yourself to be seduced by this grandeur. You have allowed your temper to get the better of you. Magneto will learn of Benjen Stark being here and he WILL seek him out… and if he is able to prove himself a more appealing choice…”

“…they betrayed my family,” Daenerys said, hating out she sounded. Her words were supposed to be strong but came out as petulant.

“Then let us hope the dead can fight wars for you.” He stared at her for another long moment. “You disappoint me, Daenerys Targaryen.”

And with that he left.

She stood there for several long moments, wanting to call for someone… anyone… to be with her. But her Small Council was in agreement that she was wrong. Viktor would only seek her out when he was ready. And the former slaves… they wouldn’t provide her what she needed.

‘You are strong,’ she mentally whispered to herself. ‘You are a khaalesi. You are a queen. You will not cry like a child.’

She was correct.

She didn’t cry.

Her tears turned to steam before they could leave her eyes.

Chapter Text

Lysa

“Every great woman has a title, you know.”

Looking down from the large thick glass window to the valleys that lay below the Eyrie Lysa sighed; the thick glass, which the foolish Maester claimed was needed to keep the great chill out of castle, was distorting what she was seeing. Twisting it and clouding it so that it was only because she knew that she was staring down at the forests of the Vale that she was able to understand what she was seeing. Shapeless blobs of green and gray and brown. So utterly wrong. When she looked through a window she still, even to this very day, expected to see the rushing rivers of Riverrun flowing all around her and the forest that lay beyond. That was a proper view… not this distorted one. It was why she had taken to holding her courts in one of the main open-air areas that littered the Eyrie. They were far better for her and when she could finally find a maester that would listen to her she planned to have windows, clear and beautiful ones, installed so that she could enjoy being amongst the clouds even during the winter.

Her mind at once went to her childhood dreams of what her castle would look like. They had always changed, depending on which suitor caught her fancy. The great Rock of the Westerlands, where she would walk upon golden floors so that all about her the sun dazzled and sparkled, the richest and most powerful of the ladies of Westeros. The famed Water Gardens of Dorne, where she might be a true Princess of the lands. The Red Keep, where she would be able to wake the dragons once more with her sweets songs so that all would remember her for a thousand years. And, of course, the greatest prize of all, that of her true love’s keep.

‘A great tower upon the peninsula, with the sea at its back and all of Westeros stretched out before it. Each floor holding different wonders, so that every flight up the stairs is an adventure. And at the very top, amongst the sea clouds, stands the Lord of the Fingers…’

Yet another reason to hate her departed husband. He had spoken of how wonderful and amazing the Eyrie was the entire time they were in King’s Landing. She had craved to go there but now found it lacking against what should have been her’s. Its windows too thick, its path too long. Why couldn’t she instantly go from the Gate to the Eyrie at once, like in the songs?

“A title?”

Lysa smiled, her thoughts drawn back to the conversation she’d been meaning to have. “Yes, my sweet. A title. Every great woman has a title.”

“But I thought only men got titles,” her dear Sweetrobin said.

Sweetrobin, another source of ire for Lysa when she thought of her husband. She had never wanted to name her precious boy ‘Robert’. The King didn’t deserve to have his name passed down to her dear and wonderful son! He was a fat, crude, disgusting man who slept with every whore he could find and drank himself into a stupor! Jon Arryn had allowed Robert to rule the Seven Kingdoms when there was nothing Kingly about the man in the slightest.

She had selected so many other names. Better names. Wonderful names. But her husband had overruled her on each other. Said that people would talk if she chose a name that had no connection to anyone in her life. She had argued that her names did… but he had said that a childhood friend wasn’t the same as her king or her goodbrother or her family. But Lysa had flat out refused to name her son after Catelyn’s northern barbarian husband; she wouldn’t have her sister hold that over her head til the end of days. Jon was out of the question as that would simply be confusing, as would naming her son after any of his family. The same with her own… she had screeched and screamed at the mere idea of naming him Hoster. Petyr… it was a wonderful name. A strong name. Perfect for a lord… but no. No, her husband had refused her that and she’d been stuck with Robert Arryn, a name he shared with a fat stupid king and her sister’s son who, if she didn’t know how prudish her sister was, she would have suspected to be a bastard himself, considering that he looked nothing like a Northsman.

It was why she insisted on Sweetrobin. Such a better name for her darling son. And wasn’t that better fitting for a Lord whose sigil was a falcon? What was a ‘Robert’ anyway? There were no Roberts that flew! Robert most likely would sink in bathwater.

“Yes, men do get titles,” Lysa said, once more pulling herself from her musings. “But only the great ones do.”

“Like me namesake!” Sweetrobin declared and Lysa forced herself not to scowl at that; it would scare her sweet baby and she never wanted to scare him. “The Demon of the Trident!”

“Or your uncle, the Blackfish,” Lysa said, deciding that was a safer thing to focus on. She could tolerate her Uncle Brynden… he at least was loyal to her. He had come to guard the Gates of the Eyrie and had written to her often while she was in King’s Landing. Of all her family he was the only one she could truly trust. “He is the only one of the Tullys to earn a title,” she informed him with a smile. “Your grandfather, your uncle, nor your aunt ever managed to earn themselves a title.”

It wasn’t entirely true as there had been plenty of Tullys to have titles. Ernie The Jester, who was said to be so cunning that he drove all his enemies into fits thanks to his strange yet effective strategies. Bert The Bore, steadfast and dull but who had managed the longest peace amongst the Brackens and the Blackwoods. Telly The Ponderer, who was said to have worried himself into an early grave but long after his death was praised for his foresight, for many of the plans and backup plans he had created had steered the Riverlands through the difficult winter during the reign of Jaehaerys the First…

“Like the Kingslayer or The Quiet Wolf?” Sweetrobin asked.

Lysa turned her back to her son so she could compose herself. She loathed the fact that so many current families had titles falling down upon their members like leaves falling from the trees. The Lannisters had the Old Lion, the Young Lion and the Kingslayer, the Little Lion and the Imp. The Red Viper of Dorne. The Lightning Lord. And especially the Starks… The Quiet Wolf and The Punisher. The Young Wolf.

The Young Wolf.

How was it fair that Catelyn got all that should come to Lysa? It should be her who was Queen! Whose son was marveled as a master of the battlefield! Whose husband was young and powerful and good and not some doddering old man-

“Mother?” Sweetrobin said again, insistently. “Like the Kingslayer and the Quiet Wolf?”

Lysa finally turned around and smiled. “Yes, my darling boy. And how you are Sweetrobin.” He frowned at that, not quite understanding that Sweetrobin was his title and not his name and yet she understood for Sweetrobin was still a far better name-

She forced herself to focus, for Lysa knew that Sweetrobin would not be pleased if he felt she was ignoring him yet again. It wasn’t that she was though! It was just that she was thinking about so many things, so many important things. And why shouldn’t she be allowed to think? Everyone always wanted her to be silent and quiet, thinking her dull and stupid, but she was smart! Smarter than everyone else in Westeros, that was for sure. The Starks and the Lannisters were at war, the former blaming the latter for her husband’s death and the Lannister trying to determine which of them had done the deed. All the while none of them realized that it was her-

Lysa shook her head, seeing Sweetrobin already moving to have one of his tantrums. She moved to sit next to him and her dear baby moved to her lap, cuddling against her just like a good boy should.

‘That’s why Edmure is the way he is,’ Lysa thought to herself. ‘Its is father and Catelyn’s fault. Father didn’t do enough to save mother, so Edmure never knew a mother’s love. It is why he whores and drinks all the time, instead of being a good and kind and pious lord like he should be.’ She ran her fingers through Sweetrobin’s hair, allowing him to slowly reach up and, with fumbling fingers, to begin untying the laces of her dress so he might get to her breasts. ‘And my sister… she claims to all that she acted as a mother to Edmure but she wasn’t. If she truly was she would have allowed him to feed from her just as Sweetrobin does for me. Had Edmure seen a woman’s breasts as a source of nourishment he would have respected and cared for them all, instead of seeing them as conquests for him to claim. Catelyn…’

“Ow!” Sweetrobin screeched, pulling away from her. Lysa looked down and realized she had begun to scratch at his head with her nails and she quickly forced him back towards her; despite his struggles she clung to him tightly and eventually he calmed down, returning his lips to her nipple.

“But women can have titles too,” she said softly as she began to rock him, knowing that her milk was making his all better. Calming his nerves, curing his shakes, and making him a good and respectful little lord. “Queen Alyssane the Good is the most famous. She was King Jaehaerys’ wife and she was more beloved than even him. Daenys the Dreamer warned the Targaryens of the Doom of Valyria, allowing them to come to Westeros and save their family. My favorite is from our own family… Abby the Magical. She ruled in the stead of her brother, Lord Murray Tully, while he was off fighting in the Sisters. She was so cunning and so wise that she was able to determine just what a petitioner wanted before they could even say a word.”

Sweetrobin pulled his lips away from her breast with a wet ‘plop’, a long thin string of saliva running from her nipple to his mouth. She found herself staring at that thread and thinking it rather accurate in depicting the bond between mother and child. It was so important… but it also could be broken so easily. A wrong move and it would snap and she found herself dreading what would happen if her boy moved his head-

“Do you have a tittle, mother?”

She forced herself to smile, stroking his hair once more. “No… not yet, my love.”

That was a lie.

She had gained a title. It was one that she hadn’t realized she had had all her life but had realized was hers during her time in The Red Keep. One that dogged her steps and haunted her dreams.

Lysa the Forgotten.

In Riverrun she was always the last who got any attention. Her sister was the Lady of Riverrun, the one that ran things so that she acted more like Lysa’s Septa than her sister. Every game they played, even when Catelyn allowed her to decide what they would do, she was never the leader or the focus. All the young lads in the yard focused on Cat rather than Lysa. When they had met with the likes of Jaime Lannister and Oberyn Martel and Robert Baratheon it had been Catelyn who had been complimented while Lysa was treated as an afterthought. She still remembered how Jaime Lannister had ignored her so he might talk with her uncle about the many battles he’d been in.

‘I wonder if he ever realized all the whispers about him in King’s Landing were because of me?’ Lysa thought.

And King’s Landing… there she was nothing. Cersei Lannister was the Queen, the most beautiful of the entire court. Lysa was never named the Queen of Love and Beauty. She never had any knights ask for her favor… not even the Vale Knights, who were supposed to be the most kind and decent of knights there were, thought to honor the wife of their liege lord. And if it wasn’t Cersei then it was Princess Myrcella who was honored, leaving Lysa sitting in her chair with her painted on smile, feeling like a fool in her dress that often didn’t fit right and had cost her far too much.

She wasn’t even the one most gossiped about, for it seemed that even in scandal she was beaten by another. Selyse Baratheon was the one that all of the court whispered about, wondering at her sanity and bemoaning her husband being caught with such a woman. All discussed Selyse’s trouble conceiving a child even though it had taken Lysa far longer to have Sweetrobin. And because both had been pregnant around the same time a far greater deal was made out of Shireen’s birth and what it meant for Stannis than Jon Arryn finally having his heir. No one cared what Lysa did because Selyse would do something utterly mad, even far away from the Capital, off on Dragonstone, and that would be the entirety of what people discussed!

Lysa was the Forgotten. Not even Ignored… Forgotten. She would be in a group of people, just listening, and then someone would notice her and act as if she had just wandered up. They simply didn’t realize that she had been there the entire time.

‘It isn’t fair,’ Lysa thought bitterly. ‘A title… a legacy. That is what I deserve. To be The Great or The Just or The Kind or The Beloved. Wise Lysa or Brave Lysa or Kind Lysa. To be remembered as more than Sweetrobin’s mother!’

She had been meant for better things. Grander things. She could have been a Queen or ruled lands all on her own or sailed the Sunset Sea. She could have been a pirate who led a thousand ships into battle or a bandit ruler who held court amongst the hidden glens of the deep forests. But no one ever allowed her to do that! No one!

‘Even now… that horrible old man is dead and gone and still I am forced to submit to the will of others!’ Her Uncle had gone off to fight in the Riverlands when she had refused to waste the Knights of the Vale on her sister’s folly. It was her fault that the Imp had escaped punishment for his crimes (even if Lysa knew that he was innocent of the ones she had claimed he committed… she knew he had to be guilty of other ones and she would have been hailed as a hero for seeing justice done). The men that had come to court her had stopped arriving at the Eyrie, claiming that they needed to worry about their borders but they promised to seek her out soon… she knew it was the fault of the likes of Harrold Hardyng and Lord Royce.

The former had been traveling the Vale as of late, meeting with the many houses. It was known that without Sweetrobin HE would be Jon’s heir and that was why Lysa had refused to allow him to visit the Eyrie. She knew if he ever got near Sweetrobin he would kill him and set himself up as the new Lord of the Vale. It made her clutch at her child even as he fell into a fitful nap, his tummy full of her milk. She couldn’t risk Harry the Heir ever getting close to her child. She… she needed to destroy him. Bring him down so low that he would NEVER be able to rise up again!

And Royce?

She knew he hated her. Thought her a weak and strange woman who was leading the Vale to ruin. He had tried to convince her to send aid to her father when the Mountain had been ravaging the Riverlands and later had spoken of how many of the smaller houses in the Vale had wished to send soldiers to assist in the war against the Lannisters.

“They killed our lord,” he had told her.

“Your lord is here,” and been her response, gesturing at Sweetrobin who had been sitting on his father’s seat, playing with a toy. “Your duty is to protect him. Your oaths are to him, not to a dead man.”

He had clearly not liked that but he had left and she had thought that the matter was settled… only for him to also begin traveling the Vale, speaking with the many different Lords. She knew he was trying to convince them to put her aside. He wanted to guide her son, to use him as a puppet so that he himself might be the Lord of the Vale.

‘He would probably have Sweetrobin declare that he was surrendering his seat and taking the black while naming Lord Royce and his sons as his heir!’ She shuddered at that. ‘Lord Royce… he follows the Old Gods! They do not believe in knights! How can such a man guide the Knights of the Vale! Only a true lord, one steeped in the way of the Seven, can lead!’ She held her boy tight, rocking him back and forth, hoping that if she clung to him with strong enough arms it would protect him. ‘The Old Gods… like the Northmen. The Starks… Catelyn!’ Her eyes widened at that. ‘Of course… of course! She was here with the Imp… she brought him here, knowing that it would anger the Lannisters. And she had time to speak with the many lords… all of whom abandoned me after she disappeared after the Imp escaped justice. She must have convinced them that she should watch over Sweetrobin!’

She could hear it as clear as if her sister were standing before her. Saying how she had raised five strong children and ruled a far larger land. That she was the elder and thus the only wise thing to do would be to give Sweetrobin over to her. That she would raise him properly and Lysa could be once more tossed aside.

“No!” she snarled, standing up suddenly. Sweetrobin murmured and Lysa awkwardly adjusted him, trying to hold him close even though he was far too big to be cradled. “No… you will not take my son, you hear me?! You will not have him!”

“We haven’t even asked for him.”

Lysa’s blood froze in her veins.

Slowly, ever so slowly, she turned towards the great doors that led out of her bedchambers to the open air terrace where she often took her meals now. They had been thrown open, showing the great firepit was cold and lifeless despite her demanding that it always be lit for Sweetrobin was scared of the dark and loved the flames. He slept in her rooms now, so that she could protect him from any threats, lying with her in her bed, which made his feedings all the easier as well. But the fire pit was cold now and from it strode a dark demon born from the Vale itself.

It had the body of a man, tall and lean and finely dressed. But his hands were silver talons and his feet claws with long gleaming toes. Along his neck was a ruff of feathers that did not match the ebony wings that burst from his back, flared out for all to see. And his face… oh, his terrible face! A short beak and gleaming emerald eyes stared at her as he slowly looked about the room, judging it carefully and with consideration.

Lysa’s stomach curdled and she pressed Sweetrobin closer to her, feeling him stir and praying he not awaken. What monster was this that came upon her? Was it some foul creature summoned by Harry the Heir to slaughter her, a child of the Riverlands? A fish that had found itself on a mountain? Or was it the manifestation of the Arryns long gone? Did her horrible husband send him from whatever Seven Hells he had found himself in, demanding it serve as his revenge for her killing him? He had said they hadn’t asked for her son… that meant he asked for her…

But she would not be taken!

At once she rushed forward, grabbing for a weapon, any weapon. Her fingers wrapped around the handle of something and she hurled it without a thought right at the demon, already moving to grab something else. She snatched up another dagger and went to throw it… only to stop and stare at the demon as he stared down at his feet.

It wasn’t a dagger she had held.

It was a hair brush.

And grasped in her fingers was a small ivory hand mirror.

A long groan filled the air and it took Lysa far too long to realize that it was coming from her own throat.

“Are you quite done?” the demon asked, stepping forward. He slowly reached up and Lysa felt a scream bubbling up in her throat as she saw him grasp at his head, tugging it from his shoulders…

…no. No, he wasn’t doing that. She realized that now. She saw that he wasn’t removing his head for it wasn’t a head at all. It was a helm and with its removal his entire appearance changed. The clawed toes revealed themselves to be boots with metal adornments upon them. The taloned hands were revealed to be ornate gauntlets. The feathered neck a collar upon a thick padded leather coat. The wings…

…she couldn’t explain the wings for the life of her and ended up not even trying. Especially when they suck back into a small black pack he was wearing. It made her wonder if there had been wings at all but if not… how had he gotten onto the terrace? It was one of the highest points of the Eyrie and only had one entrance. Unless someone had scaled the sheer rock…

Lysa decided not to focus on that and instead studied the intruder’s face. At once she saw it was not anyone she recognized. There was a Lordly quality to him… with a lean but worn face, receding short hair, a nose that was neither thin nor broad, and lips that could twist at once into a pleasing smile. But it was his eyes though that held her attention the most, for they might be the second must cunning set of eyes she had ever seen. This man, despite the creases and weathering upon his features, wasn’t a brute that only knew that one swung a sword hard. No… there was a cunning in his mind and he knew how to get what he wanted with as little effort as possible. A dangerous man, to be sure, and one that she didn’t feel comfortable being alone with. But still cunning

“Come now… is that any way for the Lady of the Vale to greet a representative of his Grace?”

“His… his Grace?” Lysa got out. “King Joffrey sent you?”

That made the stranger laugh. “I see you haven’t been getting a lot of news up here. I had heard you were isolating yourself but I think you took it a touch too far.” He shook his head at that and took another step forward only for Lysa, almost without realizing what she was doing, to throw the mirror at him. She watched it sail at him only for the man to twist out of the way, the ivory mirror flying over his shoulder and cracking against the stone floor of the terrace. “Well, that was a waste. What is with you lords and ladies tossing about expensive things? It really doesn’t endear you to the rest of us.”

“Who… who are you?” Lysa got out.

“I am Ser Adrian, Hand of the King.”

“Tywin Lannister is Hand of the King.”

“Tywin Lannister is long dead, as is Joffrey,” Adrian stated and at once Lysa knew the man was lying. There was no way that Tywin Lannister was dead. She… she would know if he were dead! She would know! The servants wouldn’t hide such things from her! Just as they wouldn’t hide that King Joffrey was dead! “Tommen sits the Iron Throne… but he is not the King I serve.”

That made Lysa’s blood boil. “I know who you are,” she hissed in a dark fury. Sweetrobin began to wriggle in her arms and she shifted him even as he tried to break free from her grasp. “And I know who you serve. If you think for one SECOND I will allow you to take my son-“

“Not interested in your son.”

“-to please my sister and get revenge on me you are wrong! So you go back to Winterfell and you tell that… that bitch… that she will NEVER have Sweetrobin!” Her boy let out a scream and she shushed him. “You are upsetting him!”

“I think he’s upset because you are crushing his arm,” Adrian said dryly.

“Mummy…” Sweetrobin whined.

“Shush, mommy will take care of this bad man!” She threw back her head and screeched, “Guards! Guards! To your Lady!”

But no guards came.

The intruder gave a weary sigh. “I am afraid they are busy with other matters. If they were closer they might have reached you… but then again if they were closer I suppose you would hear their screams. We warned Carnage to be creative but careful… that we needed your guards alive. But on this I must admit I have less faith than my king, as I think Carnage won’t be able to resist their slaughter.”

“Now now,” a new voice called out from the terrace, “you must show a bit more optimism, my Hand. Carnage knows there will be plenty of blood work to come… but not if he gives into his urges.”

Lysa felt herself tremble. She knew that voice.

“Now then, sweetbird, set the boy down. You know I won’t hurt him.”

At once she placed Sweetrobin on one of the chaise chairs and slowly moved towards the terrace. Her baby called out for her, demanding that she come to him, but for the first time in his life she refused to head his call. That startled him… and it startled her too. But she still continued on, her feet moving her inch by inch, yard by yard, away from her dear boy. Sweetrobin grew quiet at her refusal to obey his demands, allowing Lysa to focus on the voice she had longed to hear again.

“That’s right… that’s right,” he said gently, his words like the most lyrical of songs. Oh, how she had wished those many years ago in Riverrun that he would become a bard and spend his days singing her many songs but she also knew he had been meant for grander things. Just as she had been met for grander things.

Out of her chambers she stepped, one foot after the other, onto the stone balcony. A wind suddenly picked up and she shivered, having not realized how cold it had gotten. The sun was setting earlier and earlier every day, the maester claiming that Winter was Coming but she REFUSED to believe that. Winter would not come… it could not! No, it was just a cool summer… a bit chilly but that was all. A relief from the heat, and common in the mountains. Soon the sun would realize it needed to shine again and summer would return for her.

But there was no sun shining at that moment. Night had fallen and the stars were shining overhead. The moon… well, the moon looked smaller than she remembered it. In her dreams it was so big, taking up half the sky. But now it was so small… she could hide it with her finger. Clearly it and the sun were playing tricks on her… but no matter how weak and small the moon was its light still bathed down on the figure standing there, admiring one of the beautiful flower arrangements that Lysa herself had seen to.

He was exactly as she had always imagined. Clad in brilliant gleaming silver armor from head to toe, a long plush cloak of a deep purple hanging from his shoulders. Tall and strong like all the great knights spoken of in the songs and tales. His helm was frightening but she forced herself not to tremble at the sight of it; a man needed to have a terrible helm when he rode into battle, to terrify his enemies and drive them away. Such helms were not to be cowered before by the good women of the world… they were to be loved for their terror brought hope and peace to them and all they cared for.

“Petyr?” she whispered softly.

He slowly reached up, still half turned from her, and pressed his fingers to his helm and Lysa let out a gasp of wonder as it retracted into his gorget. Magic… truly it was magic! Magical armor, like in the best of her old nursemaid’s tales! It made Lysa giggle and clap her hands in delight, only for her merriment to disappear as she stared at her dear Petyr. Rather than flesh and blood she saw his face was like wisps of smoke and flame, blue in color. She could see every line of his features, the ones she had studied for many hours at the different tournaments in King’s Landing when they were so close to one another yet so far away at the same time, but it was not flesh and bone now.

“Petyr?” she said again, though this time not doubting it was him. “What… I don’t…”

He gave a soft smile and a slight shrug. “Much has happened, my dear… much has happened.” He walked towards her, his steps light and graceful as always. “Perhaps it was wise for you to seal yourself away, my dear Lysa. It prevented you from hearing the tales before I was ready to find you. I would have hated to cause you such grief.”

“I… I don’t understand…”

“The Lannisters tried to destroy me,” Petyr told her gently, taking her hands in his own. The metal of his gantlets was, to her surprise, warm to the touch, bringing a wonderful heat to her fingers. “But you know that I am not one to allow others to drag me down. I have beaten back the impossible… I have beaten death itself.”

“Death… itself?” she asked in shock.

“Indeed,” he assured her. He released one of her hands and gestured towards his features. “I know it is strange and startling but I have slipped beyond the definitions of life and death and become something more. The impossible dream… I have achieved it. And now we will be able to achieve all I desire.”

“We?” Lysa asked.

“Of course,” Petyr said with a soft laugh. “You think I would abandon you here? My darling, trapped in her tower?”

Lysa swooned at that.

“There is much to do, my dear, to ensure my rule,” he told her. “I have gathered my Small Council… please forgive my Hand for frightening you, he merely wished to prepare for my arrival.”

“Yes… yes of course!” Lysa said at once, seeing Adrian in all new eyes. Of course he hadn’t come to threaten her… he had come to tell her of her Petyr’s coming! “Oh, I feel so foolish! I was so rude to him!”

“He will forgive you, I am sure,” Petyr assured her with a laugh before moving to guide her not back to her room but to the terrace, so they might look upon the Vale bathed in evening’s light. “He is a good man… he has helped me out very much, just as I know you will help me.”

“Anything, Petyr, anything!” Lysa proclaimed. “I have waited so long… done all you have asked before now, you know that!” She grabbed onto his arm, clinging to it and feeling like a princess with her gallant prince. “Have I not always aided you? Helped you? Did I not get that horrid old man to make you Master of Coin? Did I not listen to the Queen and Lady Selyse and return to you with their comments and quips, to prepare you for the battles you had to face in King’s Landing? When you needed messages sent to guards I did as you asked.” She smiled and whispered in a coying voice, “Did we not end the life of my disgusting husband together?”

“That we did,” Petyr stated. “That we did. I do not doubt you will help me… even when my requests take you as odd or strange.”

“I would never think of anything you request as that!” Lysa assured him quickly. “You are so intelligent, Petyr… I always said so. It is a shame that even when you reached your great successes that you weren’t given more praise for your work. I know that if you command me to do something it is needed.”

“I know,” Petyr assured her and her heart fluttered at that. Oh… oh she wished to feel his lips against her own in that moment! But instead he merely drew her close to his side and looked out at the Vale that lay before them. “As I have told you… I have my Small Council. And the Eyrie will be my first ruling seat… Aegon had his Aegonfort before his Red Keep, after all, so there is no shame in that. And soon… soon I will have my Queen.” Lysa let out a squeal at that. Her… queen! Oh, let it happen soon! So very soon! Let all that had looked down on her and judged hr and thought her lesser stew in anger and jealousy as she claimed the greatest of Kings as her husband and the greatest of realms as hers to rule! “But I lack… an army.”

“An army?” she asked.

“Of course,” he stated. “I have broken beyond life and death but that doesn’t mean that I can claim all I deserve. Even the Conqueror needed an army and he had dragons.”

“You are worth more than a hundred dragons! An army of dragons!”

He chuckled at that and nodded. “Perhaps… but there are things that an army must do for a king, so that a king may rule.”

At once Lysa blushed, feeling utterly foolish. “Of course… I didn’t mean-“ she began to stammer only for Petyr to bring a finger to her lips. At once she fell silent, leaning into his touch, wishing it was his lips pressed against her own rather than his finger… but she would take whatever she could get. It had been far too long since she had held him close and stolen away secret kisses with him in the Red Keep. She yearned for his caresses and touches, longing for him to hold her and drive away the darkness that seemed to always threaten the magical life she tried to claim.

“I know… I know. I took no offense. I would never begrudge you a simple slip of the tongue.” He smiled at her once more and her heart fluttered. “Oh… I wish I could stand with you here forever but there is much to do… so much to do. We must set about building my army. And you are key.”

“I… I am?” Lysa said, startled by that. “But how can I be the key, Petyr? I am no warrior. I can not lead men into battle.”

“Of course not!” he said with a soft teasing chuckle. “I know your strengths and how to use them properly. No… you can not lead men into battle but you can lead them to me.” He waved his hand in front of him, sweeping it across the Vale. “But I know Jon Arryn must have told you many times that the Knights of the Vale were the most gallant of all men in the entire stretch of Westeros. From the Sunset Sea to the Narrow Sea, from the Wall to the very edges of the Dorne, there are none like them.”

Lysa scowled at that. “Must we speak of that disgusting old man? He is dead and gone and can never return!”

“Just because he injured you gravely doesn’t mean his words weren’t true,” Petyr stated. “Remember, I am a man of the Vale myself… he spoke as much about me as he did others.”

Shame filled her that she had forgotten that and she opened her mouth to beg his forgiveness but once more he continued to speak, not allowing her to lambast herself any more for her mistake. Petyr had always done that, looking past her ill thought words and understanding she meant no harm.

‘Catelyn… Catelyn used to scold me for talking out of turn, for not thinking before I uttered a word. Perfect prim and proper Catelyn, the jewel of the Riverlands!’ It made her blood boil at the thought of it. ‘Same with my father. I told him what I wished for and he always told me to be quiet, that I didn’t know what I spoke of! But I knew… I knew far better than him! How could a man, any man, know what a woman desires? Especially a man such as Hoster Tully! My father… he never had his eyes turned towards his home. No… he was focused on all those around him instead of those that should have been close to his heart. Family, Duty, Honor. Where was family though when he sent away Uncle Brynden, the only Tully that remained true to me? Where was family when he left them alone to settle yet ANOTHER dispute amongst the Brackens and the Blackwaters? As if those two families would ever set aside their feud. It was a waste of time! He should have been with us, being a father, instead of worrying about his bannermen. They were loyal… the Tullys had ruled for nearly 300 years and that was as good as 3000 in my opinion!

‘And the other Kingdoms… so obsessed with them. Westerlands, the North, the Stormlands. He kept them closer to his heart than he ever did me. Is it any wonder that Catelyn grew to believe that the Seven spent their days kissing her toes and proclaiming them to smell sweet? Why Edmure has become such a disgrace? Family, Duty, Honor… where was any of that when he stole my baby from me! The perfect blend of Petyr and I?’

She would never forgive him for that. Lysa had known that Petyr wasn’t quite ready to ask for her hand because he was young and young men wanted to be out having adventures rather than doing their duty to their ladywives. But… Petyr was honorable and kind. If he had learned that she was great with child, his heir, he would have asked for her hand at once and they would have gone to his great tower in the Fingers where they would rule together in peace and happiness. Hoster should have celebrated his first grandchild, a strong boy that would bring honor to House Tully. One that might be a great lord or sit on the Small Council or perhaps even marry into the Royal Family! Had not the Queen still been producing children? Did she not birth a daughter, Darberis or something like that? Her boy could have married her and been a true prince! Or Rhaegar’s daughter with Ellia… why not her as her son’s bride? Her father was obsessed with building up their family and Lysa had given him the perfect chance to do so!

But her father… the ‘honorable’ Hoster Tully… when that traitorous maester had informed him that Lysa had missed her bleeding he had practically forced her to her bed and poured the tansy down her throat, drowning her perfect son in it. Then he had forced her to wed that horrid old man, so that instead of feeling the warmth and wonder that was Petyr’s perfect form all she knew was his wrinkled hands groping her flesh-

“Are you listening, my dear?” Petyr said and once more Lysa blushed and turned away, ashamed that her thoughts had wandered to the past. He spoke before she could plead for his forgiveness. “The Vale is full of strong and powerful knights. The best mounted force in all of Westeros. And we will use them to bring peace to all… end this foolish War of the Five Crowns.”

“Yes…” she sighed in delight, her mind going to her sister once more. ‘Oh Cat… how it will burn you when Petyr forces your lord husband to bend the knee and surrender his sword and crown to him. For daring to rebel against Petyr he will lose not only his throne but his entire standing. Your precious son Robb… Hoster’s ‘first born grandson’ will be left with nothing, forced to sleep in ditches and hedges in order to have warmth. I will keep you close… I will show you that kindness… and I will make sure every day you realize how foolish you were to ever doubt me!’

But just as quickly as those thoughts entered her mind they fled like butterflies disturbed by a clumsy child.

“What is it?” Petyr asked her with concern and Lysa dipped her head.

“The Knights of the Vale… I know what you wish of me, Petyr. But they will not heed my command to march into battle. I am a woman, as you stated, and thus not fit to lead. But I have also angered them by refusing to allow them to enter into the War. Even with you now here, one of their own, I fear that their petty anger will cause them to refuse you.” She dipped her head in shame.

But Petyr lifted her chin up and stared down at her with kindness.

“I do not need you to command them to march. Only to call for them to come here. The reason why does not matter… state that you wish to discuss matters that have been bothering them as of late. That you wish to clear the air. They do not need to know of me… in fact it might be better if they did not. They wouldn’t understand for their minds are small. But… all that matters is they come here. Once they do… I will see to the rest.”

“Of course,” Lysa said at once. “Of course. I will send the messages and the ravens at once. All of the Vale will march to the Eyrie.”

“I know they will,” Petyr said as he held her from behind and Lysa felt, at long last, that all was right in the world.

Chapter Text

Bran

‘Why only that weirwood?’

That was the thought that kept going through Bran’s head. Why was it that the Three-Eyed Raven kept having them only go back to the weirwood in King’s Landing?

He knew that his friends were worried about him. That they thought him delusional and naïve and brainwashed. And that was if he was being nice about their opinions of him. They had stopped trying to convince him to eat or get some sleep and just stared at him with sorrowful eyes, shaking their heads and sighing before they went back to what they were doing. And he hated that he was causing them such distress but he knew what he was doing was important. That he needed to master his abilities because he felt it, deep in his gut, that they would be all the difference.

‘Will they though?’ the dark little voice that had been with him since the moment he had awoken to find his legs useless. ‘Or are you merely so desperate to not be a pathetic little burden that you are clinging to any hope you can find?’

Bran forced those thoughts aside.

Osha and Meera and to a lesser extent Hodor were worried about him. Jojen… Jojen not so much. But he didn’t actually encourage him like he used to. Merely would stare at him and that would be enough to get Bran to continue on with his lessons. Ser Jaime was often gone and he didn’t know what he was doing and when he tried to ask the others would suggest he actually talk to the knight when he was there to find out. But Bran couldn’t do that… he had come to realize that Ser Jaime was far smarter than he even gave himself credit for and far more persuasive. Whenever Ser Jaime pressed him about the Three-Eyed Raven and their lessons… his words penetrated him. He couldn’t easily shove them away.

But he knew the lessons were important. He knew they were.

He… just wasn’t for sure why it felt like they were taking so long.

‘All we do is visit that heartstree,’ he thought to himself. ‘Or the pendant now.’ Two days prior they had witnessed a moment between a young Aegon the Unlikely and Ser Duncan the Tall which should have been exciting but the Three-Eyed Raven had spent the entire time wandering around them, looking for spies. He didn’t know why and when he had asked the Raven had chastised him for not ‘considering all that might be found’. ‘It is no where near the Wall or the North. Our enemies aren’t coming from the South they come from the North… so why does the Three-Eyed Raven have me looking the wrong way?’

He’d asked the Three-Eyed Raven such things but the old man had merely told him that it didn’t matter and he needed to let him worry about such things. That Bran wasn’t ready yet to look into such mysteries. But… if the Three-Eyed Raven truly could see into the past he would have known that telling Bran not to do something was the best way to get him to do something. After all, how many times had his mother demanded he not climb the walls of Winterfell…

‘Mother,’ Bran thought to himself, his eyes snapping open.

He suddenly remembered her, as clear as day. His mother. He hadn’t seen her since the accident and yet she was clear in his mind. And he wanted nothing more to see her in that moment, even if it was just a shade from the past. Bran was suddenly filled with the urge to find the Three-Eyed Raven and demand he allow him to see his family. After all, they had seen the Raven’s own family many times during their lessons… why couldn’t Bran see his own? See his father. His mother. Robb and Arya. Go back to the past and see Sansa again, as she had once been before the Lannisters had clouded her mind and made her forget all about them. Find Jon too… he missed Jon terribly and wondered if things would have been better if he had stayed in Winterfell with them. Find Rickon and see how he was doing with all the changes…

Yes. Yes, Bran decided in that moment… he needed to see his family.

Looking about though, ready to call for Hodor, he snapped his jaw shut.

He had fallen asleep at some point and he dimly realized that his stomach was screaming for food. He looked about the chamber that he and his friends had made their own and saw that everyone else was asleep. Not wanting to awaken anyone Bran rolling onto his Belly and began to crawl towards where they kept their supplies, quietly horrified at how much effort it took. Back at Winterfell he had bene able to move about rather easily; he only needed Hodor to carry him around because Robb had deemed it undignified to have him wriggling on his belly like a serpent. But while his legs had been useless things his arms had been strong from hours spent climbing and they had only become stronger as he had begun to move about in private. But now he found himself barely able to get a few feet before he collapsed onto the cold dirt floor, his arms simply unable to support his weight.

He laid there for several moments, willing himself not to cry. It wasn’t fair though… he just wanted to be of some use! The Three-Eyed Raven had claimed he would learn to fly but he couldn’t even get a bit of hard tack or salted meat to fill his aching belly! Everyone thought him weak and as he lay there amongst the roots of the weirwood he knew he was weak. Weak and pathetic.

‘How am I supposed to help anyone if I can’t even make it to a supply bag, let alone to the chamber of the Three-Eyed Raven?’ he thought bitterly. He pressed his forehead against the ground and felt the tears he was fighting against sting his eyes. ‘How can I learn what the Others are plotting if I can’t even move ten feet? Will I need Hodor to constantly carry me back and forth to the chamber? Or… or will that be my home forever? Forced to forever be apart-‘

Bran suddenly paused.

‘This entire place… it is a weirwood,’ he realized, running his hand along the root he had ended up lying upon. ‘Why… why can I not…’

Reaching out, Bran pressed his palm against the root, feeling it. But not like how most would have felt a tree root, sensing the roughness in it. No, Bran sought out the warmth of the weirwood, the proof that it was still alive and strong even so far North in the Lands of Always Winter. Bran felt the heat and then allowed his mind to dive into it, much like how he and his brothers had dived into the pools in the godswood during warm summer days, plunging into the dark depths.

He found himself swirling about the Weirwood Network but while the path back to the pendant was bright and clear he moved away from it and made for other paths, ones that lay closer to him. Ones in the North. But the pull of the King’s Landing weirwood was stronger than he expected and while he was able to fight off its grasp he still found himself crashing down not in Winterfell but a place he had never been to before.

It was a godswood, he could tell that, but it also wasn’t a godswood. Not a true one. It was too… false. Too maintained and orderly. He was used to the godswood of Winterfell, which was a true forest right in the middle of the castle grounds. The area he found himself in was too well organized and it made it utterly off-putting. All the trees perfectly lined up in rows, the grass trimmed down to tiny short shoots, flowers forced to grow in beds instead of wherever their seeds might fall. He could feel the trees complaining about how their branches had been cut so that they all looked the same; a useless thing in their opinion. Beyond that the entire place, despite being quite airy, had a damp quality to it. He could taste the moisture in the water, but it wasn’t salty like Theon had commented the sea brought. There was a dampness to everything, so that Bran had the sense that he would never know what it was like to be dry again.

“I suppose this makes for a lovely little garden,” someone said and Bran hurried to his feet, looking for a place to hide before he suddenly felt very foolish; he wouldn’t be visible to those that were talking, for he was seeing and hearing what the weirwoods had experienced. So instead he stood there and watched as two figures turned a corner and continued along the path.

The first had to be a Stark. There was no doubt of it in Bran’s mind. He had Jon and Father’s coloring though he was beefier than both of them. He also was smiling openly and broadly which was something Bran wasn’t used to. His father and brother weren’t joyless but they were always careful about how they showed their pleased moods. They didn’t let it explode outward like so many but rather carefully parceled it out, as if afraid that if they gave too much then they’d run out. He wore the grays of House Stark but was far more richly dressed than even Robb when he’d needed to act as the Prince of Winterfell.

Next to him… well, Bran was startled to find himself staring at Sansa. His sisters hair was long and braided in the Southern style she always preferred and she was wearing a deep blue dress that only made it stand out all the more. She moved easily along the path, not struggling at all when it came to her companion and his longer strides.

“This is the godswood,” Sansa said.

“Aye, I suppose that’s what you’ve been told,” the Stark informed her. “But this is no godswood. When we are married I will show you a true godswood, as it is meant to be. You will see how wild and savage it truly is, allowed to grow free as it should. And then you’ll see this is nothing more than a garden.”

“I think I perfect the order,” Sansa stated.

“That isn’t true,” the Stark said, suddenly grabbing her by the waist and causing her to cry out in shock. “You like the wild… you just don’t know it yet.”

“Let me grow, Brandon!” Sansa cried out.

“Never, Cat.”

‘Cat?’ Bran thought before it suddenly struck him what he was seeing. This wasn’t Sansa… it was Bran’s mother when she was young!

He took a step forward, though he had no idea what he’d do, but suddenly everything lurched and he found himself falling again, tumbling through the weirdwood roots, body spinning end over end. He cried out but no one could hear him, for when the trees cried out no one cared about them, after all.

Bran suddenly landed in the snow, groaning and spitting out a wet mouthful of the stuff, only to scramble back in a panic when he realized he was surrounded by many boots, dark in color so they stood out against the snow. But none of the wearers noticed him and, once more, he felt foolish. But he couldn’t help his reaction, as it felt just utterly natural for him to be worried about people seeing him when he stood right before them.

Calming himself he took in the men, who were wildly different from each other. Northern looks. Southern. Various heights and weights and builds. But they were all powerful men, warriors each and every one of them. That he knew for sure. Each could be a hero in some epic tale that would have delighted him back at Winterfell as he sat with Old Nan. They all wore dark clothing, furs and leathers layered properly to provide heat without the danger of causing one to pass out. And their weapons were black too, which was very striking to Bran. They of course had regular steel on their hips, as well as bronze weapons that gleamed in the bright winter morning light, but their main swords, the ones they kept closest to them, seemed to be made of stone. A shiny black stone that at once made Bran, though he didn’t know why, think of fire.

The man at the center of the group suddenly perked up, head raised as he looked past the grove of trees they were standing in and Bran heard the crunching of snow. The leader, a barrel-chested man with a thick mustache and a small rather dapper looking hat perched on his head, grunted and took a puff from the strange object he had shoved between his teeth that extended past his lips; smoke came out of the corner of his mouth and Bran wondered if he was a dragon given human form.

“Well?” the leader of the group asked as the new arrival trudged towards them. “What has happened?”

“The Night’s King has been pushed back, Dum Dum,” the new arrival said.

“What did you call-“ a young man near the leader said, bristling in indignation, only to grow silent when the leader held up his hand.

“Its my fucking name, you idiot,” the newly named Dum Dum said. “You got a problem with that?” The young man shrank down and the leader turned to the new arrival. “Pushed back or killed?”

“Pushed back,” the messenger admitted. “We did all we could… we following your commands to the letter, Dum Dum… but they must have realized what we were plotting because they summoned forth a great ice storm. We lost many knights who charged into the maelstrom. I’ve never seen someone freeze so quickly.” He shook his head, clearly disturbed by what he had seen.

“And… Steve?”

Bran turned and his eyes widened. At first he thought he was staring at his father’s cousin, Antony Stark, but the man before him merely looked very much like him and had a similar air about him. But his face was a bit more round and rather than the neatly trimmed beard that Antony had this man had a full beard and long dark hair that hung down to his shoulders. The direwolf of House Stark was emblazed upon his leather jacket and upon his head sat a weirwood crown.

He knew, even without being told, that he was staring at Bran the Builder, the famous founder of House Stark.

The messenger shook his head. “There was no sign of him.”

“He isn’t dead,” Dum Dum said. “And he isn’t captured then.”

“You can’t-“ one of the other men near Dum Dum said but the thickly built man shook his head.

“Thanos would have mocked us if he had killed or captured Steve. He said not a word and I saw him as he was beginning the retreat… he was looking for him. He was disturbed that he couldn’t find him and he was waiting for Steve to suddenly pop out and attack him with his shield and a smile. No… Steve is still out there, trapped, and I won’t stop looking for him.”

King Bran though shook his head. “We must focus on the living, Dum Dum… Steve would have wanted that. The Long Night has finally been broken but Winter is still upon us. And many more will come soon. Our lands have been ravaged and our people weakened… we must see to them.”

“You will see to them,” Dum Dum said and his tone made clear that he wasn’t mocking or insulting King Bran for his choice. “You will see to them and ensure that they are well. But we will remain… we will watch for Steve. And the Night’s King as well. He is driven back and he has been wounded but he will return. We must be prepared.” Dum Dum turned to stare North.

King Bran rubbed his chin. “I have… a few ideas on that. Ones I have discussed with the Children of the Forest and the Giants. Something to help us. A Wall.”

“You think a Wall can hold back the Others?” the man that had jumped to Dum Dum’s defense asked, it clear he didn’t believe such a thing could ever work.

King Bran though smirked. “Wall with a capital W. Something… powerful. Eternal.”

Bran wanted to hear more. This… this was the forging of the Wall! And he believed that Dum Dum might very well be one of the first men to lead the Night’s Watch! ‘But what do they mean that the Night’s King was only driven back… what was their plan? And how did they wound him? I need to-‘

He stepped forward only for find the ground no longer there. He let out a cry and then he was falling, tumbling down down down without any way to stop. Except that wasn’t right because Bran suddenly got to experience something he’d never felt before.

He had fallen plenty of times during climbing… despite his claims to his mother that he had never lost his grip there had been plenty of times that he had fallen during many of his climbs. But he’d always been careful in those early days to make sure that he was near things that would break his fall. Straw. Bushes. Mud. The last one had led his mother to believing he was going through a ‘dirty’ phase but he hadn’t been willing to explain to her that he simply had been finding mud pits to fall in so that he didn’t break any bones. As he had gotten older he’d fallen but learned out to catch himself, to the point that sometimes he’d purposely let go and drop several feet before landing on a ledge he knew was there, just for the thrill of it.

The point was that Bran knew what it was like to fall. The terrible, horrible, yet also thrilling moment where one’s guts suddenly rocketed into their throat and their body dropped towards the earth with the wind whistling against their ears.

But… he’d never risen before.

Perhaps… perhaps his father had suddenly picked him up. That might be the only thing that came close to what he was experiencing and even then that didn’t really match up to what Bran was feeling. His body suddenly yanked up, fighting against the pull of the earth yet managing to break free of its grasp. His guts going into the soles of his feet rather than into his head. Even his dreams of flying had never let him feel as he was now and he shielded his face with his arms-

Suddenly he dropped but it was for such a short moment that he was already back on his feet before he realized just what had happened. He looked about wildly and saw that he was no longer in the snowy lands beyond the Wall but rather in another wet and damp place. But this place… there was an aging to it. That was the only way to word it. It had the weight of years upon it. But not like some places. Winterfell had years upon it but that was because of history. The many deeds done within its walls. No… what Bran was sensing was age. The difference between a warrior that had fought many battles and an old man near the end of his life. Both might feel pains in their body and find their backs bent but it wasn’t the same, not really.

The air wasn’t like Riverrun, where there had been a dampness to everything but it was free. No… the air was stale, like bread left out to mold. The godswood he found himself in was soggy and he sensed that if he took the wrong turn he might plunge down into the depths of whatever green pool he’d mistaken for grass. Things were rotting in the forest but one wouldn’t call it a place of death for in that godswood the dead served a purpose for the living. New plants grew from the fallen ones.

And then he saw the figure walking towards the Heartstree and knew at once where he was.

Greywater Marsh.

“Jojen,” Bran whispered, wondering if the boy’s greensight would allow him to know that Bran was there. The Three-Eyed Raven had warned him there were people like that, able to see those that journeyed through the memories of the weirwoods. Once the Three-Eyed Raven had claimed that those looking through the weirwoods had been what had driven Aerys mad, for he was able to sense them and knew that they were there yet at the same time couldn’t detect them. Bran didn’t want that to happen to Jojen though but he wondered… could his friend see him?

But Jojen didn’t react to his words and instead moved to stand before the Heartstree that stood in the certain of the godswood, placing his hands upon it, palms lightly touching the bark. Bran stared at the face on the tree, with its small eyes and drooping mouth… only to let out a gasp when above the two weeping eyes a third eye suddenly opened, red sap at once bleeding from it.

“I have come master,” Jojen said softly, eyes going shut. “I apologize for the delay but the keep is preparing to move again. My father is not pleased that King Robert passed through here without giving the proper words.”

“That… is to be expected,” the face on the tree said and Bran was utterly shocked to realize he knew that voice. It… it was the Three-Eyed Raven! “Despite having a Targaryen for a grandmother he refused to learn the lessons of that house. In another life, with a different teacher, he could have been a mighty Dragon Rider… but he came into his lordship too young and the Lord of the Eyrie failed to get him to learn respect for other houses. The actions of Rhaegar… that ensured he did not learn the Old Ways, even with Ned Stark as a friend.” The Three-Eyed Raven chuckled at that, the sound so dry that Bran expected to see saw dust come from the mouth. “Though… I believe it is possible his father never bothered to teach Ned… never expected him to need to know. The Moat would be his… what would he need to know of the Greywater?”

Jojen remained utterly still. “We are preparing to move the keep once more and the waterways will be altered. I will soon need to find a new godswood to meet with you in.”

Bran blinked at that, slowly lowering himself down into a crouch. ‘Jojen… had been meeting with the Three-Eyed Raven? And he calls him master. Why… why didn’t he ever tell me this?’

“I have told you many times that I am not bound to this tree, my boy,” the Three-Eyed Raven said, his tone so warm and friendly despite how dry his voice was that it startled Bran. Never had he heard his teacher speak to him in such a tone and it was only in that moment that he realized how firm the Three-Eyed Raven addressed him. Even his ‘softer’ moments were always filled with judgement.

It was as if he had been forced to wear a thin cloth over his eyes, distorting the world and causing him to see things differently than they were. And now that cloth was slowly being lifted, inch by inch, to reveal the truth to him in full. It was a disturbing and horrifying revelation, to see how cruel the Three-Eyed Raven had been when it came to Bran’s education. All from a few quietly spoken words.

“Yes, of course,” Jojen said, dipping his head even further down.

“When last we met we spoke of your father… have you done as I suggested?”

“Yes,” Jojen said quickly. “I told him that I saw the swamp come to a castle that stood against the winter. That a wolf was told the secrets of silver princes and laughing trees and he turned into a dragon and flew South, burning everything. And when he was done he found that it wasn’t ashes that rained down from the sky but snow and they covered all but the dead.”

The Three-Eyed Raven murmured at that. “Yes… yes, I believe that will be good enough. It is dangerous to speak too openly and too directly about such things… the greensight is known for the vaguely worded warnings they give. As much as I would prefer for you to simply tell your father, no… this should work.” The smile fell away from the tree’s face, the bark cracking as the Three-Eyed Raven considered him for a long moment. “Jon Snow must never learn of his parentage.”

‘What?’ Bran thought. ‘But… but why? Why would Jojen and the Three-Eyed Raven worry about such things?’

“My father has discussed sending my sister and I to Winterfell. I will be able to keep an eye on things there,” Jojen said. “I will ensure that the Starks are placed where they need to be. Lord Eddard is away in the South and if all goes as planned he will die there… Robb Stark will be easy to manipulate into going to war.”

Bran felt as if someone had grabbed his heart and squeezed it between their fingers, trying to milk every last drop of blood from it. Jojen, his friend who had shown him the path to become something far more… he had been working against his family the entire time? And the Three-Eyed Raven… why would he want any of this? Why would he want to hurt Jon? See Bran’s father dead? Why-

“To… Winterfell you say?” the Three-Eyed Raven stated, murmuring more to himself than to Jojen. “Winterfell… yes…” Jojen continued to kneel before the Heartstree but, for the first time since he had begun to speak to the face carved into the ancient bark, he lifted his head and looked up at the tree, considering it confusion. His features screwed up and his mouth twisted into a frown as the Three-Eyed Raven continued to mutter to himself. “Winterfell… sooner than I expected but… yes, a second approach… a second approach…”

“I… I don’t understand,” Jojen said.

“No, I imagine you do not,” the Three-Eyed Raven said. “I have been careful to only let you know so much… that was always the danger. You are a smart child and that always carries a risk. Especially when your desperation was so… stunted.” He chuckled at that and Bran was startled by the fire that seemed to burn in Jojen’s eyes at that. He wondered what the Three-Eyed Raven was teasing at, for it was clear that the comment meant something to them. “When one needs something it is wise to find one who needs something else and at a greater desire than yourself. Their desperation can help you get them to do things they would have never considered. To ignore their instincts in favor of going for that prize that had taken claim over their heart, even surpassing what once they thought was their entire world. You, dear Jojen, had desire, but never quite enough for me.”

He paused.

“But Bran Stark… just might.”

Bran wanted to run. Away from the scene or at it… he didn’t know. And he never would because he found himself rooted to the ground, unable to stop staring at the heartstree and the now mockingly sweet smile the face carved into it bark.

Jojen clearly wasn’t as thunderstruck as Bran. He pulled back, clearly wanting to leave… only he didn’t. Bran looked down and let out a gasp, in time with Jojen’s own cry of shock, as the red sap of the weirwood gushed from the face’s eyes and mouth, latching onto his hands and forcing them to remain in place against the bark of the tree. Jojen fought back but his hands simply couldn’t break free of the grasp of the sticky red sap and attempting to pull away only caused him to jerk forward, his face slamming into the tree. He screamed but it was muffled thanks to the awkward way his cheek was pressed against the weirwood, more sap latching onto him and holding him in place.

Then the boy’s eyes went red. Not like the fires in a hearth but rather like the sunlight striking the dried tree sap. He knew that there were some in the South that made jewelry out of weirwood sap; Sansa had once made the mistake of asking for such a piece and all of the Great Hall had gone quiet. When their mother had tried to brush it aside their father had ordered her to come to his solar and stormed out mid-meal; after that their mother had never said a word about such pieces and Sansa had been quiet and timid for two days. The way Jojen’s eyes shone in that moment reminded Bran greatly of the sap he had seen in the godswood and he dimly understood why some would find it beautiful. But he didn’t… not with Jojen’s panicked screams filling the air, becoming more shrill and hoarse as he fought-

And then he went silent.

The sap shattered and Jojen pushed away from the tree, rubbing his hands to remove the last bits of it. He looked at the trunk and Bran saw that the bark had become completely smooth, the face gone. He wondered if somehow Jojen had beated back the Three-Eyed Raven, forcing him to stand down from whatever cruel action he had been attempting.

And then… Jojen spoke.

“It will be a shame to lose this tree,” he said, his voice dry and scratchy. But not from the screaming… Bran realized that right away. “It served me well. But I believe your form will work wonders for me, Jojen.” He took out a knife and considered the trunk for a long moment before quietly putting it away. “No… no I think it better you don’t get to see anything. Let the darkness be all you know.” He paused, tilting his head. “Oh… and before you think that perhaps help will come remember what you told me: your father is moving Greywater Marsh. This glen will not be visited by the frog-eaters for hundreds of years. And by then… I imagine even if they do find you memory will have left them… and you.”

And with that Jojen… no, the Three-Eyed Raven… walked away.

Bran waited until he was sure the figure was gone before he pressed his hands against his knees and began to dry heave.

‘He… the entire time. The entire time the Three-Eyed Raven has been pretending to be Jojen. Every moment I spent with him… it was him! But how? How can he be Jojen when I also talked with the Three-Eyed Raven!’

“That… is his power.”

Bran turned towards the tree and was startled to see the world around him suddenly shifting and moving rapidly. The sun rose and sank and rose again, the movement becoming so quick that first it was like someone rapidly opening and closing a doorway to a dark room, letting the candlelight appear and then be banished. But then it grew so fast that he found himself in forever twilight, a mix of the light and the dark. Shadows swirled around him, the coming and going of lizard-lions and swamp deer and other creatures. Flowers grew from seed to blossom and then wilted into nothing. And the trunk of the tree cracked as bark fell from it until finally a new face appeared, one that greatly resembled Jojen’s.

Bran looked about with worry. “The Raven-“

“He does not know we are speaking. He can not be here… not anymore. Not when he cut himself off from the weirwood network to take over my body. He needs another to view the past now… he did not realize that and I imagine he was very wroth when he realized what he had done. It is why he presses you as hard as he does… he needs you to let him in.”

“You were working with him,” Bran said, anger coming to him now that he knew that there was no risk of the Three-Eyed Raven watching him. “Against my family.”

The face on the tree… well, Bran got the sense that if the trunk could move he would have shaken his ‘head’. “I thought I was working to protect all of Westeros. What are the lives of a few when it means the survival of the many?”

“But you weren’t willing to sacrifice your sister,” Bran snapped. “Your father. Or even yourself. It was okay for others to die but you never sacrificed anything yourself.”

“I have sacrificed all!” Jojen shouted, the branches of the tree shaking overhead.

But Bran wasn’t cowed. “No… this wasn’t a sacrifice. This was you being caught by someone better at the game than you were.”

Jojen shut his eyes at that and sighed, his rage leaving him. “You are right… you are right Bran. And my mistake has cost us much.”

“How did you come to work with him?” Bran asked. “How-“

“We do not have time for that,” Jojen said, cutting him off. “His plan is already in motion… I have sensed it. Soon he will enact it and then all of Westeros will face a danger from a fourth front.”

“A… fourth front?”

“Let me finish! I must finish!” Jojen scolded fiercely. “You are right to look to the North. Thanos grows stronger every day and soon he will be healed fully from his wounds and will march upon the Wall. But his attack will not come from just the Lands of Always Winter. The Night’s Queen lies in King’s Landing, twisting your sister’s body further and further into her perfect form and soon she will begin her own march, attempting to trap Westeros in a vice!

“And from the East comes the third threat. Petyr Baelish has seized control of the Ultron Armor of Maegor the Cruel and he has gathered is dark Small Council. Even now they prepare to strike at the Heart of the North, the Vale already corroding from the inside outward. He desires that which was never his and yet he feels was denied him and he will reach out with his metal hand and take it.

“But Bloodraven… he is the fourth front. He learned from the heartstrees and they, believing him an ally, taught him things that no mortal should know. He has begun to push his strength into every Weirwood tree in Westeros and when the time is right he will use them to claim more bodies, shattering the network and creating a Parliament of Ravens. All him… all with the same goal: eternal life and rule. He is close to finding the armor of Aenys Targeryen and should he do so he will claim it as well, to aid him to turn every man, woman, and child into himself.

“You must find the armor, Bran! You must find the armor and defeat Bloodraven! You must not allow him to do to all others has he has done to me! Seek out the armor that was hidden! Ensure that it is forever blind to him!”

“I… but how!” Bran cried out. He felt the world begin to fall out from under him but he leapt towards the heartstree, grabbing hold of it as all but it began to tumble into the fissures that were appearing in the ground; not just the rocks and the trees but the very sky itself till nothing remained but him and the tree that held Jojen.

“Jaime Lannister!” Jojen cried out. “He has been preparing! Do not let Bloodraven know you work with him… do not let him know you’ve learned his secret!”

Bran’s hand slipped and he found himself clinging to a single root.

“Bran… my body… there is a place here… force it amongst the roots…”

But whatever else Jojen was going to say was lost to Bran as he fell once more, then rose, then fell. His body was jerked in a thousand directions-

Then he woke up on the cold floor.

“Hodor?”

Bran looked up at Hodor, the only one awake, and held out his arms to him. Hodor smiled and gathered him up, giving him a hug, not understanding why Bran began to sob.

Chapter Text

Robb

'What is this place, exactly?' Venom mentally asked.

'It was once one of the great watchtowers of the North,' Robb silently replied. 'Centuries ago King…' He paused, racking his brain to remember the name that Maester Luwin had told him. 'It wasn't one of the Brans, I know that. It was different from that…'

'There are too many Brans!' Venom complained. 'It is impossible to keep track of all of them!'

'Believe me, I know,' Robb said with a sardonic little shake of his head. 'I know. Now let me think…' He pressed his lips together; it bothered him to no end that he didn't remember. A Prince should remember the names of the Kings that had come before him, even if he had only been a Prince for less than a year. 'It wasn't Timmon the Tower, even though that would make sense. He was called that because of his great height; it was said that his mother was a giantess that had tried to seduce King Frodrik Stark with potions that made his memory hazy, only for him to be rescued by his brother Prince Jakub Stark, the babe taken with them when they fled. Rommel Stark? No, he built the Lost Seawall. Donnel! That's who it was, Donnel Stark!'

Robb was rather pleased with himself for remembering that. While he would be the first to admit that he hadn't been the best student, constantly allowing his thoughts to turn to the fun and adventures that he and Theon and Jon could be having were he not trapped inside the Maester's study, he had enjoyed the history lessons on the great structures of the North. Perhaps it was because his father had quietly admitted his own dreams of repairing the damaged and abandoned keeps, castles, and forts throughout the North; Moat Cailin was one that he had often spoken of as something he wished to put right. He never had been able to, as there seemed to be something else that needed his attention (Robb tried VERY hard not to think that it was all King Robert's fault, what with his two different rebellions that had bled the North… one didn't insult dead men who were only recently buried) and thus he never had the time or the funds to work on such things. The mere fact that he'd never been able to do anything with the Broken Tower had been evidence of that.

But Robb, during those lessons, had thought about when it would be he who was Lord of the North and had considered each ancient structure that Maester Luwin spoke of as possibly being his legacy. Something that all would speak of. His grandfather's only legacy was that he had died a horrible death. Same with his Uncle Brandon. Robb wanted more.

The repair of Moat Cailin. The rebuilding of the Great Docks that had burned along with the Northern Fleet. Renovate the Wolf's Den in White Harbor and make it a true prison. Reestablish White Cap, the lost town that had been swallowed up by the Great Storm of 1345 in the Northern Reckoning of years. See to perhaps opening up the Greater Copper Mines once more and, perhaps, push south and tap into some of the gold that the Lannisters were always able to find.

It was one thing to make something new. But quite another to return what was lost to the North. Southerners were obsessed with putting their name on something shiny and bright that would be forgotten within a few years. Northsmen had long memories and understood that it was far better to make do with what you had than waste proper gold on something new. A Lord… or a King… who brought back something that had been lost was honored and remembered. A man who remembered his history.

'Jon and I were supposed to rebuild the North,' Robb thought bitterly. 'We were supposed to work together, to build it back up. I was going to name him my second and when I was Lord of the North would have legitimized him. Made him a Stark. Then the two of us would have worked together to make us the greatest Kingdom in all of Westeros. He'd make his own cadet branch and in a few generations our great great grandchildren could have married, reforging our line.'

Robb would never forgive his parents for driving his brother away.

He felt Venom mentally nudge him and he smiled softly, shaking his head. The two were careful to allow each other their own thoughts. 'Sorry… I was lost in my mind. Anyway, this was one of the Great Watch Towers of the North. King Donnel Stark built them to keep watch on his recently conquered foes, to remind them that he would never turn his back on them again. Barrowton had just tried to rebel against the Starks… King Donnel's sister, Princess Kelya Stark, had married Lord Dustin-" he couldn't remember the name of that Lord Dustin, much to his annoyance, but pressed on as he didn't want to get sidetracked again in his story, "-and he had begun whispering in her ear that she deserved to rule over her brother. Of course Lord Dustin wanted to be king and never meant for Princess Kelya to be the Queen in the North… most likely she would have been set aside at best had he managed to overthrow her brother. But the Barrowmen warred with the Starks of Winterfell and it was only with the aid of King Donnel's uncle, Prince Jeor Stark the Copper Wolf, that the rebellion had been put down."

Jeor Stark had always been a favorite of Robb's. He had earned his name due to his bright orange hair and for Robb, who had always been a bit subconscious about the fact that he didn't resemble a typical Stark, it had been a relief to know there was a Stark that shared his coloring. He had pestered Jon to play with him The War of Wolves over and over until his mother had put a stop to it, horrified that Robb had allowed Jon to be King Donnel Stark while he was 'only' Prince Jeor.

'She sided against her own family?!' Venom decried.

Robb nodded at that, lips pressed together in thought. 'Sadly that is more common than it should be.' He reached down, meaty fingers gripping the stone he was perched on until it began to groan. Only then did he release it. 'But yes, Princess Kelya turned against her brother and it cost her dearly.'

'What happened?' Venom pressed. 'Did he gut her? Hack off her limbs so that she slowly bled before his throne? Force her to eat her own face?'

'Worse,' Robb replied with a chuckle; he knew that others would be horrified by Venom's words but after so long with his partner such things didn't faze him. He knew that Venom understood just where the line was and when one must stay away from it, when one could approach it, and one should cross it boldly. 'He took her son by Lord Dustin, Brandon Dustin who was only a few months old, and raised him as his own. And every day he taught him of the valor of House Stark and the treachery of Princess Kelya. Not House Dustin… while he made sure the boy knew that he must be loyal to House Stark he didn't disgrace his forefathers, as it would do no good for the boy to hate his lineage. He told him of his grandfather and great grandfather, who had been loyal to the Starks and been honorable men. But he learned of all the wickedness of Princess Kelya before releasing her into Lord Brandon Dustin's care upon him coming of age. Lord Brandon would visit her every day and tell her how much he hated her, thinking up new and creative ways to mock and insult her. Accused her of leading his good father astray. He made sure she was cared for, so that she lived a VERY long time, and got to watch as he had children and grandchildren who all spit at her feet when they saw her.'

'…would have been easier to just eat her,' Venom reasoned.

Robb forced himself to not laugh at that.

'Probably, but he didn't. After that though, other than a few minor dust ups, the Dustins remained loyal and all the Starks truly needed to worry about when it came to challenges from within were the Boltons.' He shrugged. "The Great Towers were manned by Stark loyalists and kept watch over the different towns and cities that might threaten them. But as rebellions slowed down and the rule of the Starks became as known as the sun rising in the East they saw less use until they fell into disrepair, mostly forgotten about by those nearby.'

And the tower he and Venom were currently in, just outside of Barrowton, was certainly forgotten. Countless winters had caused the ground to slowly rise up the tower while the winds and the rains had worn it down so that now it was no longer a tower to those that didn't know its past. No, it was a merely a ruined stone structure , only a few stories tall, with no proper roof and more spiders and vermin than windows and doors. One couldn't get into it easily, for someone had within the last 20 years boarded up the windows and the door had become buried in the encroaching soil. Only because Robb could quickly climb up the rocky surface had he been able to enter into the structure.

'There is no repairing this one,' Robb thought to himself, rather than to Venom. 'Couldn't even use what is exposed as a base… it wouldn't be able to handle the weight. And it can't be used for storage because the bottom levels have collapsed and merged with the hill itself. Far better to start over.'

Robb didn't doubt for a second that Barrowton needed another tower made.

"Anything?" Roslin said as she landed next to them, her own symobiote pealing back to reveal her face. Upon her shoulder the gooey form of Venom's mate appeared, tilting her head. Roslin was still using the name Spite and Robb supposed that this one was going to stick and remain in place. That there would be no changing of it. Which… well, he and his partner had gone with Venom so he wasn't going to judge her too harshly. And hey, it did have a certain ring to it…

'But I need to focus on settling important matters,' he thought even as Venom slid away from his head. "Nothing yet but I think its only a matter of time."

"I don't like leaving those people on their own," Roslin murmured. On their journey there they had encountered several small hamlets that simply weren't ready for Winter… and didn't know of the threat of the mysterious force that was killing villages. Robb and her had offered what support they could and sometimes the village elders listened to them. But other times they looked at Robb and declared he was a 'Summer Boy' who didn't understand hardships.

It had taken all he could not to bark out that he had been North of the Wall. That he had fought against the Iron Born with the Children of the Forest.

"I didn't like it either. But we warned them to leave… we couldn't force them to go to Winterfell."

"But we could have," Spite pointed out. "Rather easily."

"Yes but we didn't want to," Roslin said, reaching over and rubbing Spite's cheek, or what would be her cheek if she had cheekbones. After dealing with Drax both Robb and Roslin were used to beings who didn't understand metaphors and were. "We are trying to prove everyone wrong about us, after all." Spite merely huffed at that but otherwise didn't say another word.

Robb stared out into the night, looking down at Barrowton. 'Amazing how innocent it looks. You would even realize that it's a hot bed for traitors.'

His father had commanded Robb to take Barrowton. That doing so would win him back his honor, prove that he was loyal to Winterfell. And while he had at first agreed with the idea of taking Barrowton after his father had left it had gnawed at him greatly. Why had his father waited until he was in exile to approach him with his plan? Why not bring him to his solar and tell him that the exile was all a ruse, a way to try and get him close to Barbrey?

'Because it wasn't,' Robb thought darkly. 'He came upon the idea later… most likely after Arya made clear her wrath.' Oh yes, he had learned just how his sister had reacted when seeing their father and how she still treated him with utter coldness. 'He is trying to make it right but at the same time he sees me not as his heir and future king but as an attack dog. He was ready to force Venom into slaying Barbrey… he cares only for the present and not the future.'

That wasn't to say that Barbrey didn't deserve to die. Her actions were that of a traitor and worse they brought doom closer and closer to the North. She might have thought that she would win herself favor with the Crown, most likely with her named of the new Warden of the North, but all they would receive was death. Her. The Starks. All the Northmen.

'Tywin Lannister isn't a man who welcomes enemies with open arms,' Robb thought to himself. 'And the North will not embrace their rule… not with them embracing the freedom they have been given by my father.'

Despite their feud Robb openly saw that his father had done well to earn the love of the North, showing he wasn't going to be like the Southerners who didn't understand their needs. He had worked to prepare for the coming Winter, had made sure to pull as much of the Northern forces out of the Riverlands as he could, so men weren't dying for lands that weren't their own while their own families faced a slow painful death in the ice and the snow, and handed out titles and positions of power to those that proved themselves. Theon (and Robb hated he hadn't had time to speak with his dear friend when he'd encountered him… he had been so focused on Arya…) had been only the first of many who were given new lands and titles and sent out the prove themselves. All of the major families of the North were being given honors; Robb's father remembered well how Robert had failed to reward the North for putting him on the throne, choosing instead to honor the Lords that had fought against him more than the Northmen. The Manderlys were rather pleased with their rise, the Umbers were crowing about how they should have declared sooner, and the Forresters were pleased with Ned's promises to help them find the missing members of their family while at the same time rewarding those that had served him faithfully. The Mormonts had regained in full their honor, with Robb's father declaring that any question about them after Jorah Mormont's actions could be answered with 'loyal and honorable'. The Karstarks were building their own legacy, with the prickly Lord Karstark finding a way to move past his grief to build something that would separate the Karstarks fully from the Starks but without a risk of shattering peace.

'Even the Boltons have been neutralized,' Robb thought. 'Lord Bolton will not dare try and move against father with his heir newly born and his goodsister the future queen. That means that the only ones Lady Dustin can count upon are her own family. And I do not believe Lord Ryswell will risk his position in the name of his daughter's revenge.' His father had rewarded Lord Ryswell's son Roose for his actions during the Battle of the Whispering Woods and there was talk that he may perhaps see the young man given one of the castles close to the Neck as his own Keep. 'But all that will fade if he joins with Barbrey.'

That left the woman all on her own. The only one that might be spared by the Lannisters. The rest of the North would never stand with Tywin Lannister or any of his ilk ruling over them and would fight tooth and nail against any attempt to dominate them. Maybe… maybe if Lord Tywin offered to allow them to continue on with no punishment save for the holding of second sons? But no… Lord Tywin and especially Cersei would demand repayment, perhaps the lose of titles and lands, and the North would NEVER stand for that. Not without a strong hand to force them to bend the knee.

And Lady Dustin was NOT that strong hand.

'Lord Tywin will purge all of the North, with only the most minor of houses that see this as their chance to rise up agreeing to bend the knee, giving up their neighbor's full wealth if it means a chance to claim they have risen higher. But they will not be prepared for Winter and the Lannisters would let us all freeze than to lift a finger to aid us. And that is ignoring completely the others.'

'Which is why we must destroy Barbrey Dustin!'

Robb smiled and mentally nudged Venom, the thought equivalent of a shoulder bump. 'We will. But we will do it my way. I will not disgrace myself purely to make my father's life easier.'

'People will thank us though!'

But Robb shook his head at that. 'Will they? What proof do we have? Father's claims… but I do not trust Father. I don't know if I will ever be able to trust him again. He is far too quick to toss aside family all in the name of his own honor and the betterment of others. He sold Sansa to the Lannisters to appease Robert. He cast Jon away. He exiled me. I can't trust him not to, upon me doing this task, to proclaim we did so without evidence and order our deaths so he can put Rickon on the throne.' He huffed at that; it didn't sound like his father but his actions as of late had made it that Robb simply couldn't believe that his father WOULDN'T do something so… Southern.

He didn't begrudge his brother though. He knew that Rickon was working to clear his name and it had been the information he had only recently given him that had given Robb the first glimmer of hope. But it had been a trying time, waiting, and in that time he knew that his bitterness at his father had only grown. As had his doubts. His father, after all, had spent much of his youth in the South. Had married a Southern woman. Cared most about a Southern King. What did he know of the North? Truly?

'If we are to deal with Barbrey Dustin we must be sure that there can be no doubt of her guilt. That all in the North will be unable to do anything else but accept what we speak of. That father will not be able to claim that I somehow dishonored myself because I carried out his order.' He thought of the Kingslayer and found himself pitying the man; he had done what Father had set out to do and had been repaid by Eddard Stark with scorn. Robb did not believe his father wouldn't do the same to him, if his Small Council demanded it. No… he would protect the North but he would do it HIS way. 'And with her fall will come the proof of our innocence in one fell swoop.'

He clenched his hand hard.

'Then… we will discuss with father changes to the rule of our kingdom.'

And with that he returned to his watch.

Barrowton remained silent, as it had for the last 9 nights since Robb had begun his hidden watch upon it, and Robb slowly allowed Venom to cover him fully, so he could see through the darkness. He could spy the men marching along the walls, the people moving through the streets after a night spent drinking far too long at the alehouses and wine sinks, and even spot through one open window a whore slowly removing her shirt. None of that mattered to him (especially the whore… Roslin was far better than the dark haired woman as she and Spite were the only ones that could survive coupling with Robb and Venom); what mattered was watching for their prey.

The attacker of the winter villages.

'We should have realized it sooner,' Robb thought darkly. 'Whoever its been wants it to look like we're the guilty party. Only Lady Dustin would be interested in staging things like that in order to dishonor us.'

'And the only villages that have been spares so far are pledged to Barrowton,' Venom added, reminding him of what Rickon had discovered. His silly little brother… he had been the one to realize it after visiting the neighboring winter towns and villages. The attacks were coming to ones close to Winterfell and that included those that were pledged not to them but to their bannermen.

Except… Barrowton.

'Exactly,' Robb thought darkly. "We're going to make her pay for this," he declared, tensing.

Roslin reached out, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "The moment we have proof we will. We can't risk going down there and attacking her… it will only feed into her narrative."

"We know," Robb said. "Doesn't mean we are happy about it!" Father… it all came back to father. His foolish rush to save Lyanna and then his refusal to do anything to bring back the bones of Lord Dustin or all others that had died… it was the first link in a long chain that led to Robb's current exile.

"Then focus on how wonderful it will be when the killer returns and we are able to at last clear your name. All the North will know that you are their protector…" Slowly Spite slide over her face, merging the two together. "And then we will get back to providing you an heir."

"Promises promises," Robb said as he leaped in close, bumping his face into her's. He could feel himself growing hard, the symbiote slowly shifting to allow him-

"There!" Roslin suddenly declared, pulling away from him. But Robb wasn't disappointed that their chance for some rather pleasant sex had been stopped cold as his entire focus shifted to the dark figure that was rushing across the plain that surrounded Barrowton. The grasses were kept very short, to ensure that no threat ever had a chance to creep towards the walls, and that allowed them to easily make out the figure. Someone they both recognized as he rushed towards a gate.

"Euron Greyjoy…" Robb snarled before leaping from the watchtower, Roslin only a step behind him. The two raced silently across the field and even though they had been farther away from Barrowton than Euron had been their larger bodies allowed them to quickly eat up the distance. There was something so savage, so primal, about the run that it had him grinning quite literally ear to ear. The feeling of the wind whipping past his face, far quicker than any horse. The sensation of his toes digging into the earth, allowing him to push forward just a little bit more. Knowing that he was racing towards his prey and when he got to him he would finish what he had started at Hardhome and rip the Iron Born bastard into bloody chunks.

'We should give his head to Theon! He would like that!' Venom declared and Robb nodded in agreement, tongue darting out and licking his lips at the thought. Yes… yes Theon would like that and he'd STILL be able to eat Euron's heart as the bastard was still alive!

Robb growled low in his throat and continued on.

The wall of Barrowton loomed before them but Robb and Roslin, as one, easily leapt over it, soaring over the barrier and landing in the town that surrounded Barrow Hall, the seat of House Dustin. They barely let their feet touch the ground before they were leaping again, the two firing off tendrils to help launch themselves further into the city.

"We can SMELL him," Roslin hissed as she landed on the roof of a whore house. "He stinks of blood and saltwater."

"And he's headed to the Barrow Hall… reporting to Barbrey about his latest attack." He shook his head in frustration at that. "Bitch… traitorous bitch! Slaughtering innocents because she is still bitter about her fucking husband!" He held up his hand, showing off his claws. "We will make sure she sees Lord Dustin soon enough!"

With that he leapt towards Barrow Hall, knowing Roslin would follow him. The castle grew closer and closer and Robb braced himself, smashing down into the main courtyard that was just inside the inner walls of the keep. Several guards rushed out, startled by the noise, only to stop and stare at Robb as he looked about, glowering at them. He knew that Roslin was hiding in the shadows, waiting to attack only if she needed to; they had managed to hide her own state and Robb would only reveal it when he had no other options.

"Fetch your Lady and we will not harm you. Make us fetch her ourselves…" He opened his mouth, letting them see his long white fangs.

Several of the guards shifted before a foolish one let out a battle cry and raced right at him with a raised sword.

Robb snorted before he lashed out with his hand, easily cutting through the man's leathers… and his skin and muscle. The guard screamed as his arm began to flop about, barely held onto his body by a few pieces of stringy flesh. The other guards, far more wise, took a step back at that and murmured to themselves in terror. It took the man far too long to die but Robb merely watched him, waiting until he had screamed his last before he finally spoke

"Tell the Lady Dustin her prince is waiting for her."

At once several of the men rushed to do as he commanded and Robb smirked, pleased. He slowly began to walk around the yard, utterly casual and calm, and waited until he was behind a tall empty weapon's rack before allowing Venom to retract from his body, forming into a fine outfit. Perhaps not fine enough for a prince but it would impress all the same. He came around the other side and nearly burst into laughter seeing the guards do double takes, realizing they were looking a bit too high and he wasn't as tall as he had been moments earlier. He merely shrugged his shoulders and continued to walk around, acting as if he had been offered a chance to inspect the grounds. He didn't show an ounce of fear as the guards shifted about uneasily and he discovered that his aloofness was terrifying them far more than if he had postured.

Finally, after what felt like nearly a quarter of an hour, the Lady of Barrowton emerged with a far larger gathering of sworn swords.

Once she might have been beautiful, Robb believed. Oh, there were still hints of the loveliness she had possessed. She hadn't allowed herself to grow soft and fat as the years had gone on, nor had she like some old crones forgotten how to care for herself. But all gentleness that she might have possessed had long been ground away from her, leaving only a harshness to her features. She was much like the tower that he and Venom had used for their watch. The years and her own bitterness had weathered her face, slowly removing this piece and that until only the passing resemblance to a kind and fair noblewoman remained. All that was left was the hardest of stone, unyielding to all, refusing to be pushed back by the elements.

She was dressed in blacks, as Robb knew was her choice. Forever the grieving widow though he did wonder how much of that was for show. He had little doubt that a woman such as her, cunning and sharp, would know that such garb would always remind the people of Barrowton of what had been 'taken' from them by the Starks. If she began to wear bright colors people would forget about Lord Dustin and begin to wonder why they allowed a woman not of their lordship's blood to rule over them. There had to be a Dustin bastard somewhere, after all…

So Lady Dustin wore blacks and well made ones as well. A long dress with an equally long fur cloak. All of which were cut to show off her lean figure. It was not an outfit that could be put on quickly and the time that it had taken her to arrive hadn't allowed her to dress in such an outfit anyway. The hour was too late for her to have been having a feast so she had been waiting for someone.

More proof.

"Hmmm… you must be Robb Stark. Few in the North have such Southern Looks," she said, her tone almost bored.

Robb didn't rise to the bait. Nor did he return another insult. Instead he merely stared right at her. "Barbrey Dustin," he replied, refusing to use her titles as well.

"It is common for guests to make their way through the gate," she replied. "I would ask what your maester had taught you but I imagine that you are here for other reasons." She paused. "And I quite honestly do not care what that old gray rat might have taught you."

"Manners, for one," Robb replied. Barbrey didn't so much as flinch at the insult. "As for why I am here yes, it isn't to be a guest. But that doesn't mean I can't show you a kindness."

"Kindness? From an invader?"

"To a traitor?" Robb replied. "Oh yes."

"Those are strong words to speak," Barbrey told him.

"But they aren't any less true." Robb to a step forward and the men all raised their swords at the movement. He merely glanced at them before utterly dismissing them from his mind as unimportant. "Your men are loyal to you, Barbrey. They saw what I did to the last man that tried to rush me." He gestured at the still cooling body on the hard packed ground. She glanced at it with the same detachment one might use for a clump of dirt or a small pebble. "I wonder though if they will be loyal to you when they hear how you have disgraced their Lord."

"Barrowton has no lord, thanks to your father," Barbrey said frostily.

Robb though merely pressed on. "Lord Dustin would not have crawled on hands and knees to the Lannisters. He wouldn't have sold out the North to the Lions."

"You are-"

"He would 't have gone to Tywin Lannister and offered him the blood of his neighbors. Nor would he have put a chain around his neck and become their pet all because of a petty feud that is maintained by a single bitter woman."

"You Starks stole my husband-"

"Your husband was a man grown, able to make his own choices," Robb retorted. "Despite what you do to tear him down he was a good, just, and loyal man who gave his life to protect the daughter of his liege lord. You, on the other hand, meekly crawl to the Lannisters and beg them to achieve your revenge for you." He shook his head in disgust. "You don't even have it in you to do the deed yourself."

Barbrey didn't bristle. She didn't bridle or rage. Instead she stared at him for a long moment before shaking her head. "Idle words."

"I have proof."

"Proof that you have yet to produce?" Barbrey asked. "If you had it you would not merely claim to have it but have it brought forth. Let me guess… it is in Winterfell? Held by your father? And it will only be brought when I am marched through your city in chains, already disgraced?" She narrowed her eyes. "This was a rash move born of desperation and youth."

Robb admitted she was partially right. It would have been far better if he had obtained the proof his father spoke of. That would have required his father trusting him wish such things, though, and he knew that would never happen.

But… that didn't mean that Robb was out of answers.

"I suppose we could have one vouch for your character," he stated. "Euron Greyjoy, perhaps?"

"What are you on about?"

"I know he has recently entered Barrowton," Robb said. "Within the last hour. I know also he is the killer who has been slaughtering the smallfolk and pinning all blame upon me. You harbor our enemy, Barbrey… there is no coming back from that."

The woman merely continued to stare him down. "Euron Greyjoy isn't here, you fool. Whatever delusions that black muck they claim has infested your ears tells you… he isn't here."

"Then I am willing to wait."

"You'll wait forever."

"I think not." Now Robb smiled. "I was in Euron Greyjoy's company, Barbrey. I got to know him rather well when I was his captive. The man, in his own twisted way, came to like me… much like how a cruel child will delight in a stray cat, one day giving it milk and the next scolding it and telling it to go away. I spent much time with him… and I grew to understand him; well, as well as a man can understand that man and his madness. But I know he doesn't have the patience to wait for you to settle things here in the yard."

He began to circle her and in his mind he thought of the great white fish that Theon had told him about on Theon's Night. The terrible things that would suddenly emerge from the dark seas and circle around helpless sailors that had fallen overboard and become adrift. Their comrades would tell them to stay still, to just wait for them to return and scare the great beasts off even as the white fish slowly began to tighten the circle, moving in closer and closer… until they would suddenly dive down and disappear and all would think everything was safe…

Then Theon would clap his hands together and laugh at how high he and his siblings would jump.

"That is why it took you so long to come out here, wasn't it?" Robb pressed. "You were meeting with him when your men came and you had to convince him to not come and face me." He completed one lap and began again, making it a bit shorter, bringing him a touch closer to her. "What did you promise him if he agreed to allow you to handle this? He is a man of unique appetites. Did you promise to let him work his dark crafts upon your men? Maybe a strong warrior he can test his knives against? Or a young innocent maiden that he wishes to make mutilated and broken?" He glanced at several of the guards. "Have any of your sisters acted strangely recently? A bit more on edge?"

"You are a delusional fool," Barbrey stated harshly.

'What a liar denies…' Venom whispered and Robb quietly thanked his partner for reminding him of the words his father had once spoken.

"I do admit I was a troublesome child," Robb stated. "All boys are, I imagine. I got into my fair share of scrapes. Went off to places where I didn't belong. And when my father would find me I always tried to deny it and it always amazed me how he saw through my lies. When I was older he finally explained the trick: a liar will attack and strike at their accuser… while never denying what is true." Barbrey opened her mouth but Robb cut her off. "When you catch someone in a lie they are angry they have been caught so they lash out. Its their first instinct. You didn't deny that Euron Greyjoy was here. Nor did you deny that he has been asking for more and more of you. You just attacked."

"You are a delusional fool because he isn't here," she said but it was a weak argument and he could tell from the way she held herself that she wasn't pleased.

He tightened the circle.

"When you first made this arrangement with him you only thought of destroying the Starks. But as the days wore on and his payment to keep your secret grew you began to feel doubt. I can see it, Lady Dustin. You aren't not a wicked woman. You hold a hatred for the Starks yes and I will state you have every right to hate my father. To hate me. You dreamed of being the Lady of Winterfell but that was robbed from you by my mother. You then tried to have happiness with Lord Dustin but he was taken from you and my father didn't even have the decency to bring back his bones. It wouldn't have been that hard to make good on your wishes… Robert would have given anything to return to my father's good graces and if he had asked he would have held such a parade all would have remembered the Final March of Lord Dustin."

She remained utterly still and cold like stone. No sign his words were getting to her. But Robb was okay with that because with a woman such as her if she had burst into tears he would have known it was a trap.

"But… even in your darkest hours… you are not a cold hearted killer. You are not one for mindless slaughter. Especially when it comes to those nearby. Maybe you did order Euron to attack those villages but it is just as likely you simply asked him to cause panic and chaos in the North so that my father would look weak. And when you learned of what he did… heard of the men he butchered, the women he defiled, the sweet little children whose last moments were spent in agony, screaming for parents that could never come-"

"Stop it," Barbrey hissed.

'Got you,' Robb thought. "You are a good woman, Lady Dustin. And your story isn't complete. It is still being written. Tell me where Euron Greyjoy is. You know he's growing more and more impatient so I can wait… he will come to me. But if that happens then all will know you are his ally and the life you've lived will be over. You will be branded a traitor to the North. Your own father will curse your name and your only hope to see one of the Winter Cells will be if I pull your own guardmen from you.

"But… if you help me… there are ways of honor. Barrowton will no longer be yours but you may return to your father. Or perhaps a life of exile… allowed to take with you your own dowry and set up a life in Essos. You still have good years left, for you are only just now entering the end of your summer years. You could be happy. If you must atone then the Silent Sisters but I would not be that cruel to you."

"Your father-"

Robb allowed his eyes to go pure white. "My father is not the power of the North." He returned them to normal. "Now then, will you-"

It happened in an instant.

One moment he was looking at Barbrey. The next he was flying through the air, flesh feeling like he had dove into a cook's oven. Venom was snarling and raging but also howling in pain and at once Robb allowed him to overtake him. They crashed into one of the smaller stables that was just inside the main courtyard, where messengers could leave their horses to drink when they were in too great a rush to have them properly stabled. Grunting as he shook his head he slowly pulled himself from the wreckage and stared at where he had been standing, finding a crater roughly 6 feet wide and sunken about a foot. The ground was still burning with green flames.

'Wildfire,' he realized darkly. 'If it had been any closer we'd be dead.' Indeed several guards were currently screaming, their uniforms ablaze as they tried to find some way to douse the fires. They rushed about without thought or care and that forced the rest of their company to run too. One guard was a bit too slow and his fellow swordsman flailed his arm out and caught him on the shoulder, causing him to now be fighting back the flames. 'Whoever did that was either very sloppy… or very skilled.' He narrowed his eyes, tongue lashing out of his mouth as he turned to Lady Dustin only to see that she was currently being held by the throat by Roslin, his wife merged completely with Spite.

"You dare attempt to kill what is ours?" She said darkly, gripping Barbrey even as the woman fought to break her hold. "I am going to enjoy eating you."

A shrill cackling laugh filled the air and a quick look around proved that it was none of those currently standing in the courtyard. And it was moving around them, coming from one direct and then another and Robb realizes that a new white fish had entered into the ocean.

"I… I don't know…" Barbrey gasped out.

"That's right… she didn't know," a voice called out and Robb twisted around, raising his head up. "She was expecting Euron to assist… but I got here first."

The figure hovering above them looked to have emerged from one of Old Nan's tales. And not the ones that they normally asked for. No… Robb remembered that on a few rare occasions Old Nan would become melancholy and sad, thinking about that which had been lost to her and would never return. And when those moments came upon her she would turn to a strong bitter ale that always made Robb's nose burn whenever it was opened near him. She tried to hide that she was drinking it but there was no way to hide the stink of it. Numbed by it she would tell stories that were twisted and wrong, like a book whose pages had been torn out and reassembled in a haste.

He stood upon what looked to be a great black bat, like the kind that were said to have flown out of Harrenhal to snatch away wicked children and bring them to be bled. But somehow such a sight wasn't as bewildering as the beast's rider. His entire outfit was purple in color, from his boots to his gloves to his legless and sleeveless undergarment. A purple hat sat on his head, long and billowing behind him. All the flesh that was exposed was a brilliant green color, scaled and textured like lizard-lion's. And his face… his face somehow made Robb's own bestial features look charming and noble. Long pointed ears. Yellowed teeth that were spread wide in a massive grin. And maze colored eyes that burning with a demented determination.

"I needed to find out why dear Euron was taking so long… and I stumbled upon you two!" He cackled again. "Oh… what a treat we have found, isn't it?"

There was a roar and one of the high windows of Barrow Hall exploded out. Roslin dropped Barbrey as another symbiote, this one red in color and with sharp tendrils bursting from his back, flew through the air before landing on the ground, cackling in delight as he looked at the two ebony figures.

"My prince…" the distorted voice of Euron Greyjoy declared. "Oh… how I've missed you!"

And with that… the two attacked.

Chapter Text

Norman

The mask had slipped.

Which was ironic because he'd actually put on a mask.

That made him cackle all the more as he flew about the courtyard, leering at the three symbiotes that were currently at war with each other. Carnage was easily holding his own against Venom and the other female symbiote, producing all manner of weapons from his body to slash and hack at them. Though each cut didn't do much as the symbiote flesh was able to heal instantly, much to Carnage's own delight. His partner was screaming with delight, raving about how wonderful it was for them to be together again.

Norman suddenly dipped down and snatched up Barbery Dustin, holding her by the back of her dress like she was a naughty little kitten that needed to be scuffed.

"I really need to get my hands on a piece of symbiote," he told her as he continued to fly around the battlefield that had formed in Barrow Hall's main courtyard. "The things I could do with it… improve my own devices…"

Norman was all about improvement. It was how he had, quite literally, turned himself into the man he was at that moment. The experiments on the rare flowers that grew in the Shadow Lands far in the east had produced the vapors that had given him his enhanced strength and speed. Yes, it had also caused a bit of an… issue… with his emotional control but he had an iron will and was able to manage when he unleashed such desires. Which was why moments such as this were so… FREEING.

'I will be able to go for weeks with complete and utter control after this!' he thought in delight, even though he knew that King Petyr wouldn't mind in the slightest if he let loose far more often. But it was Norman who minded… Norman who wanted to maintain his iron grip on his outbursts. It was a point of pride!

His suit was another example. He had been interested in the tales of the warriors of Black Gull who used wyvern flesh for their armor, rather than traditional steel, and made a pilgrimage to that far off southern island. The wyverns, while so much weaker than the dragon cousins, were still a threat but Norman had been able to kill one and from its hide fashion the scaly bodysuit that he wore. It was remarkable material, able to stretch so it could be skin tight but Norman never chaffed in it; many times he forgot he was wearing it, to be honest. And it shifted and moved with him so well! It helped make people believe he truly was some creature that had wriggled its way from the deaths of Hell.

A visit with an exiled acolyte of the Pyromancer guild had given him the knowledge needed to safely transport Wildfire. The pumpkin-like design of his bombs had purely been by accident, for the only metal he'd had on hand was some Iron Pointe orange but it just… oh, it just worked so WELL! The terror they inspired in those that saw them… just before their world exploded in agony and pain? Oh, it was a delight!

The glider was new but one of his best creations. He'd studied Adrian's wings and it had been easy enough to gather more dragon bone. A full amount wasn't needed, much as they had found with Adrian's new set of wings that Ultron had personally had a hand in creating. Just strategically placed pieces of bone in the right places upon some metal and he had been able to forge his bat glider. Were he to produce more he would be the richest man in the entire world; all would want one. The ability to fly like a bird and do so silently? Kings would sell their own cocks just for one.

Which was why Norman would never give up the designs. A marvel only held value when it was rare. One of a kind.

Venom and his bride fired out tendrils at one of the great towers of Barrow Hall and with a heave brought it down on Carnage, the red symbiote letting out a scream of surprise before he was crushed. But any relief the two might have had died in seconds as Carnage burst out of the ruins, sending blocks of stone flying all over and causing even more damage.

The masked had slipped.

But… it was only a slip.

Just a slip.

Norman wrestled with his control and his sanity and forced both to return exactly where they should be within his mind. He throttled the madness and the bloodlust until it slunk away like a beaten dog. He wasn't happy that he had nearly gone all out but he had managed to come back from it and that was all that mattered. All he cared about.

He had to have control. Always.

"This… we didn't agree to this!" Barbrey exclaimed. "This wasn't the deal I made with Euron! Barrowton was to be spared-"

"Well, that was your first mistake," Norman taunted as he continued to hover around the battlefield, forgotten by the symbiotes. Which was fine… he had no problem being a watcher. Sometimes one only learned by observing, after all. "Euron Greyjoy was already quite mad, from what I hear, before he and that red goo decided to bond together. Now it takes quite a lot to keep his focus… he forgets things quite easily when he becomes obsessed with something else. And those two?" He nodded towards the black symbiotes. "Oh, if he doesn't kill them here he will NEVER shut up about them!"

Norman threw back his head and laughed at that.

Barbrey struggled in his grasp and Norman, on a whim, loosened it slightly, letting her jerk down but a few inches before he hauled her back up. "What do you think will happen if you slip free?" he asked mockingly. "Are you going to grow wings?" He suddenly tilted his head. "Will you? It seems like in this day and age EVERYONE is growing wings!" He laughed again at that while Barbrey glared at him. "Oh, wipe that look off of your face… you should be thanking me !"

"Thanking you!?"

"Of course! You would have been long dead if you had remained down there." He gestured at the courtyard just as one of the remaining guards that had avoided the fires from his pumpkin bomb was speared through the chest by one of Carnage's appendages. The man let out a shrill cry right before Carnage ripped him in half… and he still managed to make a shriek even as his intestines gushed out of his torso. Carnage merely cackled before hurling the man at Venom and his bride, the two symbiotes batting him away so that the poor guard ended up throwing violently to the yard's hardpacked ground. "Oh… he still twitching," Norman observed. "They say the brain can survive for several minutes even after the heart stops beating. Can you imagine how painful it must be for him right now, to be lying there unable to move, the only sensation being agony as the monsters that doomed him continue on without a second thought?" He pulled her close and hissed mockingly into her ear, "Want to go down there now?"

Barbrey was very quiet and VERY still.

"You know… I didn't have a master of arms on Pyke," Carnage said as he began to stalk towards Venom and his Bride, the two black symbiotes watching him with one eye while, and Norman was sure Barbrey couldn't see it, with the other eye they were carefully looking about, determining what was available for them to use in the battle that was about to explode out once more. They were also keeping an eye on him which was VERY good… Norman would have been quite upset if they had dismissed him as not a threat. "I mean, there was a master of arms but I was never allowed to train with him. Most likely because the first day where I was allowed to join the men in the yard I beat the master of arms' son half to death. After that… well, he refused to train me. Which I think was rude as I only beat him half to death… unless he wanted me to finish the job. I could see that. Still, he wouldn't train me yet I found ways to learn the blade, of course… there were always those that wished to try their hand against the son of their Lord. But I wasn't like you, my prince."

Venom merely flashed his fangs while his Bride flexed her fingers, crouched and ready to pounce the moment Carnage made the wrong move.

"What did your master of arms teach you?" Carnage asked. "How to thrust?" He lifted up his right hand and it distorted and twisted and elongated into a sharp one-sided blade. "Parry? Block?" He swished his arm rapidly in the air before letting out a laugh. "Oh, but you learned more than that, didn't you my prince? How to watch your feet and how to plant yourself but also when you needed to move? All VERY good things to learn… but what about how to avoid being hit? And not just with swords!" He lifted up his other hand and his hand flattened out, fingers merging and then suddenly jutting to the right to form into a massive doubleheaded axe. "I hope he did… it would be a shame if he failed to prepare you for battle!"

Carnage suddenly leapt forward with a murderous scream.

Venom slammed into him, meaty hands grabbing onto his wrists and yanking them away from his head. Carnage cackled the entire time, before he suddenly shot out more spikes from his chest, one piecing Venom in the shoulder and causing him to roar in pain before he moved to try and break Carnage's right wrist. But Carnage suddenly shrank his hand back down to normal side, allowing him to slip from Venom's grasp before he lifted his hand up once more, turning it into a spear-

Venom's Bride attacked.

She leapt onto Carnage's back and bit hard into his throat, causing the red symbiote's attack to go wide as suddenly his muscles seized up due to the bite. He cried out at that but Venom wrapped his fingers around his head before yanking him from his Bride's hold, her teeth carving out great gouges from his neck, a splash of red blood bursting from the wounds even as Venom slammed Carnage's face against the ground, grinding his head into the hard soil.

"They don't even know you are up here," Norman told Barbrey, bringing her close to his face so he could whisper in her ear. "They've all forgotten you. I could twist your neck right now and they wouldn't even realize you were dead until hours after they have long abandoned this town. And that is being optimistic. One could actually argue that it would be a kindness to kill you right now… because if I don't then you have, at beast, to look forward to the Starks keeping you in one of their Ice Cells, forgotten about due to everything else they will be focusing on.

"Does that bother you? I mean… you made agreements with… so many enemies of the North. You sought out the Lannisters, hoping to make yourself the Warden of the North. As if the North would ever follow a pathetic bitter woman like you… one that can't even produce an heir. Did they know about that? How the moon tea damaged your womb and made it that no seed would ever quicken, despite all you did to get heavy with Brandon Stark's bastard when you realized he wouldn't be selecting you?"

"I… I…" Barbrey gagged out.

"Don't deny it," Norman said, looking away from Barbrey to watch as Carnage turned his arms into long barbed whips, cracking them before he began to rush at Venom and his Bride, forcing the two to back away. Every strike tore great gouges in the ground, which would have been dangerous for a man on foot and deadly for a mounted rider… but for the symbiotes were little more than annoyances at worse. "I have made it my business to learn about you when you agreed to work with Euron, Lady Dustin. I know about the moon tea. I know how you tried to seduce the blacksmith of Barrow Hall in hopes of producing a son while Lord Dustin was away after drinking more foreign teas in hopes of undoing the damage. I know that you reached out to the Blackfyres in Essos in hopes that they might form an alliance with you… and raged when you learned that Arya Stark had already been inducted into their ranks. It was only because she was already on a ship towards Westeros that kept her from learning of your treachery… but she will learn soon. And she will whisper in her allies' ears ALL about you.

"Who else? Who else? You sent envoys to try and turn the Night's Watch against the Starks. You reached out to the Dornish and tried to claim that Lord Stark had split their blood in their own lands. You have reached out to cutthroats and sellswords and catspaws. And time and time and time again… you have failed."

He suddenly wrapped an arm around her, yanking her onto his glider. He could feel her heart thundering against wrist, the shuddering of her breath at the sudden movement.

"Do you not get tired of being second best?" he whispered. "Your entire life you have been nothing but second best. Your sister was seen as more clever. Your house always the 'also there' of the Northern Houses. You did all you could to seduce Brandon Stark but he desired Catlyn Tully. And when he died you were sold off to Lord Dustin, which was decent enough but you always craved a higher house like the one your sister was a part of. And Lord Dustin… he never loved you."

That made Barbrey tense. "He loved me."

"You were his last resort," Norman said with a soft chuckle. "The woman he wanted was promised to Robert Baratheon."

"Lyanna…"

"That's right," Norman said, running his fingers along the swell of her breast. Barbrey was so startled by what he was telling her that she didn't even react. No move to try and pull away or resist. Just accept what was happening. "He never wanted you, Barbrey. You were merely his fall back. What he accepted. Its why he leapt at the chance to go with Eddard Stark to war. Its why he volunteered to go to Dorne. He died trying to save the woman he truly loved and you never once entered his thoughts. He died with his only regret being he didn't get to see him and you weren't even an after thought."

It was all lies, of course. Or perhaps truths. Norman had no way of knowing. But how factual something was… that was never the point. That didn't matter. What did was the person being told believed. People wanted to believe certain things, to feed into their personal narratives. You give them a lie that supported what they had always assumed and they would happily accept it.

Barbrey Dustin had lived her entire life believing the world was out to get her, taking away what she deserved and that she was always given the scraps. So being told that was the case? She ate it up like a child would a rich breakfast of oats and honey.

Venom let out a roar as he began to punch Carnage, the red symbiote laughing and cackling with every hit. That only enraged the black symbiote more and he began to pound into him harder and harder, trying to get Carnage to react. But he just kept laughing until, finally, he snapped his head and bit down on Venom's wrist, making the black symbiote bellow before Carnage stabbed him in the side.

That led to the Bride launching herself at him, ending up on Carnage's back as she trying to strangle him with one hand while clawing at his shoulder with the other. All three ended up rolling and thrashing along the ground until Carnage threw the Bride through a wall… only to make another hole himself when Venom tossed him right after her before diving in himself.

"The Lannisters don't want you to be their ally… you are just a convenient fool but they would MUCH rather have the Manderlys or the Karstarks. You were given nothing when Lord Stark became the Warden of the North and you were given nothing when he become King. Oh… you were passed Barrowton but you know that will always be seen as pity by him. And its people… do they truly support you now?"

She didn't say a word.

"Where are your guards?" Norman pressed. "You had far more than the paltry few that you brought with you. They must be around… why aren't they coming to your rescue? Demanding I release you and surrender?"

The answer was 'they are long dead' but Norman wasn't going to let Barbrey know how he had gone through and done some… changes… to her castle staff while she had been having her stand off with Robb Stark.

A lie will be believed if it supports what someone has always thought.

"They hate you," he hissed. "They hate you so very much. You aren't their lord… just the whore that couldn't even do her one job and get plump with an heir. And now they are stuck with you and they know that they will have to wait until you are dead before they will get a true lord. They are commanded by a fickle woman when they desire only a strong man and nothing you do will EVER change their minds. Eddard stuck you in the most cruel of cages, did he not? Ensured that you would never be able to escape? Your only hope to be a second son that would seek to rob you of your freedom and would only see you has a source of power?"

Barbrey shuddered at that.

The symbiotes burst from the roof of Barrow Hall, Venom soaring through the air before he fired off tendrils and yanked himself back down at Carnage who was rushing towards him. But at the last moment Carnage fired off his own tendrils, latching onto a wall so that he could twist out of the way before forming more spikes from his back that he drove into a tower just as his back struck it, clinging to it before he clapped both his hands together and formed them into a giant spiked club that he swung at Venom. He landed on the roof and caught the club, grunting and growling as he did all he could to force it back, his Bride moving to assist him in trying to keep Carnage from crushing them like bugs.

"But… perhaps there is someone that is interested in you… for you," Norman told her as the three symbiotes continued their battle. "Someone that sees how cunning you are… and knows you would make a fine ally. Someone who might even be able to fix that which you thought was always broken…" He slowly lowered his hand to her stomach, rubbing it several times.

Barbrey audibly swallowed.

Norman flew down to a rampart and set her down. "Wait there. Don't move."

She stepped down and just stared at him with glassy eyes.

He smiled before launching himself into the air, pulling out a Pumpkin Bomb and hurling it at Venom and his Bride as the two of them continued to struggle to hold off Carnage's attack. The two had only a moment to realize the doom that was coming their way before it exploded, sending them flying back and into the outer wall that surrounded Barrow Hall. The ancient stone cracked and snapped on impact and the two slowly oozed down to the ground, shaking their heads and trying to work out the cobwebs that were rapidly forming in their brains due to the impact.

"You nearly burned me good there!" Carnage declared with a laugh.

"I'll aim better next time." Norman landed his glider upon the ground and stepped off of it even as Carnage leapt down, slamming into the earth just a few feet from Norman.

"Good! Good!" Carnage then paused, tilting his head. "Wait, do you mean you'll aim better to miss or to hit me?" Before Norman could so a word the deranged man threw back his head and laughed all the harder. "No no… don't tell me! I want to be kept guessing!" He turned his hands into a pair of blades, slowly running them along each other, slowly scraping the edges against one another. "Two symbiotes… I wonder how my prince found a second. And his wife… oh, now that must lead to some interesting fucking!" He moved towards the two who were still struggling to get up; their black flesh was slowly healing but Norman could tell from the way it was rippling and twitching that the Pumpkin Bomb had hurt them greatly. "Now now… don't get up… Carnage will come to you…"

Only then Carnage stopped and twisted on his heels, marching away.

"Or not!" He threw back his head and laughed as he moved past Norman, already muttering to himself about wanting to find others to kill. He looked at his hands, returning them to normal. Or, at least, normal for him.

Norman reached out and squeezed Carnage's shoulder.

The red symbiote whipped around and roared right in his face.

Norman didn't even react.

"His grace wants them dead. He was very clear on that and I know you were in the room when he gave the command. He wants Robb Stark dead, his body strung up in front of the Gates of the Moon for Eddard to see."

"Oh, I remember him saying that," Carnage replied with a chuckle. "But I don't remember him saying WHEN the prince had to die. I want him healed up and chomping at the bit to come at me again. It will make things far more interesting."

"We aren't concerned with what things more interesting for you. We are concerned with destroying Ned Stark's heart. We must tear it from his chest and crush it and having his heir killed after he fell for our ruse? That will break him and make him rush out into a foolish fight he has no hope of winning."

Carnage thought knocked Norman's hand away. "He never ordered me to do it. He just said he wanted him dead. So why don't you want to do the deed, hmmm? Why are you so quick to pass along the duties to me?" That made Carnage chuckle as he slowly turned and began to poke Norman in the chest. "Afraid of getting those green hands of yours dirty?"

Norman's glowered at the insult the man had tossed at him. "Just because I don't believe in mindless violence…"

"No no no!" Carnage said, wagging his finger right in Norman's face and it was taking every ounce of willpower he had not to snap the digit. "We both know that's not true. How many of the Barrowton guards did you slaughter before you came out here? Because I know there should be far more coming out here to confront us. They might be cowards but they also have honor and that makes cowards do stupid things." He giggled madly at that before stating, "You love mindless slaughter just as much as I do. The difference is that you don't want the world to KNOW that you love it. Have to be in control, to seem like you always have a plan. But in reality… you are just one slip away from killing everything and everyone until that green suit of yours is blood red."

He poked Norman in the chest again.

Norman snarled and lashed out, punching Carnage across the face.

The red symbiote laughed at that and moved to slash him with his claws, not even bothering to turn his hands into any weapons. But Norman easily slid to the side and hammered Carnage across the side of the head, making him stumble. Norman was on him in a second, leaping at him and crashing into him, sending Carnage down into the ground, one hand wrapping around Carnage's throat. That made the symbiote let out a gurgling laugh even as Norman took out another Pumpkin Bomb, holding it up for Carnage to see.

The Iron born… cackles.

"That's it… yes, that is it! Blow us both up and lets see if we can both survive!" He forced himself forward, rubbing his head against the Pumpkin Bomb. "Come on… pop it and lets give any that are still alive a real good show!"

Norman so badly wanted to force the Pumpkin Bomb down Carnage's throat. To watch the fires burst from the cackling loon's eyes and mouth as he was roasted from the inside out. To hear his laughter turn to screams as he disemboweled himself trying to save his pathetic life. To taste his terror, his fear, and have everyone know he had killed Euron Greyjoy! To have everyone cower as they understood what he could do! To know that he, the Green Goblin, had slaughtered the Crowseye and-

Norman grabbed hold of the bloodlust and madness and threw it back into its cage in the back of his mind, slamming it shut.

He pushed off of Carnage and got to his feet, making no move to help the other man up. He stuffed the Pumpkin Bomb back into the bag that hung at his side and turned away, taking several deep breaths.

"Oh…" Carnage said from behind him, "…you disappoint me, Norman."

He refused to say a word. If he did… there was a risk the mask wouldn't merely slip but would shatter and he didn't know when he would have control of himself again if that happened.

"By the by," Carnage said, "Venom and his ladywife escaped."

Norman whipped around and stared at where the two black symbiotes had been only to find rumble and nothing else. He looked about wildly, hand going back into his satchel. 'Where will they come from? Try and catch me from above? Or to the side. They won't be dumb enough to rush me directly… unless they are hoping to catch me unaware. And then the smartest move would be to attack me right in front! To rush me!' He grit his teeth and looked about, every shadow suddenly having eyes and teeth and claws, ready to leap at him.

"SHOW YOURSELVES!" he roared as he began to hurl Pumpkin Bombs. Not just one. No… he began to throw them at every dark spot in the yard of Barrow Hall… and there were many of those spots thanks to the fight between the symbiotes. Again and again and again he threw the bombs, green flames roaring to life as each orange orb shattered and unleashed their blazing contents upon the Northern castle. "WHERE ARE YOU!?" Norman screamed. "YOU THINK YOU CAN HIDE FROM ME? THE FLAMES WILL MAKE SURE YOU REGRET THAT FOR HOWEVER LITTLE REMAINS OF YOUR WRETCHED LIVES!"

He had to kill the symbiotes. They had to die! Ultron had been clear about that and Norman would NOT be the weak link! Never the weak link! That was Carnage! Or the Vulture King! Mysterio! Kraven! Even the King himself! But not Norman! Not him! He was the one that dominated! The one that got shit down! HIM!

'Burn them! Burn every fucking shadow until they have nothing left to hide! They think they can hide from me? Me!? Nothing escapes me! The flames will reveal them and then I will shove their toothy faces into the flames until they stop twitches! Then I will take their skulls and polish them to a fine shine before dipping them and gold and using them to adorn my fucking glider!'

It was only when his hand rummaged through his bag and found nothing that the rage suddenly disappear, like a hearth that had been dosed with water. But while his anger and madness disappeared in an instant… the flames remained.

The heat blasted his face and Norman looked around to find that he was not standing in Barrow Hall anymore. Not truly. He was standing in an oven and all were about to be cooked. The emerald flames danced around him as they chomped and snapped at the all that got near them. Even the stone itself could not survive the wildfire. They didn't melt like Harrenhall, for the fires were not as hot as dragonflame. But they still did their damage. In the back of Norman's mind he realized that the trapped snowflakes of a thousand winters that had wormed their way into the cracks and crevices of the walls only to find no escape were now boiling.

The stones groaned as the water turned to steam and expanded, the walls vibrating as the flames licked at them, making the microfissures grow. And within the castle a new sound fought against the roaring of the flames: screams.

The servants that had hid away from the battle now found themselves being pushed from their hiding spots like rats fleeing a sinking ship. Some might find salvation if they hurried… but others would delay… and they would die.

Perhaps part of Barrowton would remain. That was possible. But more likely it would all burn and would only stop when the flames reached the grassless ring that surrounded the town, ironically build to stop invaders from burning the city, and the river. Wildfire could not be doused by water… but it could not consume it either.

Steam and smoke rose and the walls let out groans.

"Well… let's hope Ultron had not designs for this place," Carnage stated.

Norman merely looked around before moving towards where he had left his glider. "Time to go."

Carnage giggled at that. "You don't want to roast some mutton?" A scream ripped shrilly through the air. "Oh, they are already singing campfire songs!"

Norman ignored him. Carnage would either come or he would die. Simple as that. He got onto his glider and willed it to rise into the air, stopping at the wall where Lady Dustin stood, looking at the city that had been her's to dominate per her own wishes and wants for scores of years. Her face was slacked, her mouth slightly parted, betraying nothing at all. But in her eyes, despite their glassiness, he saw the flames dancing about, green and lively.

Without saving a word… Barbrey held out her hand to him.

Norman chuckled and helped her onto the glider, wrapping an arm around her once more only now she took hold of his wrist and pressed his hand closer to her.

They rose up like bat out of the flames of hell… and flew off as the screams of the people of Barrowton filled the air.

Chapter Text

Catelyn

There were ways that a noble woman was supposed to handle a sleepless night.

Most castles had side rooms that were a woman’s own, just off the main bedchamber. It was here that a woman could retreat to so she didn’t disturb her lord husband with her tossing and turning. Filled with books or sewing projects or sometimes the articles of the Seven if one wanted to seek peace through prayer. The more sinful might indulge in the drinking of wine, hoping that would bring them into a false sleep. But that was what was expected.

Its what Catelyn Stark had always done.

At first it was because she was terrified of her new husband. While not as large and looming as Brandon had been he was still a rather big Northsmen, grim and stern. She had worried endlessly that he would be terribly angry if she began to shift about in her sleep. And there was the fact that he needed his rooms to be bitterly cold to sleep and Catelyn, back then, hadn’t learned how to properly bundle herself up against the chill. So while he laid with just a thin sheet over his nude form she would wake up, slip on a robe, and retreat to her room to read and then rest for a bit in the smaller bed that was prepared for her.

Later, when she had learned that Ned did not care if she tossed and turned and in fact would sit with her if she had trouble sleeping, talking with her and rubbing her back and running his fingers through her long red hair, she almost rarely used the room. When she did it had been when she had been pregnant with their children and even then Ned, more often than not, would join her in there. It was frowned upon, of course, as that was supposed to be HER room, but she was joined by him all the same.

But that night Catelyn didn’t go to her room. Instead she rose and quietly dressed in as simple of a gown as she could find, for she wanted to garb herself on her own without any help, and she began to quietly make her way through the halls of Winterfell, not really having any plan in mind of where she would go.

She was careful never to be spotted. Catelyn had heard that the smallfolk believed that castles shut down utterly and completely in the middle of the night but that wasn’t the case. It wasn’t a matter of all going to bed and everything being quiet and still like the old tales claimed. No, there were always servants moving about, getting things ready for the next day. Cleaning this or that, replacing things like candles, and of course the cooks deep in the kitchen already hard at work on the breads and meats that would fill the bellies of all the guards, soldiers, servants, and of course the Starks themselves and their guests. As such Catelyn was careful in how she moved through Winterfell, always checking before she made her way around a corner or past an open door.

Sleep had failed to come to her because she had been worried about what might happen if she did fall asleep. While there had been no other episodes since that terrible night Catelyn lived in fear that she might awaken again to have found herself wandering about in her resting, endangering herself in some way. Perhaps trying to dive into the hearth or walking down some stairs. Most nights she was able to drive off that fear but she had found herself worrying about it endlessly and now…

‘And now I find myself wandering the halls of my own home like I am some slippery catspaw trying to determine what I am going to snatch up,’ she thought in annoyance.

She was nearly ready to give up and return to her room to try rereading some of the correspondence that her brother Edmure sent (how someone that was so spritely and energetic could write such boring letters, she would never know but they would do the trick in helping her drift to sleep) when she passed by a window and heard a whooshing sound. Looking out she was startled to see a figure in the training yard. Panic nearly filled her at a stranger, this late in the darkness of night, out there with a weapon but when she saw their wings she realized it was just Shireen.

‘So many odd guests and I have spent such little time talking with them,’ she thought. Jane Seaworth, or rather Jane Lokidotter as Shireen had commented was Jane’s title now. The future Queen of Asgard. Queen of the Seven. After their conversation a while back they hadn’t had a chance to speak with one another. Same with Shireen, who spent much of her time with Ned going over plans to prepare the North for the Others. ‘Then there are the Guardians,’ she thought with a shake of her head. ‘Lyanna… or Gamora…’ the green skinned woman seemed to always waffle back and forth on what she wanted to be called, ‘…we had one talk about… Jon… and that was it too. I have barely dealt with Yondu one on one and Drax-‘

She scowled at that.

The conversation with Drax had most involved him making comments about how, even after birthing so many children, she still had ‘a lovely ass’ that any man would be pleased to shove their face in. He’d then asked if Ned would be willing to let him give it a try since he was supposed to be the one that claimed her…

Catelyn wasn’t one for violence but she had been seriously tempted to drive her knee into his unprotected groin after that.

Her thoughts on their many guests must have guided her feet because Catelyn blinked when she found herself before a door that was not all on its own. No… there was a guard standing there, alert and ready even though it was dark out, and she nodded at him before, without giving a reason why, she entered into the room.

She wasn’t surprised to find Ravan Targaryen sitting in a chair, reading a book.

The woman was in her natural form: blue scaly skin and slicked back crimson hair. She had at least put on a white dress, which was a relief for Catelyn as according to Arya Ravan (or ‘Mystique’ as Arya called her, same as how Ravan tended to call Arya ‘Shadowcat’ and Gendry ‘Colossus’; Gambit was just ‘Gambit’ though) enjoyed walking around completely naked, seeing no issue with a lack of garments. When they allowed her out of her room she tended to take on a more Esssosi look, with tanner skin and dark eyes, but Catelyn had a sinking feeling that Ravan was out more often than they thought, and in different forms. It was only Arya promising that she wouldn’t cause trouble that kept Catelyn from having a full blown panic attack about the shapeshifter wandering the halls.

That… and Sansa confirming she could smell her and would know if she was up to any tricks.

“I must admit,” the woman said, never bothering to look up from the pages, “these Northern tales are far more interesting than I expected. Everyone outside of these lands think that the Northerners are too serious to have truly entertaining works of fiction.” She looked up at Catelyn and smiled. It wasn’t a friendly smile but it wasn’t a wicked evil smile. It was… well… just a smile. A small one.

One that spoke of power.

Catelyn had never smiled like that since she had come to the North. There was no need for such games in these lands. But when she had acted as the Lady of Riverrun, doing all for her father that her mother had once done? Oh… she had flashed that smile many times. At guards who thought because of her age they didn’t need to listen to her, just before she got their commanders to reassign them to dealing with the chamber pots and waste buckets. To visiting Lords who thought they could bluster and blather their way into getting an audience with her father when she’d already told them he was seeing to other matters.

It was the smile of a Queen, as her old Septa had told her.

“I was wondering when you or your Lord Husband would come to speak with me. I didn’t expect it to be so late at night but then again I suppose that makes sense. Trying to throw me off guard.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Catelyn admitted, seeing no reason to lie to the woman; she seemed like one that would be able to read through a lie.

Ravan nodded and gestured towards a chair and Catelyn forced herself not to feel irritated; the woman was acting like she was the lady of the keep and Catelyn was some guest. Rather than the truth of it, even if they didn’t say the words: Ravan was a prisoner.

‘Though, is she truly when she can change into any shape, most likely slither and slink her way past any barrier, and has Arya around to break her out?’

That was the worst part of it, in Cat’s opinion: her daughter wouldn’t think twice to help Ravan escape. Had made it VERY clear to her and Ned that as long as Ravan didn’t mind the room they had given her and the guard at the door she wouldn’t act but the moment that she grew bored…

“Well, I suppose you have every right to be restless,” Ravan stated. “We are in a time of great upheaval.” She raised an eyebrow. “When were you going to tell me that the Others had returned?”

Catelyn cursed at that. “Who told you… Arya.” She shook her head. Of course he daughter had told her that.

“No,” Ravan stated, cutting off those thoughts. “It wasn’t Arya.” She smiled once more that sharp cunning smiling of her’s. “You should have far more faith in her and her loyalty.”

Catelyn didn’t know why she said the next words aloud. She had better restraint. But she still found herself blurting out, “That is easy for you to say, when she would break you out of here in a heartbeat.”

Ravan though merely raised an eyebrow at that. “And if the tables had been turned and you were held by my husband and I she would go to war against us to save you.”

That made Catleyn want to wiggle in place like she was a scolded child.

Ravan gestured at the chair again and this time Catelyn actually sat down in it. “I think we need to discuss Arya.”

“What is there to discuss?”

“Like it or not,” Ravan stated, “I was there when she was at her most vulnerable. Without my aid she would have been captured by the Lannisters.” Ravan hissed out there name, eyes flashing with wrath; Arya had told her about that rather casually. That the Brotherhood hated the Lannisters most of all because of their inability to trust them. Catelyn… didn’t believe that was the case. Or the full case. She wondered if Ravan’s dislike for them more came from the fact that Tywin Lannister and his daughter had managed to win the prize that Ravan and the rest of the Blackfyres were hoping to claim. The Iron Throne.

“I know,” Catelyn said, bringing herself back to the present.

“No, you really don’t,” Ravan stated. “They came in with swords drawn. If she had fought them they would have had no issue with beating her. Perhaps claiming a piece off of her.” Ravan at once held up her hand when Catelyn started. “I’m not trying to scare you. I’m being honest.”

“I… I used to have nightmares…” The dreams of what had happened to Arya, where she had gone to, her fate. Until Yondu had told them that Arya was fine and Rickon had confirmed it they had been so utterly terrified. Holding out hope she was alive but also… “I used to sometimes pray she was dead because it would be better than being trapped in a Black Cell, tortured by that little monster Joffrey.”

Ravan didn’t judge her for that comment. “Yes. Yes I… suppose it would be.” She sighed and set her book down. “I have those nightmares too.” She didn’t shift or avert her eyes or anything like that. She continued to stare at Catelyn with a regal grace that made Cersei’s queenly looks come off as the petulant glowers of a toddler. Which, Catelyn reflected, did actually suit her temperament rather well. “And I think that is the crutch of our predicament.”

“Oh?” Catelyn said, keeping herself from retorting that their issue was that Ravan was married to a Blackfyre pretender and they were going to try and take over the Seven Kingdoms.

‘Seven. Not six,’ she thought to herself. ‘The Targaryens were obsessed with Dorne. It drove them mad they couldn’t claim it as part of their domain. Every Targaryen king attempted in some way to sway them into joining and in the end it was only through marriage they managed that. Ned will never agree to a marriage, even if Ravan offered it. The pain of what Sansa went through… it will never go away.’ And she couldn’t imagine that the Blackfyres would allow Ned to remain king. Arya had claimed to her that she had a deal in place, that they were fine. But she had been able to tell that her daughter was worried about the plan, scared that she hadn’t fully thought it through. She had doubts and that was VERY good because Catelyn was positive that the Blackfyres would find some way to wiggle out of whatever deal Arya had made.

“We have a beautiful daughter,” Ravan said.

Catelyn stiffened at that.

“Don’t try and deny it,” Ravan said. “You gave birth to her, yes, but I have raised her as well. I held her when she was terrified that the Lannisters would figure out who we were. I comforted her as she found herself a woman grown rather than a child. I have taught her many things and… she has taught me many as well.” She looked at Catelyn, gaze fierce. “WE … have a lovely daughter. One that loves us both equally.”

Catelyn forced herself to nod. Because that truly was the problem she now had to deal with. Her daughter had another mother that was… so very different from her. And she was going to be in competition with Ravan for the rest of their lives.

She hated it.

She hated the thought that her daughter had turned to someone else and seen them as a mother. It was part of the reason why Catelyn had never argued with Ned to foster the children. She knew it was unusual for families of their standing to not send their children out to be fostered, to build the relationships between the houses. There had been plenty who had offered and she had to admit that many of them would have been good for Arya. The Mormonts of Bear Island. The Manderlys of White Harbor. The Umbers of Last Hearth. She would have enjoyed being with any of them.

But Catelyn hadn’t wanted Arya, her wild daughter who barely tolerated her some days as her mother, to cling to another and see them as a parent.

And somehow she’d still found herself in that situation.

“And we are going to have to accept that each of us is an important part in her life,” Ravan stated. She leaned forward in her seat. “The maesters… they debate which is stronger: blood or environment. There are arguments for both sides, you know? They point to Aegon the Unworthy and state that it was his Esossi blood that made him as he was. That if his father had only married a proper Westerosi woman than he would have been a fine and just king. That his need for food and for whores and his delight in causing problems throughout the realm were always going to happen, no matter how he was educated and raised, because the pure blood of the dragon had been tainted.

“On the other hand… history is full of men with horrible fathers who, thanks to someone else stepping into the role of educator, became good and just and went on to do amazing things. Oswin Baratheon was a horrid drunk of a man, bitter and angry that his brother was made the Lord of Storms End instead of him. He abandoned his wife and his son and went to Essos to indulge in drink and in violence and eventually returned with a small army to try and take Storms End.”

Catelyn nodded. She knew this story. “And his son, Ser Samgood Baratheon, was there to confront him.”

Ravan nodded. “Samgood was raised by his uncle and his mother to be a good, just, kind man. He led his forces against his father and despite all of Oswin’s attempts to goad him into violence he refused to become a kin slayer, instead bringing Oswin back to his lord uncle for judgment. Never once did he desire to rise above his station.

“The truth, I think, is that both are important. Blood is strong… there is a connection there that we simply can not understand. That we aren’t meant to understand. Call it something by the Seven or something involving the deep magics or just sentimentality. But the fact remains that blood pulls one towards like blood. A child will always desire to know who their parents were, even if fostered with a loving couple that saw to their every desire. Brothers can be the fiercest enemies and yet weep for one another when the war is done.

“But those around them matter just as much. It is the fear all parents have.” Ravan held her gaze. “Is there not a servant you worry about your children become too close to? Seeing them as someone that they can latch onto as someone of great importance? Did you not have one?”

“Septa Billa,” Catelyn softly admitted. After her mother had died Catelyn had made it clear to all that she was the Lady of Riverrun and that she would manage her father’s affairs within the castle. That even if he took another ladywife she would remain the Lady of Riverrun and any woman her father courted had best understand that. A foolish and brash notion, she saw that now, and one that would have led to heartache. But she had been young and determined and wanted to prove herself.

And she had no desire to have someone replace her mother.

Catelyn had been convinced that if she did a well enough job running Riverrun her father would have no need to marry again. There had also been the fear she had held for her little brother, having heard stories about noble women who married into families already established and attempted to force their children, the ones they had birthed, into positions of power within the family. Had the Dance of the Dragons not happened because of such an event?

But while she wasn’t interested in a new mother… Septa Billa had filled the place within her heart where a mother would have occupied. She had been wonderful for her and Catelyn had loved her dearly, mourning when she had passed away only a month after Robb had been born due to a horrid coughing disease she had caught.

‘Perhaps though that is why I selected Septa Mordane,’ she thought to herself. ‘She cared for Sansa and… well, she cared for Sansa, but she was never as loving as Septa Billa was.’ It was a rather startling thought. A cruel thought. Robbing Sansa of a Septa she could have cherished and loved and instead one that cared for her but also used sternness to get what she wanted. ‘What would life have been like if it had been Septa Billa who had been with the girls?’ she wondered. That had been her dream, of course; she had only been four-and-forty when she had passed on, so she would have had many years to help Catelyn with the children. She would have been like a beloved grandmother, which would have been acceptable. ‘Would Arya have been far better behaved with her? Would Bran have listened when she demanded he not climb the walls? Would Robb had stopped trailing after Theon and forced the Ba… forcing Jon Snow to be part of all he did?’

She didn’t know.

“Arya,” Ravan said, bringing Catelyn out of her thoughts, “went through many difficult things. Not all of them bad just… difficult. And she did them all with me. But… I also acknowledge that you are her mother and you have a connection with her that I will never be able to understand.”

There was a wistfulness to her voice… sad but also hopeful.

Catelyn’s eyes went wide. “You have a child. One you bore.”

“…two,” Ravan admitted. “I have not seen them in years. But… I know that we are connected. But I have also raised other children, not just Arya. And I know that such a connection is just as deep. You and I… we will have to come to an understanding. We will have to work out how we can work together. For Arya. Because she doesn’t deserve to be torn apart.”

Catelyn considered her for a long moment. “But she will be torn apart, won’t she? Because your husband… will he even accept Ned?”

“The Starks bent the knee to the dragon before,” Ravan pointed out. “It was only because Torrhen Stark demanded no honors other than being left alone that they received no spot on the Small Council.”

Catelyn blinked at that, startled. “I… never heard…”

“Hmmm, I would think not,” Ravan said. “The Targaryens did not like to admit their debts. There were a few that they would allow to lord such things over them… the Baratheons and the Veleryons, due to the ties they had. But otherwise they were loathed to admit when they were indebted to another house. After all, as the silly folk tales go, dragons do not give up riches, they horde them.”

Catelyn nodded at that. She remembered that Lyssa in particular had loved tales of knights going to fight dragons… not the Targaryen ones but wild savage ones that burned grasslands and stole cattle. Such tales weren’t supposed to be spoken of, for even though they no longer had their dragons the Targaeryns were still dangerous, but they were whispered all the same. How the brave knight would wound the dragon and send it flying off (Lyssa didn’t like it if the dragon was killed) before going into its cave to find the mass of treasure it had gathered. And usually a princess or two.

“People talk of the Princess that was Promised… that a Targeryen Princess would marry a Stark Heir for their aid in settling the Dance. They also speak of how that never came to pass.” Catelyn nodded at that; more than one member of the Royal Party had japed that Robert was determined to one up the Targaryens by making Sansa queen. “Or the Hour of the Wolf and the many promises made to Cregan Stark. But there have been other times the Starks aided the House of the Dragon… my ancestors didn’t like to discuss it.”

“That unfortunately does sound right,” Catelyn admitted. ‘There have been whispers of my father ignoring certain houses and the long standing debts made to them…’

“King Torrhen Stark was offered many things by King Aegon when he bent the knee. After all, while he had marshaled his forces against him he hadn’t actually drawn his sword and Aegon was very much inclined to prove to Westeros he was a fair king. So he made many offers to the Northsmen. Some Torrhen accepted; the Starks were able to give away the cheapest of swords, nicked and blunted, to be made into the Iron Throne. Their true swords they were all allowed to keep, carried back to their homes. Brandon Snow, Torrhen’s bastard brother, married into the Forrester Family and became their liege lord with Aegon’s blessing-“ Catelyn started at that; she had never heard that tale! “-and of course other small honors were given. But Torrhen’s biggest request was that he and his people be left alone. They had never desired to become involved with the rest of Westeros, other than trade and allowing volunteers for the Night’s Watch to pass through their lands. He asked that they be allowed to live their lives and Aegon accepted. Torrhen would bend the knee but he didn’t want to be dragged into a thousand wars or deal with the politics of the South.

“There have been other times though. The Starks allowing the Vale and the Westerlands to move into their coastal waters to search for fish. Sending down lumber to assist in the making of ships. Advice given on the ways of the First Men when some Andal lord in the South thought themselves clever to use laws written by the First Men to claim this or that. Again and again the Targaryens have turned to the Starks and again and again the Starks made clear all they wished was to be left alone.”

Catelyn frowned at that. “And… would your husband agree to that arrangement again?”

Ravan made a face. “Most likely not… but not for what you think.” She was hiding something, Catelyn could tell, even as she said, “Arya is important to him too. He wouldn’t wish to be forever separated from her… and I sense the North is where she belongs.”

Catelyn had dreamed of her children marrying into the powerful houses of the South. Sansa married to Joffrey. Arya to perhaps a family in the Reach… she would have preferred one of the Great Houses but Sansa would have covered Lannister and Baratheon, Arryn and Stark and Tully were of course out, and Dorne was simply too far away. The Tyrells were a possibility but none of them had produced a son that was the right age so she had begun researching houses in the Reach that were lower in nobility and standing but wealthy and noble. She had found a few…

“Wait,” Ravan said, suddenly sitting up. The movement was predatory, reminding Catelyn of how Sansa would sometimes suddenly sit up before growling. Gamora too, if she thought that there was trouble. It was the movement of a being built for killing preparing to do what they did best. “Something is wrong…”

There was a sudden commotion and the door to Ravan’s room opened and the guard looked inside, almost… frantic.

“You must stay here, your grace,” he replied and Catelyn was dimly aware that Ravan had shifted, clearly thinking the man was talking to her.

“What is going on?” Catelyn demanded.

The guard glanced to his left. “I am not for sure, your grace. But there is a commotion-“

And that’s when the room directly across from them exploded.

The guard was sent flying at them, along with large chunks of stone. The famous waters that ran from the hot springs all through the walls of Winterfell were unleashed, sending a spray of burning water all over. Catelyn felt herself being flung to her left and it was only when she landed on a bed, head rattling like she’d been on a runaway horse, that she realized that Ravan had pulled her out of the path of the destruction.

Looking down at the guard Catelyn swallowed when she saw him lying still, not even twitching. Ravan though was already moving, running her hands along his neck. “He’s alive.”

“How… how do you-“

“I studied as a maester,” she said. “Erik learned what he did from me. There are ways to know.” She looked through the doorway towards the other room. “But I believe we need to focus on other matters.”

Through the dust and the spray of water that was still coming from the shattered wall Catelyn was able to see that there was a fierce battle occurring within Winterfell.

“Not Ironborn,” she whispered as she saw two figures flying through the sky. One had large wings that gleamed like polished black stone while the other she might have mistaken for the Iron Man if not for the fact that his armor was completely silver in color.

“Definitely not Ironborn,” Ravan said as she picked up the sword that had fallen from the guard’s hand and swung it a few times. Her flesh rippled and Catelyn found herself staring at a man of average height but with thick arms and a bull-like torso and neck. Catelyn stared at her, startled, but Ravan rolled her eyes. “I need a body that fits this sword,” she said in a deeper voice that sounded vaguely Westerlandish. “Now come on.”

“What… what are we-“

“Do you not have a room you can retreat to if there is an attack?” Ravan asked. “Someone place deep in the castle, with plenty of supplies?”

Catelyn honestly didn’t know.

Ravan let out a huff of annoyance at that. “Come along, we’ll find something that works.” She grabbed her hand and began to drag her out of the room and down the hall, Catelyn barely managing to avoid tripping over the rocks and rumble that covered the floor. “You Starks are supposed to be overly cautious… how do you not have something already planned?”

“I…” Catelyn felt foolish. It made sense, after all, to have such a room for the women and children. She knew that Riverrun had one… a secret room with a hidden doorway that would lead out to the Trident. Only if you knew where to look for it would you be able to notice it… and it hadn’t been used in so long that no one living actually knew where it was on the outside. Catelyn had tried to determine its location when she was a child but never managed. She did know though that the wall-like gates were so thick that no army could hope to get through them, even if they managed to drain the river so that a ram could be set up. But inside, amongst the supplies set up for the women, there was a wheel and pulley system that would allow two women of decent age to swing the doors open and escape out of the side of Riverrun.

The Starks HAD to have something like that. A hidden place for protection. A place where one could put those that they needed to watch over. A place no one would-

“The Crypts,” she suddenly realized. It made complete sense when she thought about it and she dimly wondered why Ned hadn’t mentioned it to her. Or the children. Did he simply not realize it? Perhaps… yes, he had left home when he was young and spent years in the Vale. It was entirely possibly that he had forgotten. Yondu would be able to tell her if he had told Ned…

She saw a blurring shape suddenly leap in the air only to be attacked by the winged figure, the two disappearing from view.

‘Of course that would require him to be available to speak to us,’ she thought.

“The Crypts?” Ravan said before nodding slowly. “The Starks never waste a thing.” Others might have been insulting with such words but Catelyn could tell that Ravan meant them respectfully. “They are deep, plenty of places to store food and water, and most likely they built some way to get out of them if disaster struck.”

The entire castle shook.

“Like now,” Ravan said, making a face of bemusement that didn’t belong on the grim visage she was currently wearing. “Right… is there anyway into the Crypts other than through the main entrance?”

Catelyn felt herself freeze up. It was like someone had placed her in the Summer Isles and told her to find where they were to have dinner. She was a foreigner in a strange land and-

‘Breathe,’ she mentally hissed at herself. ‘Breathe. This has been your home for years. You know it. Just think.’

But it was so hard to do so when the entire castle was rattling and shaking and she could hear the panic coming from the guards.

“I AM GROOT!”

A white tree branch suddenly launched itself past the hole in the castle wall and Catelyn got the impression of a brown furry thing riding on it before there was a cry and she saw Gamora slam into the wood, causing it to tremble and crack, Groot’s bellows filling the air as Rocket cursed before all three of them disappeared completely from view.

“Where is the entrance!” Ravan snapped.

“I… let me think-“

“We don’t have time to think!” Ravan shouted, throwing her hands into the air. “We need to get moving NOW! Everything has gone to shit and we need to get you to safety!”

Catelyn glowered at her. “I don’t make a habit of going down to the Crypts.”

“And it is costing us greatly at the moment!” Ravan complained bitterly. “Fine then, we’ll try and make for-“

Another blast ripped past them, forcing Raven to leap back from Catelyn. She turned… and started into the face of a monster.

It was in the form of a large armored man but at once Catelyn knew it couldn’t be a man. The armor… it was… its pieces were far too close together. While weapons and war would never be her domain Catelyn had seen plenty of men in armor and understood that there had to be gaps for it to move properly. No armor could be perfect, so form fitting that it covered every inch of space. There had to be spots were it overlapped, spots were it left leather or cloth exposed. It was why men would wear chain mail, to try and protect their limbs while still giving them flexibility. Because that was the other issue with armor: it was big and heavy and bulky. It slowed one down and caused their swings to be clumsy and their movements reduced in reach.

But the metal of the creature’s armor… it rolled and flowed along each piece. It was… unnatural. It looked more like segmented skin than armor plate. At once Catelyn thought of the beetles that used to cause her and Lysa to go off running and screaming when they played in the carefully maintained grassy play area in Riverrun.

The bug description wasn’t helped by the creature’s head. While he had two arms and two legs and his form was basically that of a man the head was utterly foreign and monstrous. A massive maw that glowed with an unnatural energy, same as the deep cuts that were its eyes. A set of mandibles on either side of its head. It was like some insect from the Seven Hells, forged to appear like a man but failing miserably.

“I must ask you to step away from the lady,” the creature said, its mouth never moving but its words clear. “While I appreciate you guarding her there is no more need.”

Catelyn knew that voice.

She remembered hearing it back in King’s Landing, telling her that she should stay longer, that she shouldn’t have come in secret, that there was so much he wished to show her and it was a shame that she had to hide because he wanted to have her on his arm.

“The princess will be saved from the ogre’s lair by her knight,” the figure said, his helm slowly retracting to reveal a ghostly blue face. “By… her knight in shining armor.” He waved his hand towards his chest, smirking as he did so.

Catelyn swallowed as she took in the face of a dead man.

“Petyr.”

Chapter Text

Kraven

Winterfell.

Oh, how she hated it.

Winterfell was the exact opposite of her once home. Cold instead of warm. Grass and snow instead of sand. Men thick and dour instead of lithe and passionate. The nights were too long and the days too short. The animals were wrong too; when she thought of beasts she thought of the lizards and the snakes that called the great dunes home. Such creatures would find themselves falling asleep here, dying in their dreams due to the cold and allowing then great shaggy beasts that called the North their kingdom to consume them all.

'And then there are the Starks,' she thought bitterly as she lashed out with her spear, stabbing one of the Winterfell soldiers in a spot where his armor left a gap. He let out a shrill scream as he dropped his sword, fingers no longer able to open and close properly thanks to her spearhead shredding through the nerves and tissues that connected his arm to the rest of his body. Hot blood poured from his wound but she was sure that even his blood was colder than that of the Dornish.

Not that she counted herself as one anymore. Even before she had altered her body, twisting the frail and weak thing she had been into something strong and powerful, she had given up the right to call herself Dornish when she'd allowed two with the blood of the Sun and the Spear to die while she fled like a coward. When her child that died so too had been her right to call herself a Martell.

'And yet the Starks get all I should have had,' she thought darkly to herself as she ripped the spear from the man's body before plunging it into his throat, silencing his scream. The way he twitched reminded her of how sometimes one would swat at a beetle and only graze it, causing it to still twitch but be unable to do anything before you finished squishing it. 'They tried to tie themselves to the dragon and while my family has been reduced in power they were able to retreat back to their castle. The whore Lyanna Stark might be dead but her brother continues on with his beautiful children and fertile wife.'

She thought of her brothers. Oberyn, so wounded by her "death" that any hope he might one day be able to put aside his wandering eye and marry had been completely destroy. Never would he trust his heart with another. And Doran. She hated that he was currently trying to get into the good graces of the Lannisters but she also mourned the fact that the large family he had dreamed of when they were children had never come to be. A daughter and two sons… barely half of the seven children he claimed he would bring into the world, one for each of the Seven Kingdoms which he had boldly claimed when she was a little girl would fall to his progeny.

"You don't deserve this," she said to another guard, spinning her spear as he brought up his shield to try and guard against her. With utter viciousness she attacked him, driving the butt of her spear into his shield and then, with a simple flip, slammed the spear head into his unarmored boot. He cried out in pain and fell awkwardly, pinned to the ground and unable to crawl away as she drew forth her sword. He held up his hands and gibbered mindless pleas but Kraven merely sneered before she swung her sword-

CLANG!

The blow stopped short and Kraven looked at the one that had dared to interfere with her and her battle.

She was startled to find it was a woman.

The warrioress twisted her sword, forcing Kraven's blade away before she suddenly grabbed at the spear, ripping it free of the ground and the man's foot before she spun it rapidly around her body, lashing out once, twice, and then flinging it away. Kraven sneered at that before she brought out a dagger, holding it in a reverse grip while readying her blade. In response her foe drew a second sward, easily bringing both up in a stance that would allow her to quickly go on the attack if she desired or remain of the defensive.

The two slowly began to circle one another, allowing Kraven to truly get a good look at the woman. The thing most others would have noticed about her was her green skin and deep red hair, which was the color of just cooling blood. Perhaps after that one would take in her choice of attire: black leather that left her arms bear and allowed her to be as flexible as she wished. Others might have seen that while she was half a foot shorter than Kraven she was made up only of lean hard muscle. Or that she clearly knew how to wield weapons. She wasn't some weak maiden who, in a desperate time of need, took up a sword or a dagger and swung wildly at her enemy. No… she knew how to plant her feet. How to hold her blades. How to fight.

Others would have noticed all of that.

Kraven however was focused on the woman's eyes.

Those were the eyes of someone who had lost much and rather than allow the pain to cause them to be crushed… she had decided to become strong enough to never be hurt again.

She had seen those eyes many times… the last being just before Kraven had learned of the death of Ser Gregor Clegane.

"You were a fool to come here," the woman said, nearly as cold as the lands outside of Winterfell's walls.

Had she been someone else Kraven might have mentioned that she certainly didn't feel foolish. A mere look at the damage she, the Vulture, and Ultron had managed to do to Winterfell already spoke of that. Despite the fact that they had been taken unaware by the Iron Born so recently they had still allowed themselves to be caught by surprise by their forces. The three of them were laying waste not just to the soldiers but to the mighty castle itself. Sections of the wall had been destroyed, the main keep had been breached, and fires burned in Winter Town. Everyone was in such a panic that they had no ability to mount a defense, allowing them all to do as they pleased.

But Kraven didn't say those words.

"What is your name?" she asked as she gripped her sword a touch harder.

"I am Gamora… and I will kill you for daring to come here."

Kraven smirked at that. "There are many men in Essos who spoke those words to me. And be it unmarked grave or grand tomb… all ended up in the same place in the end while I remain standing."

Gamora stood there… and then burst into a flurry of sword swings.

It was so fast that it almost took Kraven by surprise. She was used to being the one that startled people with her speed so to find herself on the other end of it was certainly surprising. Not enough that it caused her to be in any real danger, of course. Oh no… she was too good for that. She brought up her sword to deflect a blow from the right sword while her dagger easily slid aside the left. Kraven then shifted her body weight, using her greater size to loom over Gamora and get her to bend. That was the best way to deal with fighters that were smaller than her. By forcing them to have to shift their bodies their center of gravity changed and that messed up their ability to quickly dodge blows.

But Gamora twisted towards her left arm and her dagger, dropping her head to avoid the slash Kraven made, and popped back up at Kraven's side, swinging her sword towards her back. But the Hunter easily spun her toes and brought her dagger up again, blocking that strike. If Gamora had been her size she would have never been able to stop that hit but the other woman's shorter reach meant her swing wasn't able to get the speed and strength it needed in order to truly harm her.

And yet… Kraven was still startled by just how strong the other woman was. Her strike was able to jar her wrist for a moment. Just a moment… but that was enough to surprise Kraven.

"What are you?" she asked, utterly curious.

"I am a Child of the Forest," Gamora declared. "Protector of these lands."

If Gamora had thought that would frighten her then she had miscalculated gravely.

"A Child of the Forest…" Kraven whispered, a smile slowly forming on her lips as she stared at the green skinned woman. Yes… yes this would make the entire enterprise worthwhile! She had agreed to help Ultron attack Winterfell because it was held by the Starks and there was nothing more she wanted than to make them all pay. Any that held their blood needed to suffer and perish for the role Lyanna Stark had played in her downfall. But she hadn't been interested in the needless slaughter that Ultron had gushed on and on about.

Her "king" (a title she only used when he was around, for she would never have a king again) had went on and on about how glorious it would be to strike at the very heart of the North. To bring down Eddard Stark and leave his great castle in ruins. To slaughter his children as they foolishly tried to stand against him and protect their home. To turn the people of the North against him as they saw just how weak he truly was.

Kraven hadn't been interested in any of that. It was like asking the greatest Hunter on either side of the Narrow Sea to help trap rats. Far below their skill and it offered no sport at all.

But… a Child of the Forest? Something of myth and legend?

Kraven at once went into a flurry of swings and strikes, forcing Gamora backwards. She lashed out with her sword, swinging it in wide arcs again and again, while she used her dagger to stab at the green woman. She didn't get close to her flesh but it was enough to keep Gamora moving backwards, forcing her right where Kraven wanted her. They moved towards a wall, one thick and high. It would be the anvil and Kraven the hammer.

All around them the sounds of battle continued. Though the Stark men numbered in the hundreds there was little they could do against the Vulture, as he was able to swoop in and out of the sky, lashing at them with his dragonbone feathers, cutting them into ribbons. And Ultron… Ultron was unleashing every ounce of dark magic he could upon Winterfell, tearing apart walls and towers with the beams of blue energy that he fired from his mouth. Though, as Kraven tuned her sense to the world around her, she did notice that it had grown quiet…

Kraven lashed out again with her sword. It was a clumsy strike, one aimed at Gamora's belly. If it had hit her guts would have spilled out onto the ground, tumbling from her stomach into a puddle on the hard packed earth. But Gamora was too skilled and too quick and she leapt away.

Right where Kraven wanted her.

"Protector?" Kraven taunted as she moved in for the kill. Gamora now only had about a foot between her back and the wall. It eliminated one of her ways to avoid Kraven's blows and with her greater reach the right and left would also disappear rather quickly. If she were cunning she would try for the left, as that hand held the dagger. Try and move along that way…

…towards the other wall, forcing Gamora into a corner. Trapping her completely.

'After that it is just a matter of hammering her over and over until something breaks,' Kraven thought as she adjusted her grip on her uncle's white sword. 'She might be a Child of the Forest but I still have her in terms of strength and I am willing to bet my endurance will be greater as well.' She tried to remember all she had ever heard about the Children of the Forest and was disappointed to discover that her mind held little. Even though they were supposed to be part of Westeros' history the Children had always been seen as a Northern Myth and thus something the southerners never learned much about.

And being Dornish, where the trees rarely grew and such beings would shrivel up in the sun? Well… her education had never included them, much to her disappointment now in the present.

'I can learn plenty about her after I kill her,' Kraven thought. 'She can't be the only one here… there must be others. A greater chance to fight. I will study this one so that I might find greater members of her kind and better be prepared-'

Gamora suddenly leapt straight up.

Kraven had never seen anything like it. All the beasts she had ever hunted needed a running start to achieve such heights. Gamora hadn't even really crouched, like a man might if he needed to try and make a great jump. No… she had barely bent her knees before she had easily leapt straight up. Kraven's eyes snapped upward just in time to see Gamora suddenly kick off from the wall and come down and she knew she had to move. She couldn't let the Child of the Forest get behind her, as that would turn her trap against her!

Rather than try and get ahead of her Kraven moved to her right, so that the wall was now at her side but she was also facing the second wall, the one she had been moving towards. That allowed her to hopefully shift Gamora back into her trap, though she would have to be mindful of the jumps.

'Maybe use that against her,' she thought. 'Get her to try that little move again.' She hurried forward, swinging at Gamora and forcing her to block with both her swords. Kraven freed her weapon and lashed downward, trying to break her guard only for Gamora to choose to redirect rather than completely stop the swing. 'Then swinging at her as she's jumping. One half goes up, the other right back down.'

"I don't know why you came here," Gamora said. Kraven waited to hear what she had to say next…but the Child of the Forest instead launched a new attack on her, striking again and again with her blades. She was a vortex of death, her blades singing as she spun them in complex patterns. Sometimes they meant to strike out at Kraven and other times the woman realized her foe was trying to trick her into moving for a block only for the blow to never come, instead opening her up for another strike. It was forcing Kraven to think four steps ahead, to determine what move she might make that would allow her to defend herself not only from that strike but the ones that came after.

She found herself grinning at that.

"Finally… a challenge," she hissed as she moved to meet Gamora head on, performing her own fancy footwork.

"Is that what brought you here?" Gamora asked as she broke off, putting a bit of distance between them. "Got tired of mindless slaughter?"

"I have never slaughtered anything without a clear plan," Kraven stated as she and Gamora circled one another, making no move to actually try and engage one another. It wouldn't last, both knew that. They would be at each other's throats soon enough. But that the moment she was willing to just observe. "And I have never gone after the weak. I have only sought the strongest of prey for my hunts… what a delight to find you."

"So you didn't know I would be here," Gamora stated and Kraven at once cursed her foolishness. She hadn't realized what she was saying and now Gamora had more information that she wouldn;t have liked her to have. Knowledge was power, after all, no matter what it might be. There was a way to turn any bit of information into a weapon, if one had the will to do so. "Then why come here? Why attack us? The Starks did nothing to you-"

"The Starks did everything to me!" Kraven roared, pointing her sword right at the woman. "I don't know why you have sided with them but they are selfish creatures that don't ever take a moment to think and consider how their actions will affect others. They just demand, demand, demand and then play the victim when their choices come back to haunt them."

Gamora sneered at that. "I don't know who has fed you those lies-"

"History has fed me the truth," Kraven countered. "It has told me exactly what the Starks are! Lyanna Stark craved Rhaegar and ran off with him and that insipid little brat drove all of Westeros into war! How many died because she couldn't obey her father, like every other woman has!"

"You obeyed your father?" Gamora snapped back.

"Yes," Kraven hissed. "I obeyed him. I left my home, married a man who only laid with me because it was his duty, and provided him with his heir. I did what was asked of me and my reward is my continued existence while all those that should have lived died. I am Kraven… and I have lost more than you can possibly imagine."

That… was the wrong thing to say.

"You think I haven't suffered?" Gamora demanded. "You think I don't know what its like to lose? My brother. My father. They died because of me. And even though we have been reunited that doesn't remove the horror I felt when I learned what my actions had caused! My son doesn't even know I exist and I have no idea what he will do when we finally meet again! The one man I thought I loved used me to fulfill his delusions of prophecy because his wife couldn't give him another daughter-"

Kraven felt her blood freeze in her veins.

She stared at the woman carefully. Tried to imagine her with pale skin and dark hair. The long face. The thick nose that on another woman would have been ugly but on her only made her more attractive. The swagger and the attitude. Her willingness to fight. To be wild…

…like a wolf.

"Lyanna," Kraven hissed.

Gamora stared at her… and then narrowed her eyes. "Ellia."

The two brides of Rhaegar Targaryen stared each other down.

"I suppose there is no way you will walk away from this," Gamora… Lyanna… said.

Kraven sneered. "Oh, I will walk away… with your severed head held in my hands you whore!" With that she launched herself forward-

There was a sharp whistle and Kraven cried out as an arrow went right into her shoulder.

"I'm gonna have to ask you not to kill my daughter," a blue skinned man with red metal capping his head where his hair should have been said casually as he walked up to them.

It took several moments for it to register just what he was saying… but when it did Kraven felt herself trembling with utter rage and hatred.

Rickard.

Rickard Stark.

Him. It was him who had caused this. Caused it all. His failures as a Lord and as a Father. He had caused EVERYTHING.

Kraven let out a scream, ripping the arrow from her shoulder and throwing it right at Rickard's head even as she went after Lyanna. The speed at which she came at the woman must have startled her because she was a touch too slow bringing up her swords, allowing Kraven to kick one out of her hand while slashing with her own sword at her unprotected left leg; the bitch just managed to twist away so all she got was a gash on her leg rather than the entire limb ripped away. But Kraven didn't dwell on that; no, she continued to hammer on Lyanna, again and again, even as she felt her shoulder reknitting itself only for her frenzy to rip the sinew apart and force it to reheal all over again.

"You selfish little brat!" Kraven roared. "Thinking you are better than every other woman ever born in this fucking realm! All of us did our duty, married the men that our fathers commanded, and found some measure of peace with it! But not Lyanna Fucking Stark! She decided she knew better and she had the right to spit in her father's face! And you couldn't even take up with a blacksmith or a hedge knight! You stole the crowned prince… you stole my fucking husband!"

"Rhaegar… Rhaegar lied-"

"Of course he fucking did!" Kraven bellowed, pushing her further back away from the wall. She didn't care about some fancy trick that would leave her trapped… no, all Kraven wanted now was the fucking bitch dead and she didn't care how it happened! She would rip out her spine and club her to death with it, if she had to! "That whimpering little sword swallower lied to the fucking world. You think you were the first he betrayed me with? I let him swallow Corrington's seed but it was fine because he always came back to me. He was careful and never disgraced my honor. And then you showed up and the entire kingdom knew you had seduced him to your bed!"

Lyanna moved to try and grab her arm but Kraven kicked at her leg, feeling the ankle crack though not break under the assault. That forced Lyanna to bend down and Kraven, not even caring about weapons anymore, dropped her sword and dagger and instead latched onto Lyanna's head, slamming her face right into her knee.

"Fuck Rhaegar and fuck you too! If you had any fucking subtly it would have been fine! Forgivable. But instead you plunged the Seven Kingdoms into war!"

"We didn't… we didn't mean too…" Lyanna gasped out, clearly dazed.

That… was the wrong thing to say.

Kraven tackled Lyanna, wrapping her fingers around her throat and squeezing hard.

"You're apologies won't bring my children back," Kraven hissed as she leaned in close, eyes twitched as she looked down at Lyanna as she struggled and clawed at her wrists. Kraven didn't care. She welcomed the pain. She wanted to watch the light fade from the bitch's eyes and see her accept that death was coming from her. And then… and then maybe Kraven would just walk into one of the fires that had started up and allow herself to burn. Yes… yes that is what she would do. There-

She screamed as the damn red arrow burst out of her chest.

"It… was very fucking stupid for you to come here," Rickard said as he walked towards her, the blow having caused Kraven to fall off of Lyanna, some youth running to her and dragging her away. Kraven snarled, pressing her hand to her healing chest. Everything the warlocks had done to her to remake her into the Hunter were working triple time to repair the damage and while she could feel her flesh reknitting it still hurt like the Seven Hells.

But… Kraven was used to pain.

She twisted only to screech as an arrow was driven into her other shoulder, this time by the youth. She heard Rickard whistle and his red arrow hovered in the air before driving through her belly, flying her back against the wall. The youth fired again and this time Kraven found it driven through her left hand, pinning it to the wall.

"I don't know who you are, girl," Rickard said, "but it was a dumb choice to come here and attack our people."

She snarled but Rickard merely raised an eyebrow, clearly not bothered by her. She hissed as she felt the skin and muscle in her left hand slowly sealing around the arrow the blasted boy had fired into her; it would be a bitch to remove it now, with her body healing around it. Luckily the ones that Rickard had given her with his arrow were free of anything that might impede them… and better yet it looked like he didn't realize she was healing up. So it would only be her hand that hurt but she could live with that.

"We're gonna get answers. About you… about that silver bastard… and-

Black feathers suddenly shot down and forced Rickard to dive away.

"We're done here," the Vulture said.

"No… I can fight!" she snarled.

"I don't care. The King has what he wants… we're going."

"Lyanna fucking Stark is here!" she roared, finally reaching over and ripping the arrow from her hand. Blood gushed from the wound and it was making her feel a bit light headed; she'd need to eat a lot and drink even more to replenish herself. "She is here and she will die for what she did to me!"

"And the king doesn't care," the Vulture told her coldly. Kraven opened her mouth but he grabbed her and hauled her in close. "I don't like any of this either but he's in a mood. He got what he wanted and he wants to leave… and if we delay him from doing that he WILL fucking kill you."

"I don't care," Kraven snarled. She had wanted to die for so very long… maybe this would be her chance.

"You fucking should," the Vulture growled, dragging her in even closer. "It will be a coin toss if he makes it fast or takes his time. He wants to leave NOW and I think he might burn you to ashes quick but he could also be in the mood to make you suffer. And I don't want to see that happen to you." She blinked at that and the Vulture grabbed her face, forcing her to look at him. "You can't kill the woman if you're dead. Now… come on!"

Kraven grit her teeth at that and then allowed the Vulture to wrap his arms around her. It was utterly undignified and made her feel like a weak little girl all over again but there was simply no way for her to make it out of the North and keep up with the Vulture or Ultron-

"Winterfell!"

She looked up and wasn't that surprised that Ultron was hanging in the middle of the sky, addressing the people he had just attacked like he was their greatest champion.

'Maybe in his mind he thinks he is,' she thought darkly. Kraven had come to realize that Ultron was utterly deluded in many… many things. He thought he was more charming that he actually was. He thought he was smarter too. He thought that every lie he told was believed and that his people followed him like naïve little sheep, never once considering turning against him. He told jokes and thought the laughter he heard was real and he gave out his plans and while they seemed to work for the most part Kraven knew they could be improved but he just didn't care. He believed himself to be the greatest form of man to have ever lived… and after he had died he thought himself beyond even the limits that came with mortality.

Knowing Ultron he probably assumed everyone would begin to cheer him.

He was floating in the air, a woman wearing her sleeping garments still held tight in his left arm while his right was stretched wide.

"For too long you, and all of Westeros, have suffered at the hands of Lords who can not protect you! They have allowed countless wars to tear your lands apart. They have sent your sons off to fight in the battles caused by their egos and then demanded that you thank them for the honor! None of you are safe so long as they remain in power!

"But the times of darkness are now over! The Seven Kingdoms are now one… Westeros is but a single realm. The Lords Paramount and the Wardens are relieved of their duties and the Lords will be stripped of their power. Only one shall rule… the eternal king! From my seat upon the highest point in Westeros I will rule you fairly and justly!"

Ultron turned his head first to the right and then to the left, looking down at the soldiers that were gathered below him in the broken and damaged keep.

"But I know that some things must be handled by a people, in order for them to truly believe it! To know it to be true! Thus, while I could slaughter the Starks with a single wave of my hand-" The woman in his arms started at that, turning and staring at him in shock, "-I leave it to you, my subjects, to do the deed! Hunt down all those of the blood of the Starks and bring me their heads! Riches and honor will be given to all who do this for me!"

And with that Ultron rose in the air, the woman he was holding yelling… something… but Kraven couldn't hear what it was with how quickly Ultron was flying away.

The Vulture remained hovering for a moment more.

"This isn't going to work out how he believes," he whispered.

Kraven looked down at Lyanna, seeing her staring daggers at her, and she grit her teeth that her enemy and rival was still alive.

'No… no it is not,' she thought. 'And I am glad it will not. Let them stay with their precious Starks… it just means I will be able to kill them all myself!'

Chapter Text

Ned

"You should be clapping me in chains for this, your grace," Jory said as Ned walked with him through the hallway. It wasn't the first time he'd said the words and he had a bad feeling it wouldn't be the last. It would take quite a while to get Winterfell back in order after all that had happened and that meant that the reminders of what they had suffered would haunt the Captain of his Guard for a LONG time. And any issues that came about during the Winter that was fast approaching? Jory would be blaming himself for all of those as well.

It didn't make him mad though, that Jory was blaming himself needlessly. Though Ned could never say the words aloud it actually was a relief. Jory was only speaking the words Ned had thought himself… about himself. Having someone else say them helped him come up with the answers that, had the recrimination remained solely in his own mind, he'd never have been able to verbalize.

"Jory," Ned said as they passed by some of the workmen who were going over the plans on how to remove the rubble and repair the piping and then the wall, "show me a guard that could have told me that a man with metal wings, a Dornish huntress, and a dark reflection of the Iron Man would attack Winterfell and I will accuse them of conspiring with our enemies."

"I know that, your grace," Jory said and despite his age he sounded more like Robb or Theon when they had barely been allowed in the training yard than a warrior and soldier. A petulant tone that spoke of frustration. "But the fact remains that all of this happened under-"

"All of our watch," Ned said firmly, glancing at the walls. They were now in part of the castle that had been spared the original attack but hadn't been unaffected. Due to the way the pipes were set up in Winterfell, bringing up the hot water from the springs to all parts of the castle to keep it warm, if one section was damaged it required the pipes at the base of the springs be closed, so that there was no risk of spewing near boiling water onto everyone that passed. That meant that Winterfell's walls no longer beaded with water like they normally did and the warmth that seemed to forever be within the stones was gone. It was… disturbing. Like finding the rotting corpse of someone who had only hours earlier been full of life and vigor.

Cold.

It was cold.

'Winter is Coming,' he thought to himself before he pushed that thought aside. It would do him no good to dwell on that. They had brought in every single builder they could and while he hated the idea that settlements farther out in the North would have to delay their own repairs Winterfell HAD to be made secure again. There was no other choice in the matter. It wasn't a prideful thing, as it would have been for so many other Lords in Westeros. He wasn't doing it because it was his castle and it needed to be improved before all others. This was a necessity.

The people of the South had forgotten why such large castles were made. They saw them now as things of opulence and symbols of power. Have a hundred rooms and a dozen dining halls. Make sure your castle had more levels than your neighbors. The greater the number of towers the more powerful you were. Rickard Karstark had once stated that the Southerners were all compensating for their small penis sizes by building such useless castles and Ned had tended to agree with him on that. Or at least they were compensating for other things.

But in the North such castles were the final protection for the people. While there were the winter towns and villages (including Wintertown itself, the largest of these in the North) the castles would also offer protection to the people of the North, providing warmth and shelter.

'Many of servants in the North work for the great families because they know when the snows come their families will be allowed to stay in the rooms of Winterfell, fed and sheltered as payment for all their loved ones have done during the Spring and Summer.' The cooks spoke of when their families would arrive. Soldiers were glad their children wouldn't freeze. Catelyn's own maid had just brought her own family over…

Catelyn.

Ned took a slow breath.

He wanted to dismiss such thoughts from his head.

He wanted to linger on them forever.

"None of us saw this coming," Ned said the Jory. "Not a single one of us. The world has changed. Become altered. The old ways of warfare have been pushed aside and we are forced to deal with a reality that is vastly different from anything we can imagine. I dare say soon sieges and battles will be more like the games we all played as children, where only our imagination was the limit."

"Aye, your grace," Jory said and Ned knew the man didn't believe it.

He couldn't do anything to force Jory to believe him so instead he continued on to his solar where he knew his Small Council was waiting.

None of them rose as he entered, as Ned had commanded after the first Small Council meeting. It was utterly foolish to do so for a king; a true leader didn't need people to stand up suddenly every time they entered a room to prove they respected their king. They merely nodded to him and fell silent, allowing Ned to make his way to his desk.

It wasn't the full council, as several members had been sent off to work on their own tasks. But he had the right amount for this situation. Robett Glover, his Hand, had returned only a few days ago, and he had Wyman and Roose, his Masters of Coin and War, as well as Fury, his Master of Whispers. Rickard though was gone and he wished he was there as he could use his advice. The Greatjon as well.

But even with a reduced council the room was not empty. No. Sansa was there, eyes narrowed even as she lounged by the fire. While it took time for her to communicate with him, having to tap out each letter for every word she wished to use, she was able to talk with them in a way and had let him know that Nymeria and the wolf pack were hunting the woods outside of Winterfell to ensure the invaders weren't still out there or had left surprises for them. Ned doubted very much they had… they had gotten what they had wanted in taking Cat… but it was something that still needed to be done. His father was also there, as was Arya and Gambit.

The final two were a point of contention with several others in the room, including Ned himself. But Gambit had proven himself in the fight, saving many people's lives as he had worked to distract the metal man as well as the winged figure and Arya had worked hard to free those that had been trapped. They had earned the right to be there… for now.

Ravan was still in her chambers, recovering from her injuries from the day before. Arya had stated she could heal faster than others but it required her to rapidly change her form and that could be… messy… so it was best to leave her be. Ned had only heard her screams of pain and decided to trust Arya on that.

"Let's get started," Ned said. "Robett, what is the schedule for getting Winterfell repaired and ready?"

"We are hopeful it will be a month's time," Robett stated. "That will give us at least another few months, at minimum, before Winter is truly on us."

"We can't assume that," his father stated. "Thanos uses Winter as a weapon."

"He can create winter storms?" Roose asked; while at one time he might have doubted the existence of the Others what they had all seen in the last few months had ensured that no one would ever disbelieve the outlandish again.

"If he can then maybe we reach out to Charlus, no?" Gambit said lazily from where he was slouching in his seat. "If dis here Thanos can bring down the gusts and the gales dan it might be good ta have our own weather witch on hand. Have Ororo an' 'im go toe ta toe, ya know?"

"Its something to consider," Arya stated.

"Ororo?" Ned asked.

Arya was the one that spoke up. "She's a student of the Sealord of Braavos. She can create storms. Winds, lightning, so on. Not sure if she can make sunny days though…"

Ned merely shook his head. "A topic for later then." His father shot him a look but he returned it with his own dark stare. "A topic for later," he said firmly and after a moment his father backed down. "Have we heard from any of the other Lords? Are the Lannisters using this to come at us?"

Roose shook his head. "We have heard from a few lords but they have not suffered any attacks. Nothing than the average among that a lord might have… bandits and the like." He rose and moved towards the window, looking out at it. "And the Lannisters have remained utterly still, making no advances. If I might be bold, Ned… I believe your bastard has a hand in that."

'Jon,' Ned thought to himself. Even knowing that Jon was the Centurion, that he was working with Tony to try and cleanse Westeros of corruption… it was still a befuddling blow to know that Lyanna's son was the Hand of the King and Regent of the Seven Kingdoms. That while he might not hold the title of 'King' he held the power of one. 'You are in such danger… that place is a bed of vipers and you are now having them slither around you… I hope, for your sake, that you haven't actually tried to help us. That it is because of the coming Winter and the death of Tywin that the Lannisters have stalled out the War Effort. Because if you were risking yourself for us…'

He didn't say any of that out loud. No. Because even in his solar he couldn't trust that there weren't people listening. Spies and the like. Some would call him paranoid. Ned would point out that he had a daughter that could walk through walls.

"Fury," Ned said, turning to his Master of Whispers. "Do we know anything about the attackers and where they took Catelyn?"

"We only know the name of one of them, your grace," Fury said. "According to Lady Gamora, before she left to chase after her, the female was called Kraven. I have looked into it-"

"Oooooo," Gambit drawled out, drawing Ned's attention to him. "See, dis 'ere why ya should uh 'ad Ol Gambit with ya far sooner. Could'a saved ya lots of time and effort." He looked over at Arya. "Maybe you gets Gambit a spot on your daddy's Small Council, chere?"

"What do you know?" Arya said firmly, her tone making it clear she wasn't interested in whatever mess Gambit might try and stall with.

He merely smirked at her but, to his credit, continued on without much else in the way of useless chatter. "See here… Kraven done known well in Essos, at least in certain circles." Ned frowned; he swore that Gambit's accent had lessened and he wondered if the 'Swamp Rat' purposely made it thicker just to mess with people. "Had all sorts of bad mojo done ta her in order ta make her stronger and faster. Visited some dark places, if ya believe the rumors, which Gambit always does. Rumors always have some truth, ya know? She done like hunting for the most powerful and deadly of game… some say ta challenge herself, others because she has a death wish. Not quite sure, myself, but then Gambit ain't ever tangled with her."

Wymen frowned. "Then why is she here?"

"I can think of one reason," Roose said and Gambit raised an eyebrow at that. "Come now… you don't think it isn't a touch suspicious that you and your Brother of the Blackfyres show up and suddenly an Essosi hunter appears at our doorstep? One who, according to the accounts of Lady Gamora, is at the level of a Child of the Forest?"

"Believe what ya want ta believe," Gambit said. "We ain't never had trouble with Kraven the Hunter. She don't go attackin' castles and the like. Gambit don't even 'member her done attackin' Dothraki or raiders bands that be always roamin' 'bout. Which ya'd think the feral cat would be all for, 'siderin' that they be always lookin' for a fight." Gambit took out a deck of Essosi playing cards and began to idly shuffle them, his long legs stretched out before him as he did so. "That ain't what Kraven inta, ya know?

"Kraven done called the Hunter and she ain't get that name because it sound good. She be a hunter and she be damn good at it. Has a taste for the big and the monstrous. There be plenty of villages and da like that praise her cause she come in and deal with the things that they don't like dealin' with."

"But otherwise she doesn't cause problems?" Wymen pressed.

"None that ol' Gambit 'as ever heard of. But ya got ta remember that Gambit don't keep his ear ta da ground when it comes to every woman in Essos."

"And that is a lie," Arya teased.

Ned frowned at that but did his best to hide it; even though she looked like an adult now, a woman well past her flowering, to him Arya was still a little girl. She was still the tiny little thing that barely came up past his knee and liked to burrow into his neck when he carried her around, snuggling up close to him. That image wasn't helped by the fact that despite what the Brotherhood of the Blackfyres had tried to do Arya, while an adult, still had the small stature and lithe frame of child. A tall child, perhaps, but a child all the same. It made her feel younger than she actually was.

Her personality was also exactly the same as it had been when he'd last seen her. One would have thought that she would have been radically different after going through all she had but the truth of the matter was that Arya had already been headstrong and independent when she had been a child so her acting that way now didn't make her seem like an adult to him. It made her seem like Arya.

As such having her be so playful with Gambit, who reminded Ned very much of Oberyn Martel, was having him resist every urge to draw one of his swords and hack the man into little pieces. He had plenty of them… it felt like every day someone was giving him a new sword to praise him as the King in the North. He could afford to bleed a few of them with the Swamp Rat's blood.

"And yet," Roose said slowly, "for all you claim she suddenly attacks Winterfell? That is odd."

"Perhaps not," Gambit said, waving a hand at Sansa. "Don't know if Gambit ever heard 'bout her fightin' a direwolf before. And one that done have the soul of a princess in her?"

Sansa lifted her head and let out a low growl.

Now Sansa… Sansa was changed. And Ned didn't mean physically, though that was obvious to even the most blind of fools. One would have expected Sansa to be either a whimpering wreck who was scared of the transformation she had undergone or to demand to be pampered in ways unheard of for even the most beloved pet. Coat forever brushed, sleeping on the finest beds, perhaps a servant to feed her with a fork. He knew it was cruel of him to think of, considering she was his child, but Ned hadn't been blind to Sansa's faults. She had idolized the South thanks to Catelyn's stories and believed that a woman should do as little as possible.

Maester Luwin and him had spoken of it when he had returned to Winterfell; the raising of his children. Those dark nights when the memories of his daughters forced sleep from his mind he'd go to the old man as he was finishing up his duties and ask for stories about Arya and Sansa. And what he had learned had been… frustrating.

'Sansa treated her studies as meaningless unless they were the 'womanly arts',' he thought to himself. 'She had little understanding how to ruin a household… had I married her to any lord she would have driven them into ruin with her spending.' It reminded him much of the tales of Ser Jorah Mormont's vain and greedy wife and he shuddered at the damage she could have caused to an ally if allowed to do that. While it wasn't spoken of openly he had learned while in King's Landing that the Hightowers had been utterly shamed by Lynesse Hightower's ways. While it had been Ser Jorah who had turned to selling slaves Lynesse had been the one to demand so very much that she had brought her husband to ruin. It was said that the reason the Tyrells had given the crown so much wealth and aid was because of Lynesse Hightower (for Margaery Tyrell had the blood of the Hightowers in her veins) and daughters for another 5 generations would have to pay far more and be watched more closely due to Lynesse's actions. The same would have been true of House Stark had Sansa married some lord only to leave him penniless and the servants in revolt because she didn't understand how to manage the books or that gold dragons didn't grow like potatoes.

But… Sansa wasn't a pampered pet. Oh, the servants bathed her and combed her fur, yes, but she often escaped out to Nymeria and the Wolf Pack, running with them as they went on their hunts. He didn't know if she actually killed anything but he imagined she knew how, as she had to have survived somehow while fighting to get home. Her and Arya would also disappear together from time to time, same with Rickon and Shaggydog, and he knew that when Robb had… when Robb had been off on his own she had visited him often.

She was also rather vocal in voicing her displeasure when it came to things. If someone annoyed her she had no issue growling or baring her teeth. She used her size to bully her way around and she let the world knew what her thoughts were, even if she couldn't actually verbalize them.

"But we know nothing else about her?" Ned asked.

"She was Ellia Martel."

Ned twisted and found Gamora standing in the doorway, bandages still wrapped around her arms and peaking out from under her top. While she had claimed she would be fine she had taken enough hits from Kraven that Ned had wanted to make sure that she was seen over by Maester Luwin, so there was no risk of her injuries growing worse. She had left right after that order, going to search for her, but it seemed that his Maester had caught her and he was glad for that.

Though… what she had just said…

"I'm sorry… did you just say…" Wymen said and Ned was feeling as startled as he was. He saw Roose, from the corner of his eye, stiffen and turn towards Ned's sister.

"Ellia Martell. That's who Kraven is."

"Ellia is dead," Ned said only for Gamora to give him a dry look, reminding him that Lyanna had died too and yet there she was, standing in the doorway. Same with his father and his brother. The dead didn't stay dead. 'After all, that's why they came back to Westeros in the first place,' Ned reminded himself before speaking. "How could-"

"Gambit did tell ya that Kraven went and saw all sorts of mystics and the like," Gambit reminded him. "Girl must have gotten some bad mojo done ta her, gettin' her all twisted up like that."

"But Ellia was killed by Tywin Lannister's men," Roose stated.

Ned though shook his head. "The bodies… they were badly mutilated. Prince Aegon didn't even have a face anymore… didn't even have a head. The Princess too. Ellia had been beaten and stabbed so savagely…"

Roose slowly nodded. "She brought several handmaidens with her to the Red Keep and despite the paranoia that took Aerys he never removed them. One of them could have been killed in her place."

"The Mountain would have confused one for her?" Wymen asked.

"Or someone else killed her and the Mountain and his men took the credit," Arya chimed in, Ned twisting to stare at his daughter who merely shrugged. "Think about it… someone wants to get Ellia out of the Red Keep. They want to protect her, ensure she can disappear. Smuggling her out is easy enough but if they don't want people looking for her they need a body. As she is sent out a loyal guard stays behind with one of the hand maidens that is coming with them… and then slits her throat, stabs her a dozen times, and smashes her face in. Have her wear some of Ellia's jewelry-"

Ned frowned at that. "Should we be concerned that you have thought this out a bit too much?"

Arya merely smirked and Ned had his answer. And he didn't like it.

"It is possible," Wymen said, glancing at Fury who quietly nodded; Ned knew he would be reaching out to his spies to find out if Arya's theory was true.

"Why not return to her family?" Yondu asked. "Why go to Essos?"

"Wouldn't be safe," Ned said at once. "Robert would never allow her to live… at best he would have locked her away to ensure that Rhaegar hadn't left a child in her belly. At worst he would have killed her for being married to Rhaegar."

"Or seeing her as a failure," Roose said. "After all, she did fail to keep Rhaegar's attention on her and thus caused him to pay attention to Lyanna, seducing her-"

"I wasn't seduced," Gamora growled.

"You fucking were," Yondu snapped. "And how the fuck do you know that she's Ellia?"

"She told me." She turned to their father. "How do you not know? You were there when she was screaming at me for stealing her husband!"

"I wasn't paying attention to what you two were blathering about. I was too busy making sure she didn't kill more people."

"Oh, and ya did a find job at that," Gambit replied, Yondu whipping around to glower at him. "Gambit just sayin'… for some all seein' Leader of the Children of the Forest ya don't see much, ya don't lead much, and ya done did little ta stop all this?"

"I am here to deal with the Others, not Ellia Martell and some Metal Man!"

"Who have help," Robb's voice called out and Ned started when he saw his son enter with Roslin. Arya at once rushed to Robb, giving him a hug, and Sansa was close behind, nudging her with her nose against his shoulder. Just behind him was Jane and Shireen, so that all Ned was missing was Rickon and even then his youngest should return rather soon from hunting for clues with Drax, Rocket, and Groot.

"Robb…" Ned whispered, wishing he could join his girls in greeting Robb but also concerned about how Robb would react to that. While they had agreed that Robb would deal with Barrowton and Lady Dustin they hadn't parted like father and son. No… it had been like a commander giving orders to a soldier and it pained Ned that his son so hated him at the moment. 'We must talk again when this is done,' he thought.

"I've heard about mother from Theon," Robb said. Ned nodded; he and Brienne had been out when the attack had happened, searching for evidence to help Robb, and both had been rather angry they hadn't been there to assist. "But things are far worse than you know, father."

Ned motioned for Robb to enter, allowing him to take command of the room while he backed away. And Ned was struck by how regal his son looked. Even after such a long journey he looked noble and strong. 'he will be a far better King than I will ever be,' he thought. 'I feel like a pretender, trying to convince the world that I am worthy of this crown. But Robb… he is already a king, he just hasn't taken up his throne yet. Even with Venom… for so many others such a creature being linked to him would be seen as a weakness but Robb has turned it into a strength.'

Even with the villages that had been attacked and attention coming onto Robb the smallfolk were whispering that Robb was their Lethal Protector. Fury had informed him after he had sent Robb off to the Barrowlands that he was surprised by how the smallfolk weren't being whipped into a frenzy as he had expected.

"It is because he's done so much good," Fury had stated. "The peasants and farmers speak of him as the one that has saved them so many times. That isn't to say that your grace hasn't also saved them, especially with the Snowcloaks rising prominence, but bandits don't turn themselves into local lords when they hear that the snowcloaks have been spotted… they do so with Venom and Robb. When those two are seen leaping through the sky or rushing through the trees all know that it is best to be kind and fair… or else end up a snack."

'It is a dark thing… but can I claim any superiority to him? How many have I violently slaughtered, after all? The Lannisters tremble when they see the white weirwood upon my breast… they have taken to calling it a skull and I 'The Punisher', according to Arya.' Ned didn't know how he felt about that. Yes, there was power in being able to scare your foes but Ned didn't want to be another Theon the Hungry Wolf. He wanted to be a fair king, not a bloodthirsty one, but even with Sansa returned to him the wolf's blood in his veins screamed for more vengeance against those that had harmed his family. 'I must forever watch myself that I only allow such rages go against my enemies, and even then only those that truly deserve it. I will never forget who is friend and who is foe.'

"What has happened, Robb?" Ned asked. "What has brought you back here? You know of the attack?"

"I do, though I knew before I spotted Winterfell," Robb stated. "You were right, father… Barbrey Dustin has been in league with our enemies. But it isn't the Lannisters… she is allied with the one known as Ultron."

"Ultron?" Ned said and he noticed Fury suddenly stiffen. "You have heard of this man?"

"Ultron isn't a man," Fury said. "It is the name of a demon in the religion of Old Valyria. And later on it was given to be the name of armor crafted by Maegor the Cruel… Armor that was supposed to allow one to cheat death."

"Cheat death?" Ned asked. "What do you mean?"

"It was said that a soul could enter into the armor… and continue on. To live in it forever."

"…anyone that says that's bullshit," Shireen growled, "will taste my war hammer."

"We really don't have much of a leg to stand on," Yondu admitted.

Wymen let out a weak chuckle at that. "Yes… I suppose you have the right of it there."

Ned thought about that. 'A soul… a soul in armor…' Outloud he murmured. "But who could it be then that is wearing the armor? Who hates us so much that they would attack Winterfell?"

"It wasn't Winterfell they wanted though, your grace," Roose said. "They attacked, yes, but they left when they took your Lady Wife. And I can think of only one man, recently dead, who was obsessed with Queen Catelyn."

Ned's eyes went wide.

"No," he whispered even though he knew it to be the truth.

"Everyone out," Robb said suddenly. Ned stumbled slightly, gripping his desk, his breath coming out harsher. "Arya, you stay. Sansa too. This is only for the Starks."

"Well I'm-" Yondu began but Robb must have done something because Ned's father grew silent before muttering, "I'll wait with the others."

There was a shuffling of feet and the sound of bodies moving and then Ned felt a thick meaty hand on his shoulder and he was suddenly twisted around to find himself staring up at Venom.

"Let it out," his heir declared.

Ned… roared and tried to punch Venom right in the jaw.

He knew what his son was trying to do. His own father had done it with Brandon a hundred times. His father would grab Brandon and force him to attack him, to allow him to punch something that could take the blows. His father was mighty and even as Brandon had grown he had been able to catch his swings with his palms, showing no affect. Give the wolf's blood something to strike and attack, so that one could work through their fury and rage. It would allow one to see clearly again.

And Ned was currently blind.

"BAELISH!" he roared, dimly understanding why Robb had selected who he had selected. Sansa was strong and powerful, Arya could phase through anything, and Robb, with Venom, could take whatever blows he sent his way. "That fucking whoremaster!"

"A pathetic piece of garbage that had no right to survive his first year alive."

Ned nodded at that and began to punch at Venom's chest. The massive black figure didn't even try and block or redirect the blows, instead allowing them to fall upon his meaty chest. And Ned was startled to find that striking him didn't hurt as much as he would have thought. Either of them, from the way Robb was watching him.

"I always knew he was trouble! The first time Cat told me about her little friend Petyr! I knew he was a bastard that hungered for more than he deserved! Why did I let her talk me into trusting him! I should have done to him what he always claimed Brandon did and gutted his from navel to chin!"

Venom let out a taunting laugh at that and that made Ned even more angry. But that was good… he wanted to be angry! Wanted to be furious! He was tired of being the calm one. The one that held things together! For once he wanted to be the one in the family to go off and let someone else deal with all the problems that came about! Brandon! Lyanna! Robert! Even fucking Benjen and his need to go to the fucking Night's Watch and leave Ned all alone! He was sick and tired of being the responsible one! Because being responsible let Petyr Fucking Baelish trick him, twist him, and torture him! He should have squeezed his hand shut around throat the moment he smirked at him in King's Landing and squeezed until his head popped like a pimple. Robert would have probably thrown him a tourney! He should have passed him along to Roose and told him that with him and only him he would allow him a pass to flay him alive! He should have burned him in the Red Keep and then pissed on the ashes!

"A vile, disgusting little man that should have been torn to ribbons."

"A bastard who deserved a thousand deaths!"

"The world would have been a better place if his father had stuck it up his mother's arse."

Ned suddenly twisted around and gaped at Arya, his daughter folding her arms over her chest and giving him a look.

"Am I wrong?"

"…no, you aren't. But don't let your mother-"

Ned stopped and the anger left him.

Baelish. Petyr Baelish. Littlefinger.

He had Catelyn.

"We'll get her back," Arya said firmly and Sansa nodded.

"We know he had only one place he could have gone," Venom said. "One place in all of Westeros where he would feel safe."

Ned nodded, knowing they were right.

And they had no choice.

He would summon back Rickon. Theon and Brienne as well. The Children of the Forest and what forces he could trust.

And then… they would march on the Vale.

Chapter Text

Jon

Moving swiftly into the Small Council chamber Jon didn't do anything to hide his scowl as he moved to his place.

"Well…" Cersei Lannister said, having decided to join them for the first time since Tommen had named him Hand of the King, "…it is good of you to pull yourself away from your comfy chambers and actually see about handling the rule of the realm, considering how much of a mess you've made of it."

"That is enough, Cersei," Kevan Lannister said and the way she leaned back showed how startled she was by the rebuke; it was clear to Jon that she had thought that the rest of the Small Council would join in with her mocking of him. That this was like the Small Council of old, where they were all simpering for her attention and delighted in fighting against one another, sniffing out blood and knowing it meant weakness.

But that Small Council was long gone. In its place was the Small Council as it was meant to be, forced into being by Tywin Lannister and now Jon's raw will.

"Uncle… you can not mean to forgive him for what he did?"

"And what, pray tell, has Jon done? Did he suddenly grow tentacles and attack the city? If he did they he is doing quite while hiding them now."

"He allowed this to happen on his watch!"

"And you allowed two kings to die and a fleet to nearly take the city," Oberyn replied lazily from his chair, snacking on a peach. Juice dribbled down his chin as he glanced up at her. "We have a saying in Dorne: those that live in glass houses should not throw stones."

Cersei grew red faced at that, whipping around and glowering at Oberyn before, in a shrill and hateful voice, declaring, "None of that would have happened had I actually been allowed to rule! But you fools… you stupid, meaningless, men!"

"Of course, of course," Oberyn stated. "Had you been given full control Stannis would have decided to stay home with his wife and produce a thousand heirs in peace, Baelish would never have gotten it in his head to stab Joffrey, and Robert would have given up his drink and become as pious as Baelor the Blessed."

His comments did not, in any way, calm Cersei down. "Stannis attacked because he knew my brother, that stunted little worm, was too weak to hold the city and it was only my father's arrival that ensured that we did not all die. Something, I would remind you all, I begged him to do!"

'Yes,' Jon thought, 'and had he done that he would have-'

"And without him in the field," Varys said, cutting off Jon's thoughts, "the alliance between the Tyrells and the Lannisters… I'm sorry, the Crown… would never have come to pass. The city would still have been starved and Stannis would have been able to simply wait us out while the Starks and the Tullys took back complete control of the Riverlands and, quite possibly, marched into the Westerlands and taken your lands." Cersei opened her mouth but Varys continued, smiling sweetly. "It is understandable for you to not see that point… these things are so complex. A thousand moving pieces."

"I-"

"Enough, Cersei," Kevan snapped and once more she was startled. Jon had learned during his time in King's Landing that Cersei Lannister was used to her family always jumping to her defense and coddling her when she wanted things. As odd as it was to think of Tywin Lannister doing that it seemed, in his own stern and rigid way, he had allowed her far more leeway than he would have anyone else. She was allowed to, at the very least, make a dramatic show. And many times the Lannisters around her would actually help her, hoping that by joining in with the most beautiful of the Lannisters they would receive rewards for their actions.

"Uncle-"

"We are here to rule," he said darkly. "We are not here for you to put on this childish performance."

"I am not-"

"Your Grace," Jon said tightly, staring her down. He didn't know what it was but when she glanced at him all the dismissive fury that had been on her face drained away. "While you are always welcomed here-" And he didn't miss the way Oberyn smirked at that or how Varys, master of disguises as he was, nearly cracked at that, "-this is not a dinner where we make small talk. Time is of the essence and I will not waste another minute more. I am more than happy to allow you to listen in and offer advice, based on your long time ruling and the knowledge you have gained." Which was none unless it was how to drink and be a vain little creature but Jon didn't say that. "And if not then you are welcome to go elsewhere and I will have someone, even myself, give you a summary of this meeting after the fact."

Cersei opened her mouth… and then her remaining flesh and blood hand squeezed into a fist and she let out a huffing sigh. "I will not waste my time on you fools and I do not need a summary. If you are not going to listen to what I have to say then you can all rot as far as I care. I will go and seek out those that will listen to my wisdom."

Jon frowned at that. There was something… off… about Cersei there. Her words sounded like her, her voice was her own… but it was as if she were a puppet and someone else was speaking through her mouth. He couldn't say what it was that was bothering him but something was wrong…

"Of course, your grace," Mace Tyrell said with a happy smile. "I do believe my daughter was having tea along with her ladies in waiting." He waved his hand and a Tyrell guard stepped forward. "Please escort the queen there." The guard, dressed in armor that was more for show than it was for battle, nodded and Cersei shot them all a glare before leaving but the heat wasn't there at all.

Odd.

But Jon couldn't focus on that. No… he needed to deal with the situation that they currently had on hand.

"How are the repairs?" Jon asked.

"Should we not discuss Lord Otto first?" Grand Maester Pycelle stated.

Jon though shook his head. "King's Landing has been attacked again… what matters is its people. That they are safe and cared for. Revenge doesn't fill bellies."

"But it does ensure that attacks don't happen again," Mace argued.

"And we will be addressing it shortly," Jon said. "But for now I want to know about the damage and the loss of life."

Thankfully the actual dead numbered very little. Only a handful. Gwen had done quite well in keeping-

'Gwen,' Jon thought with sorrow.

They had done well to hide her disappearance. As much as all of them had wanted to shout it from every rooftop that she was missing it was something that Jon and the Spiders couldn't openly admit. Too many questions would have been raised why Gwen was missing from King's Landing. There were far better hostages to take, after all. So why her?

Jon knew she wasn't dead… it had been seen by enough witnesses that one of the Spiders, along with Sandor Clegane (which was another oddity he needed to puzzle out) had been taken by Doc Ock to a ship which had then sailed out of the Blackwater.

So they had claimed that she was ill, helped by the fact that she hadn't been seen the day of the Open Court. May was seeing to her, refusing to let any others care for her wellbeing, while Miles and Petyr did their best to hide their grief and their fury. Both of those emotions seemed to be warring within them, mixing and twisting and fighting for dominance.

But the loss of life in King's Landing had been very little, thanks to Gwen. He would thank her for that when he saw her again.

Because it was no question that he WOULD see her again.

"Lord Jon," Mace spoke up, "why have we not declared Lord Otto an enemy of the crown? We know that it is him who is this tentacled creature, the one the small folk have dubbed Doc Ock. They bay for his blood for this attack and your refusal to name him as the cause has them wondering if you are not in league with him."

"In league with him?" Jon asked, surprised and startled by the claim.

Mace nodded. "Oh yes. Lord Jonah has begun having his Buglers proclaim that your silence means that you are in league with him."

Lord Jonah. Jon grit his teeth at that. The man was a pain in his side that he didn't ever seem to be able to get rid of. A pompous blowhard who took every action and twisted it into the most foul of gossip. And the worst part was that Jon could do very little about him. If he tried to have the man thrown in a Black Cell it would only confirm to the Small Folk all he claimed. So Jon had to let him roam free; he couldn't buy him off, could threaten him, couldn't do much of anything.

"I am sworn to protect King's Landing. What benefit would there be to me if I were to aid one to attack it."

"Ah, but there are plenty of examples in the histories of rulers creating the very terrors that they seek to solve," Maester Pycelle commented. "In Essos it is quite common. Some Lord or self-styled king will unleash wild beasts in his city or hire sellswords to attack. Scare the populous and make them think there is some outside force that seeks to destroy them. Only their ruler can save them and when he is done he will ask for only a small thing or two… a few rules made that benefit him, the public to forget about this scandal or that. When it comes out it is always a messy affair but often times it takes decades, if not hundreds of years, for the truth to be ferreted out."

"Careful, Grand Maester," Oberyn said with a smile that was as sharp as his spear point. "One would think you were questioning the honor of our Regent. And considering he rules in the name of King Tommen that could be seen as treason."

Pycelle sputtered at that.

Jon was thankful for his goodfather saying that. He had to balance being stern and strong with being open handed and accepting of those around the table. He couldn't afford to make enemies on the Small Council but he also couldn't look weak to them. A frustrating, annoying, aggravating dance. So it was nice when Oberyn or Varys stepped in and helped him out, making the snide little comments he couldn't.

"Doc Ock looked like Lord Otto," Jon said, "but that doesn't mean he is Lord Otto."

"My Lord, I know that Lord Otto was your selection for the Small Council so this is a matter of pride-"

Jon cut him off again. "This has nothing to do with pride, Grand Maester. It has everything to do with the world we now live in." He gestured towards the windows. "Knights fly. There is a trio of spider people that swing about. It is said that Brienne of Tarth has grown to the size of a giant and is green in color. There are whispers of an army of wolves in the Riverlands. We live in strange times, my Lords… why not one that can change their face?"

"Foolishness," Pycelle said at once.

But it is Jiffsum that spoke up before Jon could. "You haven't been out in King's Landing recently, Grand Maester… the Open Court doesn't count because it was carefully controlled. But things have become odd out there. Different. Strange." He shook his head and pulled out the little note book he used to keep track of everything. "The Vulture King being able to actually fly. Someone called 'The Shocker' who was able to shatter rock simply by thrusting out his fists. Reports that there are citizens living underground who call themselves the Morloks. A man who has declared himself the only true Kingsguard, the Moon Knight." He closed the note book. "It feels as if every day my men tell me of some new impossibility."

"Perhaps then you need better men," Pycelle said with a huff. "If they are so delusional-"

"You saw the Iron Man," Jon pressed. "Did you not?"

The old man muttered something but refused to answer. Which was an answer in and of itself.

"Until we know the truth of it I will not slander Lord Otto. After all, a member of his household is also missing, is he not? The steward?" Jon looked at the Small Council who nodded in agreement. "Is it not possible that Lord Otto and this man were taken just so Lord Otto could be framed for these crimes? A way to embarrass the crown twice? First by making it seem as if we put on this council a criminal and then, when we denounce him, reveal our error?"

The rest of the Small Council was staring at him and Jon knew what they were thinking. They believed that he was grasping at straws, trying to find some reason, any reason to avoid admitting that they had made a grave error and allowed such a vile man into their midst. And, perhaps, that was the case. Jon couldn't dismiss it out of hand that he was thinking that way.

But he was reminded of the lessons that Natasha had been giving him. The 'Spy's Sense', as she called it. She had told him that agents of the Council had to learn how to sense when a situation wasn't right because they weren't the only ones that sent people out to pretend they were something they weren't. Many times there would be other spies, belonging to lords or kings or the like, who were trying to find out the information you were or to complete the task you had been assigned… or to do the opposite. Take a life you were meant to save (or the reverse, though Nat never said that out loud, preferring to think that Jon didn't know that his wife had killed). Being able to sense, even though every fact and point of reason screamed at you that all was okay and alright, that something was horribly wrong.

While his Spy Sense would never be as great as Natasha's or Varys' it had been developed enough that he had been able to get out of several problems that he didn't even realize were problems. Most recently while walking the halls towards his chambers a maid had come to him, asking if he needed anything. Jon had replied no only to see something in her face, the slightest of twitches. He had known at once he could not return to his rooms, despite having been desperate to go there and change into something after training in the yard, and instead had turned on his heels and gone to seek out May Parker to talk. It had only been later that Varys had told him that the maid had followed him and going to May Parker had been the best move he could have made, for she was well trusted in the Red Keep.

"That and," he had said with a slight smile, "she is a woman."

"What does that matter?" Jon had asked.

"Because with a man the maid could have claimed that you both took her but none would believe the widow of Benjen Parker to engage in such things."

"Take her?!" Jon had exclaimed. But before Varys had been able to speak the pieces had fallen into place. "She wanted to cause a scandal."

"A great one," Varys had confirmed. "She is one of the Queen's chosen girls… one the queen has sent to the whore houses as of late to pretend to be a prostitute. Paid well by both her clients and the queen… and requesting only men with hair of dark coloring and pale skin."

Jon had grit his teeth at that. While the Dornish didn't much care if a man had a bastard or three it was known that the Martells at minimum told their partners of their lovers. For Jon not to inform Natasha he had been with a maid and gotten her with child would have been scandalous… and a maid who could claim Jon had raped her?

His Spy Sense had saved him there.

(He didn't think about what had happened to the girl; he tried not to consider that it was very likely, with a bastard in her belly and failure upon her head, that her next time in a whorehouse wouldn't see her pretending to be one of the whores.)

'And it is screaming to me now that this isn't right,' Jon thought to himself. 'Why be so brazen in revealing his face? Had he worn a simple hood and mask no one would have suspected him. This figure… they wanted us to see Lord Otto's face on Doc Ock's body. They want us to jump to this conclusion. And with how many strange and wild foes I have had to face as of late I can't put aside the chance that this is a skin changer or the like.'

He didn't bring up the Northern Belief of the Skin Changers, for he knew that it would only result in mockery from much of the Small Council. Even in the North, amongst lords who had grown up with the tales, it would have been seen as him being strange and childish. The tales themselves couldn't agree on what a Skin Changer could actually do. Some claimed that they removed their own skin and put on a new one, so that one might become a man, a woman, a child, a ruler, a cad… all in the span of a single day. Others though claimed that the Skin Changers could alter their faces like puddy, shifting their features to resemble others. More tales claimed that the Skin Changers stole faces from people or forced them to wear different faces while they claimed the original ones, while still others stated that if a Skin Changer held an item of importance for a person they could assume their form.

Jon didn't know what Doc Ock was. But he wasn't going to blinding label him Lord Otto. Not yet.

He saw Mace Tyrell open his mouth but Jon held up his hand, shaking his head. "No… we will not act until we have all the information. I know the people hunger for action but we know that the Small Folk are irrational, dancing from one demand to another. Today they want Lord Otto declared a traitor to the crown. Tomorrow something new will be revealed and suddenly he is a hero and we are the evil villains who sullied his name. We must not allow the winds of opinion to blow us into the rocks."

Kevan Lannister nodded at that. "We are working to repair the damage caused and we are making clear that Lord Otto is missing. People know we aren't protecting him. That will buy us some time."

"And what of Lord Jonah?" Grand Maester Pycelle pressed.

Jon glanced at his goodfather. "You are rather friendly with certain people in this city, aren't you?"

"I've learned how to keep people from wanting to stab me in the back," Obery replied. "Now they want to stab me in the front, which is much more entertaining."

"And you have a reputation for being rather entertaining, do you not?"

"A song, a story, a swing… I can do it all."

"Yes," Jon said with a slight smile. "And I suppose if you were to begin speaking of some rumors concerning Lord Jonah… a man who has made plenty of enemies with the rich and powerful and those loyal to them… people would listen?"

Oberyn chuckled as he stroked his beard. "People always listen to me. The ones that don't are dead."

Jon didn't say anything else. There was no need too. Oberyn was smart enough to know what Jon wanted and honestly it would give him deniability if things went wrong. But he was willing to bet that Obery would, at minimum, distract Lord Jonah by turning himself into the target of his ire.

That settled he looked to the Grand Maester. "Now, unless there is anyone else that is causing problems and stirring up resentment towards us…" Jon made sure the threat was clear in his voice and the old man clearly heard it as he gave a bit of a start. But before he could say more Jon turned to Varys. "And speaking of information what can you tell me of the ship that Doc Ock claimed as his own?"

"Very little, I am afraid," Varys stated. "It hadn't docked in King's Landing so it wasn't required to notify us of where it was going or where it had come from. My little birds of course keep watch but if it had passed…"

And he paused.

"Lord Varys?" Mace asked.

The Master of Whispers frowned.

"My Lords…" Ser Kevan suddenly said, "what is the name of the island that Lord Stannis retreated to?"

No one had an answer. None of them could name it. They knew the island existed… knew that it should be somewhere nearby. But for the life of them they couldn't answer.

That derailed the entire meeting and in the end Jon had been forced to end it early. All had been startled by the fact that they could not remember something that they knew was important and Varys had gone to see if he could learn the name… and if only they were affected. All had been shaken by the revelation, or rather the lack of one, with even Mace Tyrell being silent and ashen as he had left.

'Is this something else Doc Ock has done?' he thought to himself. 'Or is it merely more strangeness that has popped up at the same time as his attack?' After the Battle of the Bywater King's Landing had suffered many odd occurrences, with Jiffsum many days having to sort fact from fiction. The existence of the Spiders proved that it was entirely possible that the loss of the name of… that place… was something else entirely. 'But what?' he thought just as Happy entered the room.

"My Lord, there is someone that wishes to speak with you," he said.

"And just who are they?" he said, knowing that it wasn't like Happy not to give him every ounce of information he could.

"My Lord… she says that… you must see her first, before she will give her name."

"Happy…" Jon said slowly, now truly worried. This wasn't like the man at all.

"Lord Jon," he dropped his voice into a whisper. "Please…"

'Something is wrong… something is very wrong,' Jon thought to himself. Happy would never put him at risk but he also wouldn't leave him in the dark. The only answer was then that the mysterious woman had to be someone powerful enough-

Jon froze.

"Oh…" he whispered, realizing just WHO it had to be. "Show her in."

Happy nodded, the motion short and sharp, and hurried out of the room, leaving Jon just enough time to stand and retrieve his sword, which he had kept leaning against a wall. While one was supposed to be safe in the Red Keep Jon would never forget that even if he was the Hand of the King and the Regent… he was also a Stark and the Red Keep wasn't a good place for them. Three had died, after all: his uncle, his grandfather, and-

"Well… we finally meet. Though from what I have heard you came here seeking me out."

Jon narrowed his eyes. "Do you have a name I might address you with? Or would you prefer merely 'The Night's Queen'?"

The woman was and at the same time wasn't his sister. Wasn't because the body of Sansa Stark had been radically altered by the being before him. She was well over 6 and a half feet tall with skin that was so white it looked like chilled milk. Her hair was blindly white as well but it didn't make her look like a crone for it was so smooth and silky that it could only belong to one that was young. She wore a loose summer dress despite the chill that had entered the air of King's Landing and soft slippers that allowed her to walk without making a sound. Her lips were a deep blue that stood out against her pale skin and made her teeth look far more dangerous when she opened her mouth to smile, which she did so with no warmth. Indeed there was nothing within her one might have called 'warm', not even her eyes which were like a pair of blue stars on a cold moonless night.

And yet… even though the woman was far too old, her hair the wrong color, her skin like that of a frozen corpse… he could see Sansa's chin. Her nose. Her cheeks.

This was his sister's body… mutilated and twisted to serve the creature that now wore her skin.

"Are you going to kill me with that little sword of yours?" the Night's Queen asked with a laugh that was like icicles falling onto stone. "You know what they say about kinslaying."

"You'd have to be my sister for it to be kinslaying," Jon retorted. "And you'd have to still be alive."

"Well well well… someone has been informed quite a bit. I should have come to see you sooner, would have made things far more interesting." The Night's Queen began to move lazily about the room, trailing her fingers along the walls. But Jon knew there was nothing slothen about her actions. Indeed, he could see thin trails of ice forming in the wake of her fingers, clinging to the stone to trace her path. "It has been so bothersome to be able to get everything I wanted. Joffrey was utterly pathetic and his mother… well, she has been hollowed out by so many men that it was rather easy to use her as a puppet.

"Tyrion Lannister never trusted me. He and his little group. But he is gone now and his pet sellswords are too busy working for you and Oberyn to cause me any problems. Not that they ever actually did, as Tyrion preferred to take a wait and see approach with me. His father though…" She smiled at that, but it was a disappointed little gesture. "I had thought that it would be delightful matching wits with him but after my plan succeeded I found it… pathetic. The great and powerful Tywin Lannister was just a love sick puppy, chasing after my heels.

"But then there is you. You have been rather competent in running this city, haven't you? And you understand what I truly am. Oh, the battles we could have had if we actually had the time. Perhaps we still will." She then paused. "That is, unless…"

The Night's Queen began to move towards him, reaching up with a hand to pull on the top of her dress, causing it to fall to expose her pale white breasts, each one topped with a dark nipple. Once free she then reached down, grabbing onto her dress and lifted it to expose her nethers to him.

"Aren't you a bit curious, Jon?" she whispered. "I know you are. Back at Winterfell you used to stare at Sansa and dream of taking her. 'That will show Catelyn Stark… I will fill her precious daughter's belly with my bastard and her only way of avoiding a scandal will be to allow us to wed'. How many restless nights did you spend lying in bed, dreaming of what this quim tasted like-"

Jon drew his sword and pointed it right at her chest.

"The only thing I will penetrate you with is Shadowfang," he warned.

That caused the Night's Queen to laugh. "I am dead! You said so yourself. Stab me and I will only keep going!"

'She doesn't know,' Jon suddenly realized. He had knowledge… knowledge passed to him by Gerion. Knowledge she didn't. 'Somehow she doesn't know about Valyrian Steel… or she does know but thinks I don't, so she is trying to bluff her way out. Either way… I can't reveal what I know. If it is the former than I have a grand advantage. But if it is the latter then I will be prepared if she tries to act against me.' Internally though he grit his teeth. 'I could kill her right now… but Sansa's soul is trapped within her. I have no idea what will happen if I strike her down. Maybe Sansa will be freed… or maybe she will join her in whatever Hell awaits her. I can't risk it, not until I know there is no hope of saving her.'

Thus Jon did not lower his sword. But he also made no move to strike her down.

"Well, I suppose I must admire one of you humans for being able to think with something other than your loins," The Night's Queen said as she redressed. "Truthfully I have never come to understand the delight all of you take in the act… perhaps there is some pleasure but it is such a messy affair that it hardly seems worth it."

"What do you want?" Jon asked. "You didn't come here just to try and seduce me."

"Very true," the Night's Queen admitted, moving back to one of the walls, lightly ghosting her fingers upon it. The air was growing chillier and Jon was beginning to be able to see his breath.

'If this keeps up I'll have to act… she'll try and freeze me in this room.'

"As enjoyable as it would be to spend time matching wits with you… I have discovered that you and I have a common enemy. We- one moment."

And suddenly The Night's Queen slammed her hand into the wall, causing the ice to rapidly race along its surface, causing the stone to crack and groan before, with her other hand, she slammed into it and caused it to shatter. Jon shielded his face as bits of rock and stone flew all around him and when he was able to look again he saw she had ripped from the wall one of the many spies that were forever creeping through the walls of the Red Keep, listening in. He could just make out the hidden passage the stiff and still maid had been hiding in before the Night's Queen lifted her up by the throat, bringing her to her face before she locked lips with her.

Jon took a step forward to do… well, he wasn't for sure what… but it didn't matter as he saw rather quickly that there was no hope of saving her. The poor woman broke out of her shock but for only a moment, thrashing wildly even as Jon watched her body go ramrod straight. Her veins, starting in her face and moving downward to the rest of her body, pulsed and expanded along her body even as ice crystals formed along her eyes.

'She's freezing her blood,' he realized in horror.

The Night's Queen finally broke away from the horrid kiss and held the woman aloft before, without a care, she let her drop. Jon jumped back as her body shattered upon hitting the ground, reduced to a thousand different jagged chunks.

"I want this to remain private," the Night's Queen said as casually as one might discuss the rising and falling of the tide. "And I have no need for any more Wights. There are plenty already keeping watch on things."

Jon narrowed his eyes, knowing that what he had just witnessed was a demonstration and a warning to him. A reminder of how powerful she was.

'Sansa,' he reminded himself, even as he hated that he couldn't end her right there. 'Damn it all… I know what I should do but I would never be able to live with myself if I damned her to an eternity of torment with this beast.'

"This tentacled creature… Doc Ock… he has captured my Knight."

Jon blinked at that before he put the pieces together. "The Hound." He had been told that the Hound had been made Sansa's sworn sword… or rather the Night's Queen's sworn sword. He had wondered if the man knew of what she truly was but now it was clear to him that it didn't matter as the Night's Queen had laid claim to him.

"I can not leave the city to claim him as I have things I must deal with here. You will retrieve him for me."

He hated that she was making it sound like he was his errand boy but he also knew he would be going after Doc Ock no matter what. He had Gwen… that had to be dealt with.

"But I know that you can not merely go blindly into this," she stated, one foot reaching out to idly roll a chunk of the slain maid back and forth along the ground. "It wouldn't do to waste your time searching all of the Seven Kingdoms for him."

"…you know where Doc Ock's going."

The Night's Queen chuckled at that. "My connection to my Knight is strong… and I have managed to slip a few Wights into the crew Doc Ock chose to man the ship. Or, should I say, Mysterio."

"Mysterio?" Jon asked.

"Quintin Beck. A disgruntled servant of Lord Otto… and a rival of his at the Citadel, though I get the sense Lord Otto never knew that. He certainly has been surprised by these turn of events."

'Then Otto is innocent… and he is with Sandor and Gwen,' Jon thought.

"They are currently sailing for Gulltown… and from there The Eyrie. An old enemy of both of us has returned, deciding to cheat the death that awaits all of you mortals."

"Who?"

"Baelish."

Jon wanted to protest. To argue. To say that it was impossible that Baelish was alive because Jon had watched him lose his HEAD.

But he was talking to the body of his dead sister, her soul used to fuel an ancient evil. He had no room to talk.

"Return my knight to me, Jon Stark." She paused. "And perhaps, if you do it well… I might even consider making you my Thrall."

She turned to leave but Jon couldn't help but voice the one question that remained on his mind. "What do you want? You and the Others. What is it you truly want?"

The Night's Queen merely looked over her shoulder and said, "An end to the living."

And with that she was gone.

Chapter Text

Cersei

"Have you ever had to deal with something for so long that it… physically hurt you?"

The maid that was seeing to her hair paused, looking at the Queen's reflection. It was so odd, to have someone look at you but… not look at you. You could lock eyes with someone and yet avoid actually staring them in the eye. She was sure that there was some maester out there that would have some way to describe it when it came to the human condition but Cersei was in no mood to seek one out. She just knew that it felt suddenly very strange to not be looking the maid in the eye yet be staring right at her. To see the confusion as the dull little thing tried to puzzle over what she meant.

"You mean… like an animal?" the maid finally asked.

"No, not an animal!" Cersei snapped. But just as quickly she frowned and considered what the woman had said. "Or… yes. Yes, like an animal. Filthy, disgusting little animal. Not that anyone else can see it." She realized, if she tried her hardest not to actually think of Margaery, but rather apply all the whore had done to her to some snapping, snarling beast, that she was able to speak freely. "A little weasely thing, like a mink. Looking all pretty and cute and everyone wants to cuddle them and for some they allow themselves to be pet and stroked. But the moment everyone's back is turned they sink their fangs into your hand and refuse to let go."

The maid frowned. "I would just never go to them again, your grace."

"If only," Cersei muttered.

"Pardon?"

"Nothing," Cersei said, deciding that the maid had shown enough brains that she wouldn't get a full tongue lashing. Instead she looked at the mirror and at her own reflection and found herself getting lost in staring into her own eyes. She had, of course, seen herself in a mirror hundreds of times. Thousands. Tens of thousands. Twice a day at minimum for several decades. But never had she truly become entranced by what she saw. Never had she found herself truly looking not at how her hair sat on her head or how her makeup looked but instead at the woman looking back at her.

The woman looking back at her.

'The caged woman,' she thought.

When she had been a child she had dreamed of when she would be an adult and be able to decide what she did with her life. What she wore each morning, what food she ate, how she spent her time. First it had been her mother how had decided such things but it had… well, it had never felt so terrible when she had commanded her. She was her mother, after all, and it was Cersei's duty to obey her. She always did. That's what a good child did. It was why she had never understood her own children and why they simply didn't do as they were told! She wasn't asking them to do anything less than what she did!

Deep in her mind, buried under the weight of years, was the knowledge that no, she hadn't always obeyed her mother. In fact she had done many things her mother didn't want her doing and she had always justified it in some way. But time had a way of making people forget.

After her mother's passing it had been the septas and the maester and the servants who had been tasked with keeping her life forever busy.

She had hated it; she was the Lady of Casterly Rock with her mother gone and her father refusing to remarry. On one hand she had been pleased that he didn't, as she didn't want some stranger to try and claim that they were masters of what was meant to be her's. She didn't want to deal with half brothers and sisters who believed themselves worthy of her and to a lesser extent Jaime. But on the other hand she knew it wasn't proper and while no one would say it she knew that her father's bannermen would whisper about how Lord Tywin wasn't doing his duty. It has also meant that rather than a weak-willed woman who was desperate for a relationship and thus could easily be twisted around Cersei's finger she had her father as her only way to deal with the demands of the servants. And Tywin Lannister, more often than not, would side with those he himself had chosen to see to her care.

One time, after one of the servants tasked with teaching her the proper way to fold her dresses had set down a punishment for her for refusing to keep her room tidy, Cersei had snapped at her. Declaring that she would not only see her removed from her position but would see her cast out of Casterly Rock and Lannisport. The clothing she wore belonged to Cersei's family as well so she wouldn't be able to take that either. She had, with what she had thought was a vicious smile, explained in great detail how the woman would march naked through the streets as men jeered and leered at her.

The servant, in turn, had said they best start the process and, to Cersei's horror had gone to her father's solar while he was working and informed him of Cersei's demands.

The woman had been moved to become her Aunt Gemna's lead maid, a position she held ever since and with great pride. Cersei had received a cold dressing down by her father for her many, many faults, and then given a new servant who was an old knotted thing who was missing teeth and had been commanded by him to strike her upon the back of her thighs any time she mouthed off again.

"I would suggest the soles of her feet but I won't have her limping," had been his final comment, Cersei staring in horror at the unfairness of it all.

When she had gone to King's Landing to serve as a Lady In Waiting to Queen Rhaella she had quickly learned that her dreams about what life was like at Court were just that: dreams. Oh, how she had HATED having to admit her father was right. He had sat her down and warned her what to expect.

"Here at Casterly Rock you are my daughter and that grants you special privileges," he had told her. "But at the Red Keep you will be representing our family… and I will not have you balking the first time you are ordered to do something you find distasteful. Your choices will not be your own. You follow the Queen and you do as she commands."

Cersei had wanted to snarl that she already had to do what the septas and maester commanded but had bit her tongue; if she had talked back her father might not have let her go. And the Red Keep was her only escape from Casterly Rock. With Jaime gone to serve Old Sumner Crakehall it had only been her and the Imp and she knew if she was left alone with him she would kill him. And as much as that would have made her smile… her father would have learned it was her and he would have done nothing to save her from the scandal. At beast she would be sent to the Silent Sisters.

'As if having the monster around wasn't scandal enough,' she thought darkly.

So, she had gone to the Red Keep and her father had been proven right. No… Cersei had learned that he had actually been GENTLE with her. As horrifying as that was to think. He had made it sound like Cersei would need to just follow the Queen wherever she went. But it was far worse than that.

Cersei had to wear what the Queen wanted, even if the colors did not go well with her skin and her hair and her eyes. She had to wear the perfumes the queen liked, which were faint things with almost no scent because such strong smells made King Aerys more likely to go on a raging fit. She had to listen to the music that Queen Rhaella liked and could never even consider requesting something she preferred. She had to eat what the queen ate and even years later the mere thought of that horrid cherry stuffed chicken the queen had served on a weekly basis made her stomach rebel.

Worst of all… she had never been able to be with Rhaegar. She knew… she just KNEW… if she had been able to have more time alone with him he would have begged his father to allow them to be wed. To ignore the Dornish and to tie himself to her. Oh, there were plenty who claimed it was her father who had caused Aerys to turn her away and she did blame him for not working harder to get her the prince she still dreamed over even years after his death but… she still felt that Aerys would have changed his mind if Rhaegar had demanded her.

But she hadn't been able to be with him. Ever. Because every movement she had had been decided by others.

She should have been given full control of her life when she became queen but that hadn't happened. Jon Arryn and Robert and her father had still done all they could to restrain her. Putting in place those that were walls to her happiness. She had spent so much time and energy removing those obstacles so that she might be able to put in place those that would be doorways…

'And now,' she thought bitterly, 'with Jon Arryn, Robert, and father all in the ground… I still find myself trapped. Restrained. But now it is to the Tyrells!'

Everyone. Everyone tried to keep her caged.

It was why, perhaps, Jaime had appealed to her so much. He was the one person in all the world that had always obeyed her. She didn't have anyone like that anymore. No one that-

When it finally occurred to her she had nearly wept in relief.

The solution.

"I have changed my mind," she said suddenly. "I wish to go out."

"Your grace?" the maid said only to catch herself. "I mean… yes, your grace. I will fetch your fall dress."

"The red one with the golden leaves," she commanded as the young little dolt hurried off like a startled deer. "I won't need to redo my hair or makeup putting that on." She looked herself over and smiled. 'Yes… this will work out quite well.'

Westeros had changed. It had begun with the coming of the Iron Man, flying about in his suit and firing beams of light from his hand that could tear flesh and bone. But things had truly been altered after Stannis' attack. The servants whispered that it was the wildfire that her horrid little brother had set off that had caused it: people gaining strange and unusual abilities. Considering that Cersei had gained the ability to create purple… energy?… from where her hand had once been she knew at once they were wrong. There was simply no way her brother was responsible for her gift.

But Westeros and King's Landing had changed that day. The Spiders. The Vulture King. The tentacled man. The reports of a wolf man roaming the Kingswood and the Knight of the Moon who was declaring he was the true 'Kingsguard' but that he guarded the Moon, which was the true king of Westeros. And of course, though only Cersei knew of it, Margaery and her dark and sinful magics.

'But… she isn't the only one able to do the impossible,' she thought.

It only took another hour for her to change into the fall dress and while it did weigh down on her shoulders a bit more than she would have liked she had to admit that the material was rather lovely and did much to stop the wind from cutting into her form. It was apparently a new style, one with small weights at the bottom hem, just enough to keep the breeze from catching it and lifting it up to chill her legs. As much as she might wish to not admit it the weather was taking a turn towards cool and every protection would be needed.

'Soon I'll need to see about furs,' she thought, hating the thought of having to go to her Uncle Kevan to make such a request. Her father had cut back the gold she could spend on herself and her Uncle had taken over doing that; there was simply no way she would go begging that jump-started bastard Jon Snow (not Stark… never Stark… it didn't matter what Robert had done the boy was a bastard and always would be!) for what was supposed to be HER'S! She was the QUEEN! He shouldn't even need to give them to her because that made it sound as if they were his to give. They weren't his. Not at all. They belonged to her!

She would have killed the bastard already if it weren't for the fact that the Tyrell witch was protecting him.

Cersei had been plotting just how to destroy Jon Snow the moment he had been named Hand of the King. As much as she had wanted to simply order his death she had realized very quickly, once the shock had worn off, that doing so would only result in her being thrown into the Black Cells. Her father… her stupid, foolish, dim-witted father… had taken a shine to the bastard for some reason. Perhaps it was because, with Jaime gone, he had latched onto the first young man he could that he could twist into seeing as a son. He certainly couldn't do that with Tyrion. Cersei didn't know the reason… but she knew her Uncle Kevan would respect her father's wishes. And it was clear that Tommen hadn't come up with the idea himself!

She once more ignored the voice, buried deep within her, that whispered that Jon Snow spent much time with her son and when Cersei had spoken with the boy king Tommen always prattled on about Jon.

So no, she hadn't been able to merely order him killed. She had to be cunning about it. Sneaky. And she had come up with the perfect plot. An accident in the training yard. That foolish boy, Parker, had created some mounted dummy. Everyone was talking about it. Well, Cersei had requested her spies find her someone that could match wits with the boy and they had directed her to a known fiddler and inventor named Smythe. He had agreed to rig the dummy so that it would swing wildly out of control. And the sword that it wielded wouldn't be blunted, meaning he would be torn to ribbons. A terrible, horrible accident that would at worst merely maim the man and leave him too ruined to be Hand of the King.

But then, days before she was going to put her attempt into motion… she had been caught by the power of the Tyrells.

Margaery had forced her to reveal all her dark plans. And, in turn, Mace Tyrell had gone to Smythe and hired him away from Cersei, making him his creature. Worst, Margaery had done something where if Cersei even attempted to think of killing Jon Snow she would feel great pain and to try and verbalize it or to write it out became impossible.

She had finally forced herself to demand to know why they were protecting him the last time the Tyrells had dragged her to a private 'family dinner' and Mace Tyrell's laughter still echoed in her ears.

"Because when one finds a man that is competent they do not toss him away unless one has no choice. Jon Stark is repairing the damage you, Robert, and even your father caused. Imagine what he will do when Margaery and Loras sit the throne!"

Worst still had been Margaery's whispered comment after they had left, the whore clinging to her arm like a barnacle and all beaming smiles.

"I desire him. Loras does too. We've agreed to take him as our consort. And we won't have you harming his pretty little head."

It was vile. Disgusting. That the two degenerates would even consider doing such at thing! It made her skin crawl and her stomach heave.

That horrible, awful voice in the back of her head whispered that if the Starks and the Lannisters hadn't gone to war and if Jaime had noticed the dark northern bastard the way Cersei had back when they had arrived in Winterfell, reminded oddly enough of Rhaegar… well… what would she have done?

So… she was trapped with Jon Snow. There was nothing she could do about him.

'Or, at least, for now,' she thought as she stepped into the covered wagon and commanded them to make for the seamstress. It wasn't her usual one… in fact she had been only there once. But it was the one that was going to save her.

Fight dark magic… with dark knowledge.

She breezed through the shop and made her way to the hidden doorway, stepping down the steps that the last time had so terrified her. But the path to the secret workshop no longer held any terror for her; thanks to the Whore of Highgarden, Cersei wasn't for sure she would ever feel terror again.

"Ah… your grace," Qyburn said, looking up from his desk. He was thankfully not in the middle of one of his experiments and instead was looking over some paperwork. "I was wondering when you would come to see me again. I have had little luck finding out where Petyr Baelish has disappeared too… my spies are being rather quiet when it comes to that. Which is interesting, I must say." He rose and continued on, refusing to let Cersei get in a word edgewise. "A man is given power and his first reaction, 9 times out of 10, is to flaunt it. A boy is given a shiny sword and all they want to do is twirl it. Doesn't matter if they have swung a wooden one a thousand times suddenly all the training disappears. A scared girl, afraid of attention, will still wear her jewels for all to see.

"Robert used to scoff at tourneys, did you know that? Thought them a fanciful thing. 'War is what matters, not these fake battles!' He said that to me, though he didn't know who I was at the time and said it to many others I am sure. And yet the moment he got the power of the Iron Throne he decided to throw tourney after tourney. Because he had power now and he wanted to remind the world that he had it."

Cersei glowered at that. "I didn't come here to be reminded of that fat drunk-"

"Well, your father then," Qyburn said, cutting her off. "He flaunted his power in a different way. The Rains of Castamere! Such a waste. Oh, it made his name but it cost him the wealth of the Raynes. And it made him appear to be a butcher… something he also admitted to me, though again he didn't realize that I was listening. People do it again and again and again. They get a taste of power and their first reaction? Show it off. Even if it goes against everything they once stood for.

"Yet…there is the one out of ten. The one that doesn't flaunt their power. That takes it on silently and does what needs to be done. They are dangerous ones. Jon Stark has the Iron Throne. Oh yes, he doesn't wear the crown… but he holds the Iron Throne." Qyburn's eyes seemed to glow brightly at that, crimson like rubies dug from a deep pit and placed in the sun. "I always knew he was meant for great things… but this is proving far more interesting than I ever imagined! He is one out of ten… and that makes him a dangerous foe. Same… with Baelish. I thought that he would make a grand show of his powers and thus allow me to find him and deal with him.

"But no. he hasn't done that. He has been quiet so far. At least where my spies are. My… Marauders… and my Nasty Boys. It is impressive what he has done. The restraint. Impressive."

"I am not hear to speak about Littlefinger. I do not care about him."

Qyburn glanced at her before moving to one of the experiment tables he had, it filled with all manner of bottles with different colored liquids. In a flat, judging tone he said, "You should."

"I have other matters to focus my concerns on," she snapped. "And that is why-"

"More pressing than an immortal spirit in an armor that can rip through the floors of the Red Keep? My my my… just who have you angered now?" He paused. "Could it have something to do with Doc Ock? That was an interesting situation. Did you know that he leaves behind no trace of himself? He leaves destruction but… no bits of skin, not blood, nothing like that. It is so very strange… and the fact that the tentacles support him like they do. They sing the tales of krakens bursting from the water and grabbing men but I have found that tentacles aren't that strong when removed from the water. They are muscle, yes… but also no bone. It is why if you throw a octopus down upon the ground all they can do is flail and sometimes slither. So how is he able to support himself?"

"I do not care about Doc Ock either," Cersei snapped. "He doesn't matter."

"I'd say the Small Council disagrees. Did you know that Jon Stark is leading a party to hunt for the man? Gathering some trained soldiers and will ride to avenge King's Landing. An impressive listing, I must say."

Cersei hadn't heard that and her mind whirled with all the possibilities that could come about with the bastard gone… only to wince as she felt a stabbing pain in her temple.

There was a CRACK and her false hand fell apart as the purple energy dagger she could produce from her stump flared into existence.

"Well… that is new. Both the pain… and that power."

"The power… came to me after the Battle of the Blackfire."

"Yes, I imagined as much," Qyburn said. "That ritual… oh, Stannis should have never had some many with the Blood of the Dragon, even if it was bled on the wrong side of the bed, manning his ships. We are just lucky that none of the Dragon Eggs kept in the Red Keep decided to hatch."

"I have no idea what…" Cersei shook her head, holding up her hand. "I do not care about any of that. I care about that-" She grit her teeth as she felt the pain return.

Qyburn raised an eyebrow at that. "Hmmm… how very interesting." He went over to a well worn bag and began to pull out strange instruments. Some reminded her of the tools that Grand Maester Pycelle had used to help her bring her children into the world. She remembered well how cold they were and how much she had hated their touch… but they were better than Pycelle's groping fingers. "How very interesting. Someone has taken control of you. But its not a full control, now is it?"

Before Cersei could react Qyburn had pushed her into a chair and strapped down her arms, the Queen struggling but finding that the little blue maester was far stronger than he looked. And his hands… they weren't like Pycelle's. They were hot. So very hot. He gripped her legs as he tightened several straps before moving to her head and, much to her shock, grabbing her cheeks and forced her to stare right at him.

"Do not struggle."

Cersei gaped at him for a moment before screaming shrilly, "You will release me at once!"

Qyburn though shook his head, releasing her face. "You came here because you wanted answers. I am going to give them to you but that means allowing me to do things my own way. You understand that, don't you? I simply can't look at you and provide you with the solutions you seek… I need to understand what is happening to you. And since you can't speak it…" Cersei shot him a dark look. "No. Of course not. Whoever did this is smart." He reached into the leather bag that was near him and took out what appeared to be a brass rod and began to run it along the inside of her elbow. "But… perhaps not too smart. Or rather they are using brute force rather than finesse." He frowned, changing the direction he ran the rod before pulling it away and wiping it clean with a rag.

"What are you doing?" Cersei deamdned. "You will explain what you are doing-"

"Why?" he asked. "You won't understand. You are a queen, not a maester… you do not ask me to handle Queenly Duties and I do not ask you to understand my ways."

With that he suddenly got down on his hands and knees and, to Cersei's shock and disgust, removed her slippers and began to run another one of his tools, this one a studded ball that was on a polished stick, along the soles of her feet. He murmured to himself before going over to one of his shelves and retrieving a bottle before walking back over to her and squatting down once more. Cersei let out a gasp as a viscous liquid was rubbed along her feet and then between her toes, coating them in the slippery substance.

"Stop this at once!" Cersei said through grit teeth, trying to stop herself from gasping or laughing. She wasn't for sure which, only that she would have rather had pain than whatever in the Seven Hells Qyburn was doing to her. "I am not some whore-"

"You think I do this for sexual pleasure?" Qyburn asked and his tone was so colored by disappointment that she actually briefly felt ashamed before she remembered that he was applying the Seven knows what upon her feet. "Your grace, I have evolved beyond the need for such primal, animalistic things. A man looks upon a woman and can find a hundred different things that will give him arousal. I see only something to learn and study about. You could be completely naked, lets spread wide, and giving the smoldering gaze that has enchanted thousands and I would feel nothing. Because it is a useless sensation so I have bred it out of me. Snipped it away like a cook snips away the extras from a goose that is prepared for a feast. I care only to learn."

Cersei… didn't know how to feel about that. She knew he was being honest. She knew it. Any other man claiming it she would have laughed and called them a liar but Qyburn? He had always been something different. Something strange and outside of the norm that was humanity.

"Hmmm. How strange. How very strange. Magic has been used upon you. I can tell that for sure. Powerful magic. And yet it is also magic that has not been done by someone that understands magic. They are self taught at best and if they had an instructor they were poor in showing them the way to wield it. This has all the blunt force power of a hammer when it should be a dagger, slicing into your very soul."

"Can you remove it?" Cersei demanded.

"Perhaps," Qyburn said and he went over to his workbench and grabbed another tool that Cersei couldn't see well, thanks to how she was strapped to the chair, and a bottle that was green in color. "They have made it that their spell is constantly running, reporting back to them. Yet they aren't seeking to forever know what you are up to. They aren't monitoring you. It isn't a guard who is always alert but a sleeping watch hound that will be awakened the moment one steps out of line. It is… a process… a choice. Yes. It is a choice."

"I want it removed," Cersei demanded. "I want it gone."

"Oh yes, I imagine so. Having your words forever not belong to you? It must be utterly frustrating. Especially when words are one of the last weapons you have."

"What is THAT supposed to mean?" Cersei snarled as Qyburn knelt down before her once more and she felt something else, something rough but also flexible, move against her feet.

"You are growing older. There are ways to prevent such a thing from happening… I should know… but I doubt you would enjoy the process as it isn't for the faint of heart and you are a creature ruled by pleasure." She opened her mouth to speak but he just continued on. "And besides, I do not think you would much care for the end results. After all… I do not mind my skin and eyes as they are…"

Cersei shuddered, or tried to as it was hard with her trapped in the restraints, at the thought of her skin colored like Qyburn's. What would people say?! Part of the reason she would ever want to maintain her youth would be to keep herself looking beautiful. To rob herself of her looks? No… no, that was something she could never stand for!

"It is something that happens to both men and women. The loss of youth stealing from them their greatest weapons. All that is left is the ability to speak. To charm or threaten their foes. Soon that will be all you have… and you have had that taken from you." He poured the contents of the bottle he'd grabbed onto her feet before finally standing up. "There. It is done."

"You removed the curse?" she said. "That-"

Her jaw stopped working.

She glared at him.

"No no… I cleaned up your feet." He grabbed a towel and wiped them off before putting her slippers back on.

"…what?"

"You were complaining about the jelly I placed on there so I cleaned it up. I am not a monster." He chuckled at that, standing up and staring at her with his burning red eyes, as if DARING her to claim he was, in fact, a monster. "To remove the curse placed on you would take far longer."

"Then… then do it!" Cersei demanded. "Remove it! Or block it! Prevent the-" Her mouth refused to say the words.

But Qyburn shook his head. "It would take time… time I do not have. If you had come to me sooner I might have been able to make some time for you but I am afraid I am quite busy now. Too busy to assist you in this matter."

"What… what are you talking about!?" Cersei screamed, kicking and thrashing against the restraints. "You work for me!"

"No, I don't. I suppose this is the point where you claim that I do… or at least did. But you… I never worked for you, your grace. I let you believe that because it served me well. Provided me with opportunities I wouldn't have gotten otherwise. But I never worked for you." He leaned in close and his eyes BLAZED even as he smiled. "I used you."

"I… I will see you die for this-"

"And you expect me to free you?" Qyburn asked and Cersei grimaced as she realized that her threat wasn't worth much when she was at his mercy and no one knew where she was. "And that is why, even if I ever desired a master… I would never choose you." He let out a chuckle before moving about his chambers, gathering up different bits and pieces. "The Nasty Boys will be coming soon to help me pack this all away. Don't worry… I will give them commands to leave you unmolested. I have no desire to see what your rotten womb could produce even with them.

"I've decided that there is another I can use. One who will better suit my needs now. After all… I saw to his birth… I should see just how juicy the fruits of my labor have become." He chuckled at that. "His is the Song of Ice and Fire, after all."

"What… what are you talking about?"

"Nothing," Qyburn said with a shake of his head before turning his back to her. "Lord Jon is leading a small party to go to the Vale, to hunt for Doc Ock. He is taking some rather… interesting people with him. I plan to go. I will offer my services to the right people who owe me for my aid to them and they will, in turn, convince him to allow me to come. I will discover the secrets of Doc Ock. I will discover how he does what he does. And, perhaps… I will find new men and women that are worth of my… experiments."

When he turned back to her Cersei saw he was holding a damp rag.

"Do not worry… this is merely ensure that you have dreamless sleep while I see to the cleaning up of my rooms. When you awake you will be alone… I will send word for others to come and find you. I suggest, as you wait, you come up with a reason why they found you all alone in here… nude and shivering… in this long abandoned shop."

And then, lightning quick, Qyburn was at her side, pressing the rag to her face. Cersei struggled but as she did she could feel the vapors from the rag enter her nose and clog her brain. Her eyes grow heavy and her head swam and the last thing she saw was his horrid eyes staring at her.

Chapter Text

Natasha

Letting out a sigh Natasha moved over to Beth, shaking her head and grabbing the garment that the maid had just placed in the trunk.

"Do you know what I am going to be doing?" Natasha asked. "Riding. I will be riding in the morning. I will be riding in the evening. I'll be riding until supper time. And most likely be riding after that. If we could ride in our sleep we would. Now… how much riding have you done in your life?"

"N-none, milday," Beth said softly, dipping her head.

"I thought not. You grew up in King's Landing, didn't you? I can tell by your accent. The most you've ever done with a horse is leap out of one's way when it came plodding along the road."

She wasn't truly angry with the girl; honestly Nat knew she should just let the entire thing go. But her nerves were frayed and the maid's mistakes, the dress being the latest one, were leading her to at minimum be snippy with her. She hated that she was sounding like Cersei and Natasha knew that she would end up regretting her words later on, when she had calmed down.

Once, she wouldn't have cared. Wouldn't have lied awake at night thinking about hurting the feelings of a young woman that was just thankful that it was only words stabbing her rather than knives.

'Jon is at fault for that,' Natasha thought. 'He has made me care.'

They had changed one another. Natasha had gotten Jon to see that he couldn't survive in the South acting like Ned Stark, seeing the world in black and white and speaking plainly and sternly. Expecting people to either keep their word or die. She had made him understand that lies and schemes had to be used as tools, no different than a hammer or a chisel. There was nothing evil about them… dishonorable perhaps, but was it not better to ensure your family lived than they died but at least you had been honest?

But in turn Jon had forced Natasha to feel for the people around her. The Black Widow of Dorne, trained by some of the greatest killers, assassins, cutthroats, and cawspaws in all of Westeros and Essos… worried about hurting people's feelings.

Because Jon made her want to be more than the Black Widow of Dorne.

So Natasha let out a sigh and, in a calmer voice, said, "We will be riding, Beth. Riding into colder weather. I need to have garments that will allow me to do so comfortably. Warm. Sturdy. Allowing me to move properly without tripping upon the hem of a dress." Which wasn't exactly true. Natahsa had been taught how to fight in everything. Her instructors had weighed her down in heavy fur dresses, forced her to swing swords while wearing hair shirts, and stripped her naked without an ounce of support so she could feel the ache that came from swinging a sword with her breasts bouncing about. Barefoot, slippers, heavy boots, shoes too big and too small. All of it she had been forced to wear. A dress wouldn't bother her riding and fighting… but that didn't mean she wouldn't prefer every advantage she could have.

"But milady, what if there is a dance or a feast?" Beth asked innocently. It was that open nativity that kept Natasha from snapping at her yet again.

"There… will be no such things," Natasha told her flatly. "We are riding to find Lord Otto and Gwen Stacy."

"But…why are you going then?"

'Because I told Jon I would not remain behind,' she thought to herself as she took the dress and laid it out on the bed. "I will not need a trunk. I will be using a saddle back. Gather up all my riding leathers… I will pack them myself, Beth."

"Milady-" Natasha shot her a look and the servant quickly nodded, finally realizing she had overstepped. The trunk was ignored and Nat went to get a small pack that could be tossed onto her saddle.

'It was foolish to ask her to help. I will need to hide as many weapons as I can and she won't be any help.' While it was known that Natasha was skilled in swords and daggers and knives, and thus there was no need to hide such skills, the maid would have no idea how to properly pack such weapons. 'Too many highborn women think about tucking a knife away in their folded clothing, never considering how difficult it will be for them to retrieve those weapons when danger comes. And… we are moving into danger.'

Once Beth had done as Natasha commanded the future Lady of Iron Pointe dismissed her, Beth scurrying out just as May Parker walked in. The older woman paused to reach out and stroke Beth's arm and whisper a few words to her before moving on; it didn't miss Natasha's attention that Beth's shoulders had squared up and her head risen thanks to whatever kind words May had spoken.

"I came by to see if you wanted me to take anything with me," May said casually. "I know that Lord Varys will be in King's Landing but we have no idea how long he will stay. He is one to move around, isn't he?"

"He is…" Natasha said slowly, a bit startled that the older woman had so pegged onto Varys' ways. They had told her about Varys, that she and the Spiders could trust him, but they hadn't told her everything about him. So May guessing that he might move about suddenly, without notice…

"I imagine you don't want to risk leaving certain things here, where sticky fingers and cruel hands might get to them."

"That is very thoughtful," Natasha said. "I had been considering moving them someplace safe but you taking them…" It was a good idea, the more she thought about it. "Yes, I think that will work."

"We can use this trunk that you decided was unneeded." May moved about the trunk, inspecting it carefully.

Natasha sighed. "You are going to scold me for how I talked to Beth."

"I am not your mother, Natasha."

"You are the closest I've had to one," Natasha admitted. "Same for Jon."

"That is a sad thought," May said even as she smiled softly. "Will you want me to meet with Jon to go over what he wants me to take or am I right to assume you'll know better than him?"

"You can meet with him but I think you and I already know everything he needs and also remember all he would have forgotten."